24283	----	None 
21217	----	file was made using scans of public domain works in the International Children's Digital Library.) THE ONE MOSS-ROSE. [Illustration: "STOP, STOP,--DON'T CUT IT!"] [Illustration] THE ONE MOSS-ROSE. BY REV. P. B. POWER, M.A. [Illustration: Emblem] LONDON: T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW; EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK. 1872. [Illustration] THE ONE MOSS-ROSE. [Illustration: L]EONARD DOBBIN had a humble cottage upon Squire Courtenay's estate; but although the cottage was humble, it was always kept neat and clean, and was a pattern of everything that a poor man's dwelling should be. The white-washed walls, the smoothly raked gravel walk, and the sanded floor, were so many evidences that Leonard was a careful and a thrifty man; and while some of his poorer neighbours laughed, and asked where was the use of being so precise, they could not help respecting Dobbin, nevertheless. The great, and, indeed, almost the _only_ pleasure upon which the labourer allowed himself to spend any time, was the little flower garden in front of the house. The garden was Dobbin's pride; and the pride of the garden was a moss-rose tree, which was the peculiar treasure of the labourer's little crippled son, who watched it from the window, and whenever he was well enough, crept out to water it, and pick off any stray snail which had ventured to climb up its rich brown leaves. No mother ever watched her little infant with more eager eyes than Jacob Dobbin did his favourite rose; and no doubt he thought all the more of it because he had so few pleasures in life. Jacob Dobbin had no fine toys, he could not take any long walks, nor could he play at cricket, or any such games, therefore his rose tree was all the more precious; in fact, in his estimation there was nothing to compare with it in the world. There was a great difference between poor Jacob's lot and that of Squire Courtenay's son. James Courtenay had plenty of toys; he had also a pony, and a servant to attend him whenever he rode out; when the summer came, he used often to go out sailing with the squire in his yacht; and there was scarce anything on which he set his heart which he was not able to get. With all these pleasures, James Courtenay was not, however, so happy a youth as poor Jacob Dobbin. Jacob, though crippled, was contented--his few pleasures were thoroughly enjoyed, and "a contented mind is a continual feast;" whereas James was spoiled by the abundance of good things at his command; he was like the full man that loatheth the honeycomb; and he often caused no little trouble to his friends, and, indeed, to himself also, by the evil tempers he displayed. Many a time did James Courtenay's old nurse, who was a God-fearing woman, point out to him that the world was not made for him alone; that there were many others to be considered as well as himself; and that although God had given him many things, still he was not of a bit more importance in His sight than others who had not so much. All this the young squire would never have listened to from any one else; but old Aggie had reared him, and whenever he was laid by with any illness, or was in any particular trouble, she was the one to whom he always fled. "God sometimes teaches people very bitter lessons," said old Aggie one day, when James Courtenay had been speaking contemptuously to one of the servants; "and take care, Master James, lest you soon have to learn one." Jacob Dobbin had been for some time worse than usual, his cough was more severe, and his poor leg more painful, when his father and he held a long conversation by the side of their scanty fire. Leonard had made the tea in the old black pot with the broken spout, and Jacob lay on his little settle, close up to the table. "Father," said Jacob, "I saw the young squire ride by on his gray pony to-day, and just then my leg gave me a sore pinch, and I thought, How strange it is that there should be such a difference between folk; he's almost always galloping about, and I'm almost always in bed." "Poor folk," answered Jacob's father, "are not always so badly off as they suppose; little things make them happy, and little things often make great folk _un_happy; and let us remember, Jacob, that whatever may be our lot in life, we all have an opportunity of pleasing God, and so obtaining the great reward, which of his mercy, and for Christ's sake, he will give to all those who please him by patient continuance in well-doing. The squire cannot please God any more than you." "Oh," said Jacob, "the squire can spend more money than I can; he can give to the poor, and do no end of things that I cannot: all I can do is to lie still on my bed, and at times keep myself from almost cursing and swearing when the pain is very bad." "Exactly so, my son," answered Leonard Dobbin; "but remember that patience is of great price in the sight of God; and he is very often glorified in the sufferings of his people." "The way I should like to glorify God," said Jacob, "would be by going about doing good, and letting people see me do it, so that I could glorify him before them, and not in my dull little corner here." "Ah, Jacob, my son," replied old Leonard Dobbin, "you may glorify God more than you suppose up in your little dull corner--what should you think of glorifying him before angels and evil spirits?" "Ah, that would be glorious!" cried Jacob. "Spirits, good and bad, are ever around us," said old Leonard, "and they are watching us; and how much must God be glorified before them, when they see his grace able to make a sufferer patient and gentle, and when they know that he is bearing everything for Christ's sake. When a Christian is injured, and avenges not himself; when he is evil spoken of, and answers not again; when he is provoked, yet continues long-suffering: then the spirits, good and bad, witness these things, and they must glorify the grace of God." That night Jacob Dobbin seemed to have quite a new light thrown upon his life. "Perhaps," said he to himself, as he lay upon the little settle, "I'm afflicted in order that I may glorify God. I suppose he is glorified by his people bearing different kinds of pain; perhaps some other boy is glorifying him with a crippled hand, while I am with my poor crippled leg: but I should like to be able even to bear persecution from man for Christ's sake, like the martyrs in father's old book; as I have strength to bear such dreadful pain in my poor leg, I daresay I might bear a great deal of suffering of other kinds." * * * * * The spring with its showers passed away, and the beautiful summer came, and Jacob Dobbin was able to sit at his cottage door, breathing in the pure country air, and admiring what was to him the loveliest object in nature--namely, one rich, swelling bud upon his moss-rose tree. There was but one bud this year upon the tree,--the frosts and keen spring winds had nipped all the rest; and this one was now bursting into beauty; and it was doubly dear to Jacob, because it was left alone. Jacob passed much of his time at the cottage door, dividing his admiration between the one moss-rose and the beautiful white fleecy clouds, which used to sail in majestic grandeur over his head; and often he used to be day-dreaming for hours, about the white robes of all who suffered for their Lord. While thus engaged one day, the young squire came running along, and his eye fell upon Jacob's rose. "Hallo," cried he with delight--"a moss-rose! Ha, ha!--the gardener said we had not even one blown in our garden; but here's a rare beauty!" and in a moment James Courtenay had bounded over the little garden gate, and stood beside the rose bush. In another instant his knife was out of his pocket, and his hand was approaching the tree. "Stop, stop!" cried Jacob Dobbin; "pray don't cut it,--'tis our only rose; I've watched it I don't know how long; and 'tisn't quite come out yet,"--and Jacob made an effort to get from his seat to the tree; but before the poor little cripple could well rise from his seat, the young squire's knife was through the stem, and with a loud laugh he jumped over the little garden fence, and was soon lost to sight. The excitement of this scene had a lamentable effect upon poor Jacob Dobbin. When he found his one moss-rose gone, he burst into a violent fit of sobbing, and soon a quantity of blood began to pour from his mouth--he had broken a blood-vessel; and a neighbour, passing that way a little time after, found him lying senseless upon the ground. The neighbouring doctor was sent for, and he gave it as his opinion that Jacob could never get over this attack. "Had it been an ordinary case," said the doctor, "I should not have apprehended a fatal result; but under present circumstances I fear the very worst; poor Jacob has not strength to bear up against this loss of blood." For many days Jacob Dobbin lay in a darkened room, and many were the thoughts of the other world which came into his mind; amongst them were some connected with the holy martyrs. "Father," said he to his aged parent as he sat by his side, "I have been learning a lesson about the martyrs. I see now how unfit I was to be tried as they were; if I could not bear the loss of one moss-rose patiently for Christ's sake, how could I have borne fire and prison, and such like things?" "Ah, Jacob," said the old man, "'tis in little common trials such as we meet with every day, that, by God's grace, such a spirit is reared within us as was in the hearts of the great martyrs of olden time;--tell me, can you forgive the young squire?" "The blessed Jesus forgave his persecutors," whispered Jacob faintly, "and the martyrs prayed for those who tormented them--in this at least I may be like them. Father, I do forgive the young squire; and, father," said Jacob, as he opened his eyes after an interval of a few minutes' rest, "get your spade, and dig up the tree, and take it with my duty to the young squire. Don't wait till I'm dead, father; I should not feel parting with it then; but I love the tree, and I wish to give it to him now. And if you dig up a very large ball of earth with it, he can have it planted in his garden at once; and--;" but poor Jacob could say no more; he sank back quite exhausted, and he never returned to the subject again, for in a day or two afterwards he died. * * * * * When old Leonard Dobbin appeared at the great house with his wheel-barrow containing the rose tree and its ball of earth, there was no small stir amongst the servants. Some said that it was fine impudence in him to come troubling the family about his trumpery rose, bringing the tree, as if he wanted to lay Jacob Dobbin's blood at their young master's door; others shook their heads, and said it was a bad business, and that that tree was an ugly present, and one that they should not care to have; and as to old Aggie, she held her tongue, but prayed that the child she had reared so anxiously might yet become changed, and grow up an altered man. Old Leonard could not get audience of the squire or his son; but the gardener, who was in the servants' hall when he arrived with his rose, told him to wheel it along, and he would plant it in Master James's garden, and look after it until it bloomed again; and there the rose finally took up its abode. Meanwhile the young squire grew worse and worse; he respected no one's property, if he fancied it himself; and all the tenants and domestics were afraid of imposing any check upon his evil ways. He was not, however, without some stings of conscience; he knew that Jacob Dobbin was dead--he had even seen his newly-made grave in the churchyard on Sunday; and he could not blot out from his memory the distress of poor Jacob when last he saw him alive; moreover, some of the whisperings of the neighbourhood reached his ears; and all these things made him feel far from comfortable. As day after day passed by, James Courtenay felt more and more miserable: a settled sadness took possession of his mind, varied by fits of restlessness and passion, and he felt that there was something hanging over him, although he could not exactly tell what. It was evident, from the whispers which had reached his ears, that there had been some dreadful circumstances connected with poor Jacob Dobbin's death, but he feared to inquire; and so day after day passed in wretchedness, and there seemed little chance of matters getting any better. At length a change came in a very unexpected way. As James Courtenay was riding along one day, he saw a pair of bantam fowls picking up the corn about a stack in one of the tenants' yards. The bantams were very handsome, and he felt a great desire to possess them; so he dismounted, and seeing the farmer's son hard by, he asked him for how much he would sell the fowls. "They're not for sale, master," said the boy; "they belong to my young sister, and she wouldn't sell those bantams for any money,--there isn't a cock to match that one in all the country round." "I'll give a sovereign for them," said James Courtenay. "No, not ten," answered Jim Meyers. "Then I'll take them, and no thanks," said the young squire; and so saying, he flung Jim Meyers the sovereign, and began to hunt the bantams into a corner of the yard. "I say," cried Jim, "leave off hunting those bantams, master, or I must call my father." "Your father!" cried the young squire; "and pray, who's your father? You're a pretty fellow to talk about a father; take care I don't bring my father to you;" and having said this, he made a dart at the cock bantam, that he had by this time driven into a corner. "Look here," said Jim, doubling his fists. "You did a bad job, young master, by Jacob Dobbin; you were the death of him, and I won't have you the death of my little sister, by, maybe, her fretting herself to death about these birds, so you look out, and if you touch one of these birds, come what will of it, I'll touch you." "Who ever said I did Jacob Dobbin any harm?" asked James Courtenay, his face as pale as ashes; "I never laid a hand upon the brat." "Brat or no brat," answered Jim Meyers, "you were the death of him; you made him burst a blood-vessel, and I say you murdered him." This was too much for James Courtenay to bear, so without more ado, he flew upon Jim Meyers, intending to pommel him well; but Jim was not to be so easily pommelled; he stood upon his guard, and soon dealt the young squire such a blow between the eyes that he had no more power to fight. "Vengeance! vengeance!" cried the angry youth. "I'll make you pay dearly for this;" and slinking away, he got upon his pony and rode rapidly home. It may be easily imagined that on the young squire's arrival at the Hall, in so melancholy a plight, the whole place was in terrible confusion. Servants ran hither and thither, old Aggie went off for some ice, and the footman ran to the stable to send the groom for the doctor, and the whole house was turned upside down. In the midst of all this, James Courtenay's father came home, and great indeed was his rage when he heard that his son had received this beating on his own property, and from the hands of a son of one of his own tenantry; and his rage became greater and greater as the beaten boy gave a very untrue account of what had occurred. "I was admiring a bantam of Meyers," said he to his father, "and his son flew upon me like a tiger, and hit me between the eyes." Squire Courtenay determined to move in the matter at once, so he sent a groom to summon the Meyers--both father and son. "I'll make Meyers pay dearly for this," said the squire; "his lease is out next Michaelmas, and I shall not renew it; and, besides, I'll prosecute his son." All this delighted the young squire, and every minute seemed to him to be an hour, until the arrival of the two Meyers, upon whom ample vengeance was to be wreaked; and the pain of his eyes seemed as nothing, so sweet was the prospect of revenge. In the course of an hour the two Meyers arrived, and with much fear and trembling were shown into their landlord's presence. "Meyers," cried the squire, in great wrath, "you leave your farm at Michaelmas; and as to that young scoundrel, your son, I'll have him before the bench next bench-day, and I'll see whether I can't make him pay for such tricks as these." "What have I done," asked old Meyers, "to deserve being turned adrift? If your honour will hear the whole of the story about this business, I don't believe you'll turn me out on the cold world, after being on that land nigh-hand forty years." "'Hear!' I have heard enough about it; your son dared to lift a hand to mine, and--and I'll have no tenant on my estate that will ever venture upon such an outrage as that;--it was a great compliment to you for my son to admire your bantams, or anything on your farm, without his being subjected to such an assault." "I don't want to excuse my boy," said old Meyers, "for touching the young squire; and right sorry I am that he ever lifted a hand to him; but begging your honour's pardon, the young squire provoked him to it, and he did a great deal more than just admire my little girl's bantams.--Come, Jim, speak up, and tell the squire all about it." "Ay, speak up and excuse yourself, you young rascal, if you can," said the angry squire; "and if you can't, you'll soon find your way into the inside of a prison for this. Talk of poaching! what is it to an assault upon the person?" "I will speak up, then, your honour, since you wish it," said Jim Meyers, "and I'll tell the whole truth of how this came about." And then he told the whole story of the young squire having wanted to buy the bantams, and on his not being permitted to do so, of his endeavouring to take them by force. "And when I wouldn't let him carry away my sister's birds, he flew on me like a game cock, and in self-defence I struck him as I did." "You said I murdered Jacob Dobbin," interrupted James Courtenay. "Yes, I did," answered Jim Meyers, "and all the country says the same, and I only say what every one else says; ask anybody within five miles of this, and if they're not afraid to speak up, they'll tell just the same tale that I do." "Murdered Jacob Dobbin!" ejaculated the squire in astonishment; "I don't believe my son ever lifted a hand to him,--you mean the crippled boy that died some time ago?" "Yes, he means him," said Jim Meyers' father; "and 'tis true what the lad says, that folk for five miles round lay his death at the young squire's door, and say that a day will come when his blood will be required of him." "Why, what happened?" asked the squire, beginning almost to tremble in his chair; for he knew that his son was given to very violent tempers, and was of a very arbitrary disposition; and he felt, moreover, within the depths of his own heart, that he had not checked him as he should. "What is the whole truth about this matter?" "Come, speak up, Jim," said old Meyers; "you were poor Jacob's friend, and you know most about it;" the squire also added a word, encouraging the lad, who, thus emboldened, took courage and gave the squire the whole history of poor Jacob Dobbin's one moss-rose. He told him of the cripple's love for the plant, and how its one and only blossom had been rudely snatched away by the young squire, and how poor Jacob burst a blood vessel and finally died. "And if your honour wants to know what became of the tree, you'll find it planted in the young squire's garden," added Jim, "and the gardener will tell you how it came there." The reader will easily guess what must have been the young squire's feelings as he heard the whole of this tale. Several times did he endeavour to make his escape, under the plea that he was in great pain from his face, and once or twice he pretended to faint away; but his father, who, though proud and irreligious, was just, determined that he should remain until the whole matter was searched out. When Jim Meyers' story was ended, the squire bade him go into the servants' hall, and his father also, while old Dobbin was sent for; and as to James, his son, he told him to go up to his bed-room, and not come down until he was called. Poor old Leonard Dobbin was just as much frightened as Jim Meyers and his father had been, at the summons to attend the squire. He had a clear conscience, however; he felt that he had not wronged the squire in anything; and so, washing himself and putting on his best Sunday clothes, he made his way to the Hall as quickly as he could. "Leonard Dobbin," said the squire, "I charge you, upon pain of my worst displeasure, to tell me all you know about this story of your late son's moss-rose tree. You need not be afraid to tell me all; your only cause for fear will be the holding back from me anything connected with the matter." Leonard went through the whole story just as Jim Meyers had done; only he added many little matters which made the young squire's conduct appear even in a still worse light than it had already done. He was able to add all about his poor crippled boy's forgiveness of the one who had wronged him, and how he had himself wheeled the rose tree up to the squire's door, and how it was now to be found in the young squire's garden. "And if I may make so bold as to speak," continued old Leonard, "nothing but true religion, and the love of Christ, and the power of God's Spirit in the heart, will ever make us heartily forgive our enemies, and not only forgive them, but render to them good for evil." When Leonard Dobbin arrived James Courtenay had been sent for, and had been obliged with crimsoned cheeks to listen to this story of the poor crippled boy's feelings; and now he would have given all the roses in the world, if they were his, to restore poor Jacob to life, or never to have meddled with his flower; but what had been done could not be undone, and no one could awake the poor boy from his long cold sleep in the silent grave. "Leonard Dobbin," said the squire, after he had sat for some time moodily, with his face buried in his hands, "this is the worst blow I have ever had in life. I would give £10,000 hard money, down on that table, this very moment, that my boy had never touched your boy's rose. But what is done cannot be undone; go home, and when I've thought upon this matter I'll see you again." "Meyers," said the squire, turning to the other tenant, "I was hasty in saying a little while ago that I'd turn you out of your farm next Michaelmas; you need have no fear about the matter; instead of turning you out, I'll give you a lease of it. I hope you won't talk more than can be helped about this terrible business. Now go." The two men stood talking together for a while at the lodge before they left the grounds of the great house; and old Leonard could not help wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his rough coat, as he said to Meyers, "Ah, neighbour, 'tis sore work having a child without the fear of God before his eyes. I'd rather be the father of poor Jacob in his grave, than of the young squire up yonder at the Hall." * * * * * Bitter indeed were Squire Courtenay's feelings and reflections when the two old men had left, and, his son having been ordered off to his chamber, he found himself once more alone. The dusk of the evening came on, but the squire did not seem to care for food, and, in truth, his melancholy thoughts had taken all appetite away. At last he went to the window, which looked out over a fine park and a long reach of valuable property, and he began to think: What good will all these farms do this boy, if the tenants upon them only hate him, and curse him? Perhaps, with all this property, he may come to some bad end, and bring disgrace upon his family and himself. And then the squire's own heart began to smite him, and he thought: Am not I to blame for not having looked more closely after him, and for not having corrected him whenever he went wrong? I must do something at once. I must send him away from this place, where almost every one lets him do as he likes, until he learns how to control himself, at least so far as not to do injustice to others. Meanwhile the young squire's punishment had begun. When left to the solitude of his room, after having heard the whole of Leonard Dobbin's account of Jacob's death, a great horror took possession of his mind. Many were the efforts the young lad made to shake off the gloomy thoughts which came trooping into his mind; but every thought seemed to have a hundred hooks by which it clung to the memory, so that once in the mind, it could not be got rid of again. At length the young squire lay down upon his bed, trembling as if he had the ague, and realizing how true are the words, that "our sin will find us out," and that "the way of transgressors is hard." At last, to his great relief, the handle of his door was turned, and old Aggie made her appearance. "O Aggie, Aggie," cried James Courtenay, "come here. I'm fit to die, with the horrid thoughts I have, and with the dreadful things I see. Jim Meyers said I murdered Jacob Dobbin; and I believe I have, though I didn't intend to do it. I wish I had never gone that way; I wish I had never seen that rose; I wish there had never been a rose in the world.--O dear, my poor head, my poor head! I think 'twill burst;" and James Courtenay put his two hands upon the two sides of his head, as though he wanted to keep them from splitting asunder. Aggie saw that there was no use in speaking while James Courtenay's head was in such a state as this. All she could do was to help him into bed, and give him something to drink,--food he put from him, but drink he asked for again and again. Water was all he craved, but Aggie was at last obliged to give over, and say she was afraid to give him any more. James Courtenay's state was speedily made known to his father, and in a few minutes, from old Aggie's conversation with him, the groom was on his way to a neighbouring town to hasten the family physician. The latter soon arrived, and, after a few minutes with James Courtenay, pronounced him to be in brain fever--the end of which, of course, no man could foresee. And a fearful fever indeed it was. Day after day passed in wild delirium. The burden of all the poor sufferer's cries and thoughts was, that he was a murderer. He used to call himself Cain, and to try to tear the murderer's mark out of his forehead. Sometimes he rolled himself in the sheet, and thought that he was dressed in a funeral cloak attending Jacob Dobbin's funeral, and all the while knowing that he had caused his death. At times the poor patient would attempt to spring from his bed; and now he fancied that he was being whipped with the thorny branches of rose trees; and now that he was being put in prison for stealing from a poor man's garden. At one time he thought all the tenants on the estate were hunting him off it with hounds, while he was fleeing from them on his gray pony as fast as her legs could carry her; and the next moment his pony was entangled hopelessly in the branches of little Dobbin's rose tree, and the dogs were on him, and the huntsmen were halloing, and he was about to be devoured. All these were the terrible ravings of fever; and very awful it was to see the young squire with his hair all shaved off, and vinegar rags over his head, tossing his arms about, and endeavouring at times to burst from his nurses, and leap out upon the floor. The one prevailing thought in all the sick boy's ravings was Jacob Dobbin's rose bush. Jacob, or his rose bush in some form or other, occupied a prominent part in every vision. Ah, how terrible are the lashings of conscience! how terrible the effects of sin! For what a small gratification did this unhappy youth bring so much misery upon himself! And is it not often thus? The apostle says, "What fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now ashamed?" And what fruit of pleasure had James Courtenay from his plunder of Jacob Dobbin's rose? Where was that rose? It had long since faded; its leaves were mingled with the dust upon which it had been thrown; yet for the sake of the transient enjoyment of possessing that flower a few days before abundance would have made their appearance in his own garden, he had brought upon himself all this woe. Poor, very poor indeed, are the pleasures of sin; and when they have been enjoyed, they are like the ashes of a fire that has burned out. Compare James Courtenay's present troubles,--his torture of mind, his pain of body, his risk of losing his life, and the almost momentary enjoyment which he had in plundering his poor neighbour of his moss-rose,--and see how Satan cheats in his promises of enjoyment from sin. Dear young reader! let not Satan persuade you that there is any profit in sin--momentary pleasure there may indeed be, but it is soon gone, and then come sorrow and distress. Sin is a sweet cup with bitter dregs, and he who drinks the little sweet that there is, must drink the dregs also. Moments of sin may cause years of sorrow. * * * * * For many days James Courtenay hung between life and death; night and day he was watched by skilful physicians, but they could do very little more than let the disease run its course. At length a change for the better appeared; the unhappy boy fell into a long sleep, and when he opened his eyes his disease was gone. But it had left him in a truly pitiable state. It was a sad sight to see the once robust boy now very little better than a skeleton; to hear the once loud voice now no stronger than a mere whisper; and instead of the mass of brown curly hair, to behold nothing but linen rags which swathed the shaven head. But all this Squire Courtenay did not so much mind; his son's life was spared, and he made no doubt but that care and attention would soon fatten him up again, and the curly locks would grow as luxuriantly as they did before. Old Aggie, too, was full of joy; the boy that she had nursed so tenderly, and for whom she had had such long anxiety, was not cut off in the midst of his sins, and he might perhaps have his heart changed and grow up to be a good man. And what an opportunity was this for trying to impress his mind! Old Aggie was determined that it should not be lost, and she hoped that the young squire might yet prove a blessing, and not a curse, to those amongst whom he lived. There were not wanting many upon Squire Courtenay's estate who would have been very glad if the young squire had never recovered. They had tasted a little of his bad character, and they feared that if he grew up to inherit the property, he would prove a tyrannical landlord to them. But amongst these was not to be reckoned old Leonard Dobbin. True, he had suffered terribly--indeed more than any one else--from James Courtenay's evil ways; but he did not on that account wish him dead--far from it. It was old Leonard's great fear lest the young squire should die in his sins, and no one asked more earnestly about the invalid than this good old man. As it was necessary that the sick boy should be kept as quiet as possible, no one went near his room except old Aggie and those whose services could not be dispensed with. Old Aggie alone was allowed to talk to the invalid, and a long time would have elapsed before she could venture to speak of the circumstances which had brought about this dreadful illness, had not the young squire himself entered on the subject. "Aggie," said he one morning, after he had lain a long time quite still, "I have been dreaming a beautiful dream." This was quite delightful to the old nurse, who for many long days had heard of nothing but visions of the most frightful kind. "I saw a rose bush--" "Hush, hush, Master James," said Aggie, terrified lest the dreadful subject should come uppermost again, and once more bring on the delirium and a relapse of the fever. "No, no, Aggie, I cannot hush; it was a beautiful dream, and it has done me more good than all the doctor's medicine. I saw a rose bush--a moss-rose--and it had one bud upon it, and sitting under the bud was little Jacob Dobbin. O Aggie, it was the same Jacob that used to be down at the cottage, for I knew his face; but he was beautiful, instead of sickly-looking; and instead of being all ragged, he was dressed in something like silver. I wanted to run away from him, but he looked so kindly at me that I could not stir; and at last he beckoned to me, and I stood quite close to him; and only he looked so softly at me, I must have been dazzled by the light on his face and his silvery clothes. "I did not feel as though I dared to speak to him; but at last he spoke to me, and his voice was as soft as a flute, and he said, 'All the roses on earth fade and wither, but nothing fades or withers in the happy place where I now live; and oh, do not be anxious to possess the withering, fading flowers, but walk on the road that leads to my happy home, where everything is bright for ever and ever.' "Aggie, Aggie," said James Courtenay, who saw his nurse's anxious face, and that she was about to stop his speaking any more, "it is no use to try to stop my telling you all about it. My head has been so strange of late, that I forget everything, and I am afraid of forgetting this dream; so I must tell it now, and you are to write it down, that I may have it to read, if it should slip out of my mind. Jacob Dobbin said,--'You are not now in the right road; but ask Jesus to pardon your sins, and then go and love everybody just as Jesus loved you; and try to make every one happy, and do good morning, noon, and night, and try to scatter some flowers of happiness in every place to which you go; and then you shall be with me in the land where all is bright.' And I thought Jacob pulled the one moss-rose, and gave it to me, and said, 'This is an earthly rose; keep it as long and as carefully as you will, it will fade at last; but our flowers never fade: try, O try, to come to them.' I heard music, Aggie, or something like music, or perhaps like a stream flowing along, and I felt something like the summer breeze upon my cheeks, and Jacob was gone, and there I stood with the rose in my hand. "Write it down, Aggie," said the invalid, "exactly as I have told you;" and having said this, James Courtenay dropped off into a doze again. Some days intervened between this reference to what had passed and the next conversation upon the subject, in which James Courtenay told Aggie--who had to listen much against her will--what he thought about this wonderful dream. "I know the meaning of that dream," said James Courtenay to his nurse. "I do not want any one to explain it to me; I can tell all about it. The meaning is, that I must become a changed boy, or I shall never go to heaven when I die; and all the good things which I have here are not to be compared with those which are to be had there. What Jacob said was, that all these things are fading, and I must seek for what is better than anything here. "Aggie," said James Courtenay, "you often think I am asleep when I am not; and you think I scarcely have my mind about me yet, when I lie so long quite still, looking away into the blue sky: but I am thinking; I am always thinking, and very often I am praying--asking forgiveness for the past, and hoping that I shall be changed for the future." "But we can't do much by hoping," said Aggie, "and we can't do anything by ourselves." "I mean to do more than _hope_," said James Courtenay; "I mean to _try_." "And you mean, I trust, to ask God's Spirit to help you?" said Aggie. "Yes, every day," said James. "He helped Jacob, and he'll help me; and I hope to be yet where Jacob is now." "Ay, he helps the poor," said Aggie, "and he'll help the rich. Jacob had his trials, and you'll have yours; and perhaps yours are the hardest, so far as going to heaven is concerned; for the rich have a temptation in every acre of land and in every guinea they have. Our Lord says that ''tis hard for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven.'" For many days James Courtenay thus pondered and prayed, with Aggie as his chief companion and instructor, and at length he was able to leave his room. But he was a different James Courtenay from the one who had entered that room some months before. The young squire was still pale and thin; but this was not the chief change observable in him,--he was silent and thoughtful in his manner, and gentle and kind to every one around. The loud voice which once rang so imperiously and impatiently through the corridors was now heard no more; the hand was not lifted to strike, and often gratitude was expressed for any attention that was shown. The servants looked at each other and wondered; they could scarcely hope that such a change would last; and when their young master returned to full health and strength, they quite expected the old state of things to return again. But they were mistaken. The change in James Courtenay was a real one; it was founded on something more substantial than the transient feelings of illness,--he was changed _in his heart_. And very soon he learnt by experience the happiness which true religion brings with it. Instead of being served unwillingly by the servants around, every one was anxious to please him; and he almost wondered at times whether these could be the servants with whom he had lived all his life. They now, indeed, gave a service of love; and a service of love is as different from a service of mere duty as day is from night. Wherever the young squire had most displayed his passionate temper, there he made a point of going, for the sake of speaking kindly, and undoing so far as he could the evil he had already done. He kept ever in mind what he had heard from Jacob Dobbin in his dream,--that there was not only a Saviour by whom alone he could be saved from his sins, but also that there was a road on which it was necessary to walk; a road which ran through daily life; a road on which loving deeds were to be done, and loving words spoken;--the road of obedience to the mind of Christ. James Courtenay well knew that obedience could not save him; but he well knew also that obedience was required from such as were saved by pure grace. * * * * * Altered as James Courtenay undoubtedly was, and earnest as he felt to become different to what he had been in olden time, he could not shake off from his mind the sad memory of the past. His mind was continually brooding upon poor little Dobbin's death, and upon the share which he had in it. For now he knew all the truth. He had seen old Leonard, and sat with him for many hours; and at his earnest request the old man had told him all the truth. "Keep nothing back from me," said the young squire, as he sat by old Leonard's humble fire-place, with his face covered with his hands; and over and over again had the old man to repeat the same story, and to call to mind every word that his departed son had said. "What shall I do, Leonard, to show my sorrow?" asked James Courtenay one day. "Will you go and live in a new house, if I get papa to build one for you?" "Thank you, young squire," said Leonard; "it was here that Jacob was born and died, and this will do for me well enough as long as I'm here. And it don't distress me much, Master James, about its being a poor kind of a place, for I'm only here for a while, and I've a better house up yonder." "Ay," said James Courtenay, "and Jacob is up yonder; but I fear, with all my striving, I shall never get there; and what good will all my fine property do me for ever so many years, if at the end of all I am shut out of the happy land?" "Master James, you need not be shut out," said old Dobbin; and he pulled down the worn Bible from the shelf; "no, no; you need not be shut out. Here is the verse that secured poor Jacob's inheritance, and here is the verse that by God's grace secures mine, and it may secure yours too;" and the old man read out the passage in 1 John i. 7, "The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from _all_ sin." "All, all!" cried old Dobbin, his voice rising as he proceeded, for his heart was on fire; "from murder, theft, lying, stealing,--everything, everything! Oh, what sinners are now in glory!--sinners no longer, but saints, washed in the precious blood! Oh, how many are there now on earth waiting to be taken away and be for ever with the Lord! I am bad, Master James; my heart is full of sin in itself; but the blood of Jesus cleanseth from all sin;--and whatever you have done may be all washed out; only cast yourself, body and soul, on Christ." "But how could I ever meet Jacob in heaven?" murmured the young squire from between his hands, in which he had buried his face; "when I saw him, must not I feel I murdered him? ay, I was the cause of his misery and death, all for the sake of one fading, worthless flower!" "Don't call it worthless, Master James; 'twas God's creature, and very beautiful while it lasted; and you can't call a thing worthless that gave a human being as much pleasure as that rose gave poor Jacob. But whatever it was, it will make no hindrance to Jacob meeting you in heaven,--ay, and welcoming you there, too. If you reach that happy place, I'll be bound Jacob will meet you with a smile, and will welcome you with a song into the happy land." "Well, 'tis hard to understand," said James Courtenay. "Yes, yes, Master James, hard to our poor natures, but easy to those who are quite like their Saviour, as Jacob is now. When He was upon earth he taught his followers to forgive, and to love their enemies, and to do good to such as used them despitefully; and we may be sure that, now they are with him, and are made like him, they carry out all he would have them do, and they are all he would have them be. I don't believe that there is one in heaven that would be more glad to see you, Master James, than my poor boy,--if I may call him my poor boy, seeing he's now in glory." Many were the conversations of this kind which passed between old Leonard and the young squire, and gradually the latter obtained more peace in his mind. True, he could never divest himself of the awful thought that he had been the immediate cause of his humble neighbour's death; but he dwelt very much upon that word "all," and Aggie repeated old Leonard's lessons, and by degrees he was able to lay even his great trouble upon his Saviour. But all that James Courtenay had gone through had told fearfully upon his health. His long and severe illness, followed by so much mental anxiety and trouble, laid in him the seeds of consumption. His friends, who watched him anxiously, saw that as weeks rolled on he gained no strength, and at length it was solemnly announced by the physician that he was in consumption. There were symptoms which made it likely that the disease would assume a very rapid form. And so it did. The young squire began to waste almost visibly before the eyes of those around, and it soon became evident, not only that his days were numbered, but that they must be very few. And so they were. Three weeks saw the little invalid laid upon his bed, with no prospect of rising from it again. At his own earnest request he was told what his condition really was; and when he heard it, not a tear started in his eye, not a murmur escaped his lips. One request, and one only, did the dying boy prefer; and that was, that Leonard Dobbin should be admitted to his room as often as he wished to see him. And this was very often; as James had only intervals of wakefulness, it became necessary that the old man should be always at hand, so as to be ready at any hour of the day or night, and at length he slept in a closet off the sick boy's room. And with Leonard came the old worn Bible. The good old labourer was afraid, with his rough hands, to touch the richly bound and gilt volume that was brought up from the library; he knew every page in his own well-thumbed old book, and in that he read, and from that he discoursed. The minister of the parish came now and again; but when he heard of what use old Leonard had been to the young squire, he said that God could use the uneducated man as well as the one that was well-learned, and he rejoiced that by any instrumentality, however humble, God had in grace and mercy wrought upon the soul of this wayward boy. At length the period of the young squire's life came to be numbered, not by days, but hours, and his father sat by his dying bed. "Papa," said the dying boy, "I shall soon be gone, and when I am dying I shall want to think of Christ and of holy things alone;--you will do, I know, what I want when I am gone." Squire Courtenay pressed his son's hand, and told him he would do anything, everything he wished. "You remember that grandmamma left me some money when she died; give Leonard Dobbin as much every year as will support him; and give him my gray pony that he may be carried about, for he is getting too old to work; and"--and it seemed as though the dying boy had to summon up all his strength to say it--"bury me, not in our own grand vault, but by Jacob Dobbin's grave; and put up a monument in our church to Jacob, and cut upon it a broken rose; and let the rose bush be planted close to where poor Jacob lies--" The young squire could say no more, and it was a long time before he spoke again; when he did, it was evident that he was fast departing to another world. With the little strength at his command, the dying boy muttered old Leonard's name; and in a moment the aged Christian, with his Bible in his hand, stood by the bedside. "Read, read," whispered Aggie the nurse; "he is pointing to your Bible,--he wants you to read; and read quickly, Leonard, for he soon won't be able to hear." And Leonard, opening his Bible at the well-known place, read aloud, "The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin." "_All, all_," whispered the dying boy. "_All, all_," responded the old man. "_All, all_," faintly echoed the dying boy, and in a few moments no sound was heard in the sick-room--James Courtenay had departed to realize the truth of the words, that "the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from _all_ sin." Next to the chief mourners at the funeral walked old Leonard Dobbin; and close by the poor crippled Jacob's grave they buried James Courtenay--so close that the two graves seemed almost one. And when a little time had elapsed, the squire had a handsome tomb placed over his son, which covered in the remains of poor Jacob too, and at the head of it was planted the moss-rose tree. And he put up a tablet to poor Jacob's memory in the church, and a broken rose was sculptured in a little round ornament at the bottom of it. And now the old Hall is without an heir, and the squire without a son. But there is good hope that the squire thinks of a better world, and that he would rather have his boy safe in heaven than here amid the temptations of riches again. Oh, what a wonder that there is mercy for the greatest sinners! but oh, what misery comes of sin! "The wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord." [Illustration] * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 16, "worst? poor" changed to "worst; poor" 
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31599	----	Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. [The history of this materialistic world is highlighted with strange events that scientists and historians, unable to explain logically, have dismissed with such labels as "supernatural," "miracle," etc. But there are those among us whose simple faith can--and often does--alter the scheme of the universe. Even a little child can do it....] to remember charlie by by ... Roger Dee Just a one-eyed dog named Charlie and a crippled boy named Joey--but between them they changed the face of the universe ... perhaps. * * * * * I nearly stumbled over the kid in the dark before I saw him. His wheelchair was parked as usual on the tired strip of carpet grass that separated his mother's trailer from the one Doc Shull and I lived in, but it wasn't exactly where I'd learned to expect it when I rolled in at night from the fishing boats. Usually it was nearer the west end of the strip where Joey could look across the crushed-shell square of the Twin Palms trailer court and the palmetto flats to the Tampa highway beyond. But this time it was pushed back into the shadows away from the court lights. The boy wasn't watching the flats tonight, as he usually did. Instead he was lying back in his chair with his face turned to the sky, staring upward with such absorbed intensity that he didn't even know I was there until I spoke. "Anything wrong, Joey?" I asked. He said, "No, Roy," without taking his eyes off the sky. For a minute I had the prickly feeling you get when you are watching a movie and find that you know just what is going to happen next. You're puzzled and a little spooked until you realize that the reason you can predict the action so exactly is because you've seen the same thing happen somewhere else a long time ago. I forgot the feeling when I remembered why the kid wasn't watching the palmetto flats. But I couldn't help wondering why he'd turned to watching the sky instead. "What're you looking for up there, Joey?" I asked. He didn't move and from the tone of his voice I got the impression that he only half heard me. "I'm moving some stars," he said softly. I gave it up and went on to my own trailer without asking any more fool questions. How can you talk to a kid like that? Doc Shull wasn't in, but for once I didn't worry about him. I was trying to remember just what it was about my stumbling over Joey's wheelchair that had given me that screwy double-exposure feeling of familiarity. I got a can of beer out of the ice-box because I think better with something cold in my hand, and by the time I had finished the beer I had my answer. The business I'd gone through with Joey outside was familiar because it _had_ happened before, about six weeks back when Doc and I first parked our trailer at the Twin Palms court. I'd nearly stumbled over Joey that time too, but he wasn't moving stars then. He was just staring ahead of him, waiting. He'd been sitting in his wheelchair at the west end of the carpet-grass strip, staring out over the palmetto flats toward the highway. He was practically holding his breath, as if he was waiting for somebody special to show up, so absorbed in his watching that he didn't know I was there until I spoke. He reminded me a little of a ventriloquist's dummy with his skinny, knob-kneed body, thin face and round, still eyes. Only there wasn't anything comical about him the way there is about a dummy. Maybe that's why I spoke, because he looked so deadly serious. "Anything wrong, kid?" I asked. He didn't jump or look up. His voice placed him as a cracker, either south Georgian or native Floridian. "I'm waiting for Charlie to come home," he said, keeping his eyes on the highway. Probably I'd have asked who Charlie was but just then the trailer door opened behind him and his mother took over. I couldn't see her too well because the lights were off inside the trailer. But I could tell from the way she filled up the doorway that she was big. I could make out the white blur of a cigarette in her mouth, and when she struck a match to light it--on her thumb-nail, like a man--I saw that she was fairly young and not bad-looking in a tough, sullen sort of way. The wind was blowing in my direction and it told me she'd had a drink recently, gin, by the smell of it. "This is none of your business, mister," she said. Her voice was Southern like the boy's but with all the softness ground out of it from living on the Florida coast where you hear a hundred different accents every day. "Let the boy alone." She was right about it being none of my business. I went on into the trailer I shared with Doc Shull and left the two of them waiting for Charlie together. Our trailer was dark inside, which meant first that Doc had probably gone out looking for a drink as soon as I left that morning to pick up a job, and second that he'd probably got too tight to find his way back. But I was wrong on at least one count, because when I switched on the light and dumped the packages I'd brought on the sink cabinet I saw Doc asleep in his bunk. He'd had a drink, though. I could smell it on him when I shook him awake, and it smelled like gin. Doc sat up and blinked against the light, a thin, elderly little man with bright blue eyes, a clipped brown mustache and scanty brown hair tousled and wild from sleep. He was stripped to his shorts against the heat, but at some time during the day he had bathed and shaved. He had even washed and ironed a shirt; it hung on a nail over his bunk with a crumpled pack of cigarettes in the pocket. "Crawl out and cook supper, Rip," I said, holding him to his end of our working agreement. "I've made a day and I'm hungry." Doc got up and stepped into his pants. He padded barefoot across the linoleum and poked at the packages on the sink cabinet. "Snapper steak again," he complained. "Roy, I'm sick of fish!" "You don't catch sirloins with a hand-line," I told him. And because I'd never been able to stay sore at him for long I added, "But we got beer. Where's the opener?" "I'm sick of beer, too," Doc said. "I need a real drink." I sniffed the air, making a business of it. "You've had one already. Where?" He grinned at me then with the wise-to-himself-and-the-world grin that lit up his face like turning on a light inside and made him different from anybody else on earth. "The largess of Providence," he said, "is bestowed impartially upon sot and Samaritan. I helped the little fellow next door to the bathroom this afternoon while his mother was away at work, and my selflessness had its just reward." Sometimes it's hard to tell when Doc is kidding. He's an educated man--used to teach at some Northern college, he said once, and I never doubted it--and talks like one when he wants to. But Doc's no bum, though he's a semi-alcoholic and lets me support him like an invalid uncle, and he's keen enough to read my mind like a racing form. "No, I didn't batter down the cupboard and help myself," he said. "The lady--her name is Mrs. Ethel Pond--gave me the drink. Why else do you suppose I'd launder a shirt?" That was like Doc. He hadn't touched her bottle though his insides were probably snarled up like barbed wire for the want of it. He'd shaved and pressed a shirt instead so he'd look decent enough to rate a shot of gin she'd offer him as a reward. It wasn't such a doubtful gamble at that, because Doc has a way with him when he bothers to use it; maybe that's why he bums around with me after the commercial fishing and migratory crop work, because he's used that charm too often in the wrong places. "Good enough," I said and punctured a can of beer apiece for us while Doc put the snapper steaks to cook. He told me more about our neighbors while we killed the beer. The Ponds were permanent residents. The kid--his name was Joey and he was ten--was a polio case who hadn't walked for over a year, and his mother was a waitress at a roadside joint named the Sea Shell Diner. There wasn't any Mr. Pond. I guessed there never had been, which would explain why Ethel acted so tough and sullen. We were halfway through supper when I remembered something the kid had said. "Who's Charlie?" I asked. Doc frowned at his plate. "The kid had a dog named Charlie, a big shaggy mutt with only one eye and no love for anybody but the boy. The dog isn't coming home. He was run down by a car on the highway while Joey was hospitalized with polio." "Tough," I said, thinking of the kid sitting out there all day in his wheelchair, straining his eyes across the palmetto flats. "You mean he's been waiting a _year_?" Doc nodded, seemed to lose interest in the Ponds, so I let the subject drop. We sat around after supper and polished off the rest of the beer. When we turned in around midnight I figured we wouldn't be staying long at the Twin Palms trailer court. It wasn't a very comfortable place. I was wrong there. It wasn't comfortable, but we stayed. I couldn't have said at first why we stuck, and if Doc could he didn't volunteer. Neither of us talked about it. We just went on living the way we were used to living, a few weeks here and a few there, all over the States. We'd hit the Florida west coast too late for the citrus season, so I went in for the fishing instead. I worked the fishing boats all the way from Tampa down to Fort Myers, not signing on with any of the commercial companies because I like to move quick when I get restless. I picked the independent deep-water snapper runs mostly, because the percentage is good there if you've got a strong back and tough hands. Snapper fishing isn't the sport it seems to the one-day tourists who flock along because the fee is cheap. You fish from a wide-beamed old scow, usually, with hand-lines instead of regular tackle, and you use multiple hooks that go down to the bottom where the big red ones are. There's no real thrill to it, as the one-day anglers find out quickly. A snapper puts up no more fight than a catfish and the biggest job is to haul out his dead weight once you've got him surfaced. Usually a pro like me sells his catch to the boat's owner or to some clumsy sport who wants his picture shot with a big one, and there's nearly always a jackpot--from a pool made up at the beginning of every run--for the man landing the biggest fish of the day. There's a knack to hooking the big ones, and when the jackpots were running good I only worked a day or so a week and spent the rest of the time lying around the trailer playing cribbage and drinking beer with Doc Shull. Usually it was the life of Riley, but somehow it wasn't enough in this place. We'd get about half-oiled and work up a promising argument about what was wrong with the world. Then, just when we'd got life looking its screwball funniest with our arguments one or the other of us would look out the window and see Joey Pond in his wheelchair, waiting for a one-eyed dog named Charlie to come trotting home across the palmetto flats. He was always there, day or night, until his mother came home from work and rolled him inside. It wasn't right or natural for a kid to wait like that for anything and it worried me. I even offered once to buy the kid another mutt but Ethel Pond told me quick to mind my own business. Doc explained that the kid didn't want another mutt because he had what Doc called a psychological block. "Charlie was more than just a dog to him," Doc said. "He was a sort of symbol because he offered the kid two things that no one else in the world could--security and independence. With Charlie keeping him company he felt secure, and he was independent of the kids who could run and play because he had Charlie to play with. If he took another dog now he'd be giving up more than Charlie. He'd be giving up everything that Charlie had meant to him, then there wouldn't be any point in living." I could see it when Doc put it that way. The dog had spent more time with Joey than Ethel had, and the kid felt as safe with him as he'd have been with a platoon of Marines. And Charlie, being a one-man dog, had depended on Joey for the affection he wouldn't take from anybody else. The dog needed Joey and Joey needed him. Together, they'd been a natural. At first I thought it was funny that Joey never complained or cried when Charlie didn't come home, but Doc explained that it was all a part of this psychological block business. If Joey cried he'd be admitting that Charlie was lost. So he waited and watched, secure in his belief that Charlie would return. The Ponds got used to Doc and me being around, but they never got what you'd call intimate. Joey would laugh at some of the droll things Doc said, but his eyes always went back to the palmetto flats and the highway, looking for Charlie. And he never let anything interfere with his routine. That routine started every morning when old man Cloehessey, the postman, pedaled his bicycle out from Twin Palms to leave a handful of mail for the trailer-court tenants. Cloehessey would always make it a point to ride back by way of the Pond trailer and Joey would stop him and ask if he's seen anything of a one-eyed dog on his route that day. Old Cloehessey would lean on his bike and take off his sun helmet and mop his bald scalp, scowling while he pretended to think. Then he'd say, "Not today, Joey," or, "Thought so yesterday, but this fellow had two eyes on him. 'Twasn't Charlie." Then he'd pedal away, shaking his head. Later on the handyman would come around to swap sanitary tanks under the trailers and Joey would ask him the same question. Once a month the power company sent out a man to read the electric meters and he was part of Joey's routine too. It was hard on Ethel. Sometimes the kid would dream at night that Charlie had come home and was scratching at the trailer ramp to be let in, and he'd wake Ethel and beg her to go out and see. When that happened Doc and I could hear Ethel talking to him, low and steady, until all hours of the morning, and when he finally went back to sleep we'd hear her open the cupboard and take out the gin bottle. But there came a night that was more than Ethel could take, a night that changed Joey's routine and a lot more with it. It left a mark you've seen yourself--everybody has that's got eyes to see--though you never knew what made it. Nobody ever knew that but Joey and Ethel Pond and Doc and me. Doc and I were turning in around midnight that night when the kid sang out next door. We heard Ethel get up and go to him, and we got up too and opened a beer because we knew neither of us would sleep any more till she got Joey quiet again. But this night was different. Ethel hadn't talked to the kid long when he yelled, "Charlie! _Charlie!_" and after that we heard both of them bawling. A little later Ethel came out into the moonlight and shut the trailer door behind her. She looked rumpled and beaten, her hair straggling damply on her shoulders and her eyes puffed and red from crying. The gin she'd had hadn't helped any either. She stood for a while without moving, then she looked up at the sky and said something I'm not likely to forget. "Why couldn't You give the kid a break?" she said, not railing or anything but loud enough for us to hear. "You, up there--what's another lousy one-eyed mutt to You?" Doc and I looked at each other in the half-dark of our own trailer. "She's done it, Roy," Doc said. I knew what he meant and wished I didn't. Ethel had finally told the kid that Charlie wasn't coming back, not ever. That's why I was worried about Joey when I came home the next evening and found him watching the sky instead of the palmetto flats. It meant he'd given up waiting for Charlie. And the quiet way the kid spoke of moving the stars around worried me more, because it sounded outright crazy. Not that you could blame him for going off his head. It was tough enough to be pinned to a wheelchair without being able to wiggle so much as a toe. But to lose his dog in the bargain.... I was on my third beer when Doc Shull rolled in with a big package under his arm. Doc was stone sober, which surprised me, and he was hot and tired from a shopping trip to Tampa, which surprised me more. It was when he ripped the paper off his package, though, that I thought he'd lost his mind. "Books for Joey," Doc said. "Ethel and I agreed this morning that the boy needs another interest to occupy his time now, and since he can't go to school I'm going to teach him here." He went on to explain that Ethel hadn't had the heart the night before, desperate as she was, to tell the kid the whole truth. She'd told him instead, quoting an imaginary customer at the Sea Shell Diner, that a tourist car with Michigan license plates had picked Charlie up on the highway and taken him away. It was a good enough story. Joey still didn't know that Charlie was dead, but his waiting was over because no dog could be expected to find his way home from Michigan. "We've got to give the boy another interest," Doc said, putting away the books and puncturing another beer can. "Joey has a remarkable talent for concentration--most handicapped children have--that could be the end of him if it isn't diverted into safe channels." I thought the kid had cracked up already and said so. "Moving _stars_?" Doc said when I told him. "Good Lord, Roy--" * * * * * Ethel Pond knocked just then, interrupting him. She came in and had a beer with us and talked to Doc about his plan for educating Joey at home. But she couldn't tell us anything more about the kid's new fixation than we already knew. When she asked him why he stared up at the sky like that he'd say only that he wants something to remember Charlie by. It was about nine o'clock, when Ethel went home to cook supper. Doc and I knocked off our cribbage game and went outside with our folding chairs to get some air. It was then that the first star moved. It moved all of a sudden, the way any shooting star does, and shot across the sky in a curving, blue-white streak of fire. I didn't pay much attention, but Doc nearly choked on his beer. "Roy," he said, "that was Sirius! _It moved!_" I didn't see anything serious about it and said so. You can see a dozen or so stars zip across the sky on any clear night if you're in the mood to look up. "Not serious, you fool," Doc said. "The _star_ Sirius--the Dog Star, it's called--it moved a good sixty degrees, _then stopped dead_!" I sat up and took notice then, partly because the star really had stopped instead of burning out the way a falling star seems to do, partly because anything that excites Doc Shull that much is something to think about. We watched the star like two cats at a mouse-hole, but it didn't move again. After a while a smaller one did, though, and later in the night a whole procession of them streaked across the sky and fell into place around the first one, forming a pattern that didn't make any sense to us. They stopped moving around midnight and we went to bed, but neither of us got to sleep right away. "Maybe we ought to look for another interest in life ourselves instead of drumming up one for Joey," Doc said. He meant it as a joke but it had a shaky sound; "Something besides getting beered up every night, for instance." "You think we've got the d.t.'s from drinking _beer_?" I asked. Doc laughed at that, sounding more like his old self. "No, Roy. No two people ever had instantaneous and identical hallucinations." "Look," I said. "I know this sounds crazy but maybe Joey--" Doc wasn't amused any more. "Don't be a fool, Roy. If those stars really moved you can be sure of two things--Joey had nothing to do with it, and the papers will explain everything tomorrow." He was wrong on one count at least. The papers next day were packed with scareheads three inches high but none of them explained anything. The radio commentators quoted every authority they could reach, and astronomers were going crazy everywhere. It just couldn't happen, they said. Doc and I went over the news column by column that night and I learned more about the stars than I'd learned in a lifetime. Doc, as I've said before, is an educated man, and what he couldn't recall offhand about astronomy the newspapers quoted by chapter and verse. They ran interviews with astronomers at Harvard Observatory and Mount Wilson and Lick and Flagstaff and God knows where else, but nobody could explain why all of those stars would change position then stop. It set me back on my heels to learn that Sirius was twice as big as the Sun and more than twice as heavy, that it was three times as hot and had a little dark companion that was more solid than lead but didn't give off enough light to be seen with the naked eye. This little companion--astronomers called it the "Pup" because Sirius was the Dog Star--hadn't moved, which puzzled the astronomers no end. I suggested to Doc, only half joking, that maybe the Pup had stayed put because it wasn't bright enough to suit Joey's taste, but Doc called me down sharp. "Don't joke about Joey," he said sternly. "Getting back to Sirius--it's so far away that its light needs eight and a half years to reach us. That means it started moving when Joey was only eighteen months old. The speed of light is a universal constant, Roy, and astronomers say it can't be changed." "They said the stars couldn't be tossed around like pool balls, too," I pointed out. "I'm not saying that Joey really moved those damn stars, Doc, but if he did he could have moved the light along with them, couldn't he?" But Doc wouldn't argue the point. "I'm going out for air," he said. I trailed along, but we didn't get farther than Joey's wheelchair. There he sat, tense and absorbed, staring up at the night sky. Doc and I followed his gaze, the way you do automatically when somebody on the street ahead of you cranes his neck at something. We looked up just in time to see the stars start moving again. The first one to go was a big white one that slanted across the sky like a Roman candle fireball--_zip_, like that--and stopped dead beside the group that had collected around Sirius. Doc said, "There went Altair," and his voice sounded like he had just run a mile. That was only the beginning. During the next hour forty or fifty more stars flashed across the sky and joined the group that had moved the night before. The pattern they made still didn't look like anything in particular. I left Doc shaking his head at the sky and went over to give Joey, who had called it a night and was hand-rolling his wheelchair toward the Pond trailer, a boost up the entrance ramp. I pushed him inside where Doc couldn't hear, then I asked him how things were going. "Slow, Roy," he said. "I've got 'most a hundred to go, yet." "Then you're really moving those stars up there?" He looked surprised. "Sure, it's not so hard once you know how." The odds were even that he was pulling my leg, but I went ahead anyway and asked another question. "I can't make head or tail of it, Joey," I said. "What're you making up there?" He gave me a very small smile. "You'll know when I'm through," he said. I told Doc about that after we'd bunked in, but he said I should not encourage the kid in his crazy thinking. "Joey's heard everybody talking about those stars moving, the radio newscasters blared about it, so he's excited too. But he's got a lot more imagination than most people, because he's a cripple, and he could go off on a crazy tangent because he's upset about Charlie. The thing to do is give him a logical explanation instead of letting him think his fantasy is a fact." Doc was taking all this so hard--because it was upsetting things he'd taken for granted as being facts all his life, like those astronomers who were going nuts in droves all over the world. I didn't realize how upset Doc really was, though, till he woke me up at about 4:00 A.M. "I can't sleep for thinking about those stars," he said, sitting on the edge of my bunk. "Roy, I'm _scared_." That from Doc was something I'd never expected to hear. It startled me wide enough awake to sit up in the dark and listen while he unloaded his worries. "I'm afraid," Doc said, "because what is happening up there isn't right or natural. It just can't be, yet it is." It was so quiet when he paused that I could hear the blood swishing in my ears. Finally Doc said, "Roy, the galaxy we live in is as delicately balanced as a fine watch. If that balance is upset too far our world will be affected drastically." Ordinarily I wouldn't have argued with Doc on his own ground, but I could see he was painting a mental picture of the whole universe crashing together like a Fourth of July fireworks display and I was afraid to let him go on. "The trouble with you educated people," I said, "is that you think your experts have got everything figured out, that there's nothing in the world their slide-rules can't pin down. Well, I'm an illiterate mugg, but I know that your astronomers can measure the stars till they're blue in the face and they'll never learn who _put_ those stars there. So how do they know that whoever put them there won't move them again? I've always heard that if a man had faith enough he could move mountains. Well, if a man has the faith in himself that Joey's got maybe he could move stars, too." Doc sat quiet for a minute. "'_There are more things, Horatio...._'" he began, then laughed. "A line worn threadbare by three hundred years of repetition but as apt tonight as ever, Roy. Do you really believe Joey is moving those stars?" "Why not?" I came back. "It's as good an answer as any the experts have come up with." Doc got up and went back to his own bunk. "Maybe you're right. We'll find out tomorrow." And we did. Doc did, rather, while I was hard at work hauling red snappers up from the bottom of the Gulf. * * * * * I got home a little earlier than usual that night, just before it got really dark. Joey was sitting as usual all alone in his wheelchair. In the gloom I could see a stack of books on the grass beside him, books Doc had given him to study. The thing that stopped me was that Joey was staring at his feet as if they were the first ones he'd ever seen, and he had the same look of intense concentration on his face that I'd seen when he was watching the stars. I didn't know what to say to him, thinking maybe I'd better not mention the stars. But Joey spoke first. "Roy," he said, without taking his eyes off his toes, "did you know that Doc is an awfully wise man?" I said I'd always thought so, but why? "Doc said this morning that I ought not to move any more stars," the kid said. "He says I ought to concentrate instead on learning how to walk again so I can go to Michigan and find Charlie." For a minute I was mad enough to brain Doc Shull if he'd been handy. Anybody that would pull a gag like that on a crippled, helpless kid.... "Doc says that if I can do what I've been doing to the stars then it ought to be easy to move my own feet," Joey said. "And he's right, Roy. So I'm not going to move any more stars. I'm going to move my feet." He looked up at me with his small, solemn smile. "It took me a whole day to learn how to move that first star, Roy, but I could do this after only a couple of hours. Look...." And he wiggled the toes on both feet. It's a pity things don't happen in life like they do in books, because a first-class story could be made out of Joey Pond's knack for moving things by looking at them. In a book Joey might have saved the world or destroyed it, depending on which line would interest the most readers and bring the writer the fattest check, but of course it didn't really turn out either way. It ended in what Doc Shull called an anticlimax, leaving everybody happy enough except a few astronomers who like mysteries anyway or they wouldn't be astronomers in the first place. The stars that had been moved stayed where they were, but the pattern they had started was never finished. That unfinished pattern won't ever go away, in case you've wondered about it--it's up there in the sky where you can see it any clear night--but it will never be finished because Joey Pond lost interest in it when he learned to walk again. Walking was a slow business with Joey at first because his legs had got thin and weak--partially atrophied muscles, Doc said--and it took time to make them round and strong again. But in a couple of weeks he was stumping around on crutches and after that he never went near his wheelchair again. Ethel sent him to school at Sarasota by bus and before summer vacation time came around he was playing softball and fishing in the Gulf with a gang of other kids on Sundays. School opened up a whole new world to Joey and he fitted himself into the routine as neat as if he'd been doing it all his life. He learned a lot there and he forgot a lot that he'd learned for himself by being alone. Before we realized what was happening he was just like any other ten-year-old, full of curiosity and the devil, with no more power to move things by staring at them than anybody else had. I think he actually forgot about those stars along with other things that had meant so much to him when he was tied to his wheelchair and couldn't do anything but wait and think. For instance, a scrubby little terrier followed him home from Twin Palms one day and Ethel let him keep it. He fed the pup and washed it and named it Dugan, and after that he never said anything more about going to Michigan to find Charlie. It was only natural, of course, because kids--normal kids--forget their pain quickly. It's a sort of defense mechanism, Doc says, against the disappointments of this life. When school opened again in the fall Ethel sold her trailer and got a job in Tampa where Joey could walk to school instead of going by bus. When they were gone the Twin Palms trailer court was so lonesome and dead that Doc and I pulled out and went down to the Lake Okechobee country for the sugar cane season. We never heard from Ethel and Joey again. We've moved several times since; we're out in the San Joaquin Valley just now, with the celery croppers. But everywhere we go we're reminded of them. Every time we look up at a clear night sky we see what Doc calls the Joey Pond Stellar Monument, which is nothing but a funny sort of pattern roughed in with a hundred or so stars of all sizes and colors. The body of it is so sketchy that you'd never make out what it's supposed to be unless you knew already what you were looking for. To us the head of a dog is fairly plain. If you know enough to fill in the gaps you can see it was meant to be a big shaggy dog with only one eye. Doc says that footloose migratories like him and me forget old associations as quick as kids do--and for the same good reason--so I'm not especially interested now in where Ethel and Joey Pond are or how they're doing. But there's one thing I'll always wonder about, now that there's no way of ever knowing for sure. I wish I'd asked Joey or Ethel, before they moved away, how Charlie lost that other eye. * * * * * 
11470	----	Distributed Proofreaders [Illustration: "Quite a little party of friends to see him off." (p. 155)] HIS BIG OPPORTUNITY BY AMY LE FEUVRE Author of "Probable Sons," "The Odd One," "Teddy's Button," etc, etc. 1898 Contents Chapters I. On the Garden Wall II. A Song III. Making An Opportunity IV. An Awkward Visit V. A Lost Donkey VI. Rob VII. A Walnut Story VIII. The Bertrams' Leap IX. Making His Leap X. A Cripple XI. A Gift to the Queen XII. Letters XIII. Old Principle XIV. Heroes XV. An Unwelcome Proposal XVI. David and Jonathan XVII. Boy's Big Opportunity LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Quite a Little Party of Friends to See Him Off Old Principle Laughed at Dudley's Notion "Now Then, You Rascals, What Are You Doing to My Donkey?" "He's Dead, Ben--He's Dead!" I ON THE GARDEN WALL They were sitting astride on the top of the old garden wall. Below them on the one side stretched a sweet old-fashioned English garden lying in the blaze of an August sun. In the distance, peeping from behind a wealth of creepers and ivy was the old stone house. It was at an hour in the afternoon when everything seemed to be at a standstill: two or three dogs lay on the soft green lawn fast asleep, an old gardener smoking his pipe and sitting on the edge of a wheelbarrow seemed following their example; and birds and insects only kept up a monotonous and drowsy dirge. But the two little figures clad in white cricketting flannels, were full of life and motion as they kept up an eager and animated conversation on their lofty seat. "You see, Dudley, if nothing happens, we will make it happen!" "Then it isn't an opportunity." "Yes it is. Why if those old fellows in olden times hadn't ridden off to look for adventures they would never have found them at home." "But an opportunity isn't an adventure." "Yes, it is, you stupid! An adventure is something that happens, and so is an opportunity." The little speaker who announced this logic so dogmatically, was a slim delicate boy with white face, and large brown eyes, and a crop of dark unruly curls that had a trick of defying the hair cutter's skill, and of growing so erratically that "Master Roy's head," was pronounced quite unmanageable. He was not a pretty boy, and was in delicate health, constantly subject to attacks of bronchitis and asthma, yet his spirit was undaunted, and as his old nurse often said, "his soul was too strong for his body." Dudley, his little cousin, who sat facing him, on the contrary, was a true specimen of a handsome English boy. Chestnut hair and bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and an upright sturdy carriage, did much to commend him to every one's favor: yet for force of character and intellect he came far behind Roy. He sat now pondering Roy's words, and kicking his heels against the wall, whilst his eyes roved over the road on the outside of the garden and away to a dark pine wood opposite. "Here's one coming then," he said, suddenly; "now you'll have to use it." "Who? What? Where?" "It's a man; a tramp, a traveller or a highwayman, and he may be all the lot together! It's an opportunity, isn't it?" Roy looked down the narrow lane outside the wall, and saw the figure of a man approaching. His face lit up with eager resolve. "He's a stranger, Dudley; he doesn't belong to the village; we'll ask him who he is." "Hulloo, you fellow," shouted Dudley in his shrill boyish treble; "where do you come from? You don't belong to this part." The man looked up at the boys curiously. "And who may ye be, a-wall climbin' and a breakin' over in folks' gardens to steal their fruit?" "Don't you cheek us," said Roy, throwing his head up, and putting on his most autocratic air; "this is our garden and our wall, and the road you're walking on is our private road!" "Then don't you take to insulting passers-by, or it will be the worse for ye!" retorted the man. The boys were silent. "I'm sure he isn't an opportunity," whispered Dudley. But Roy would not be disconcerted. "Look here," he said, adopting a conciliatory tone; "we're looking out for an opportunity to do some one some good, and then you came along, that's why we spoke to you. Now just tell us if we can do it to you." "Yes," Dudley struck in: "you seem rather down, do you want anything that we can give you?" The man glanced up at them to see if this was boyish impudence, but the faces bending down were earnest and grave enough, and he said with a short laugh,-- "Oh, I reckon there be just a few things I'm in want of; but as to your givin' of them to me that be quite a different matter. Don't suppose ye carry about jobs ready to hand in yer pockets, nor yet my set of tools in pawn, nor yet a pint o' beer and a good hunk of bread and meat for a starvin' feller! May be ye could tell me the way to the nearest pub, and stand me a drink there!" Roy thrust his hand immediately into his pocket, and pulled out amongst a confused mass of boys' treasures a sixpence. "I'll give you this if it will do you good," he said, holding it up proudly. "I've kept it a whole two days without spending it. It will give you some beer and bread and cheese, I expect. Is there anything else we can do for you?" "If you go to Mr. Selby, the rector, he'll put you in the way of work," shouted out Dudley, as the man catching the sixpence flung down to him slouched off with muttered thanks. "No parsons for me," was the rejoinder. The boys watched his figure disappear down the road, and then Roy said reflectively,-- "Too many opportunities like that would empty our pockets." "And I wonder if it will really do him good," said Dudley; then glancing over into the garden, he added: "Here comes Aunt Judy, she's calling us." Down the winding gravel path came their aunt; a strikingly handsome woman. She looked up at her little nephews and laughed when she came to the wall. "Oh, you imps, do you know I've been hunting for you everywhere! You will have a fall like Humpty Dumpty if you choose such high perches. Now what comfort can you find, may I ask, in such a blazing breakneck seat? Do you find broken bottles a soft cushion?" "We've cleared those rotten things away here," said Dudley, preparing to clamber down; "it's our watch tower, and we've a first-rate view, you just come up and see!" "Thank you, I would rather not attempt the climb. What have you been talking about? Jonathan looks as grave as a judge." Roy looked down at his aunt without moving. "If you won't laugh or tell granny, we'll tell you, because you never split if you say you won't." "All right, I promise." "Well, you see, this morning Mr. Selby gave us this for our copy: 'As ye have opportunity do good unto all men,' and he told us of a King somebody--I forget who--who used to write down at the end of each day on a slate,--if he hadn't done any good to any one,--'I've lost a day.' We thought it would be a good plan to start this afternoon and see what we could do. We tried on old Hal first, but he didn't seem to like it. He was uncovering some of the frames, and so we went and uncovered all of them, and then he said we had spoilt some of his seedlings, and nearly went into a fit with rage. I turned the hose on him to cool him down. He is asleep in the wheelbarrow now; we can see him from here. We really came up here to get out of his way, his language was awful!" "Come down, you monkey. I can't carry on a conversation with you so far above me. Softly now. Bless the boys, how they can stick their toes into such a wall is past my comprehension! Granny wants to see you before your tea, so come along. And who else has been benefited by your good deeds?" They were walking toward the house by this time, each boy hanging on to one of her arms. It was easy to see the affection between them. Dudley eagerly poured out the story of the tramp, and Miss Bertram listened sympathetically. "Never send a man to a public house, boys--and never give him money for beer. Perhaps he may have come down in the world through love of it. You know I am always ready to give any one a relief ticket. That's the best way to help such cases." "Yes, but that would be your doing not ours." "Money is a difficult way of helping," said Miss Bertram; "don't get into the habit of thinking money is the only thing that will do people good. It too often does them harm." "Oh, I say! that's hard lines on me, when my last sixpence has gone, and I was going to get a stunning ball old Principle has in his shop!" Miss Bertram laughed at Roy's woe-begone little face. "Never mind," she said, consolingly; "your intentions were good, and you must buy your experience by mistakes as you go through life. Now go into granny softly, both of you, and talk nicely to her. She will be one person you can do good to, by brightening her up a little." Dudley made a grimace at Roy; but both boys entered the house, and crept into a cool half-darkened drawing-room on tiptoe, with hushed voices and sober demeanor. A stern looking old lady sat upright in her easy chair, knitting busily. She greeted the boys rather coldly. "What have you been doing with yourselves? I sent for you some time ago. Do you not remember that I like you to come to me every afternoon about this hour?" "Yes, granny," said Roy, climbing into an easy chair opposite her; "we were coming only we didn't know it was so late: we were busy talking." "Boys' chatter ought not to come before a grandmother's wishes." There was silence; then Dudley struck in boldly: "We were talking about good things, granny. It wasn't chatter. Roy and I are going to look out for opportunities every day of our lives. Do you think an opportunity is the same as an adventure? I don't think you have adventures of doing good, do you?" "Yes," asserted Roy, bobbing up and down in his chair excitedly; "King Arthur and his knights did always. They never rode through a wood without having an adventure, and it was always doing good, wasn't it, granny?" Conversation never slackened when the boys were present, and Mrs. Bertram, though shrinking at all times from their high spirits and love of fun, yet looked forward every day to their short visit. She was a confirmed invalid, and rarely left the house, and her daughter Julia in consequence took her place as mistress over the household. Three years before, Roy and Dudley arrived within a month of each other, to find a home with their grandmother. Roy, whose proper name was Fitzroy, came from Canada, both his parents having died out there. Dudley's father had died when he was a baby, but his mother had married again in India; and upon her death which occurred not long after, his stepfather had sent him home to his grandmother. From the first day that they met, the boys were sworn friends; and their aunt dubbed them "David" and "Jonathan" after having been an unseen witness of a very solemn vow transacted between them under the shadow of the pines, only a week after their meeting. Roy's delicate health was a cause of great anxiety to his grandmother, and if it had not been for Miss Bertram's wise tact and judgment, he would have been imprisoned in one room and swathed in cotton wool most of the year round. He had the advantage of having an old nurse who had brought him up from his birth, and had come from Canada with him; and she was as vigilant and experienced in managing his ailments as could be desired. Poor little Roy, with his uncertain health, was heir to a very large property of his father's not far away; and the responsibilities awaiting him, and the knowledge that he would have so much power in his hands, perhaps had the effect of making him weigh life more seriously than would most boys of his age. Later on after their visit to their grandmother was over, and tea had been finished in the nursery, he wandered into his own little room, and leaning out of his window, looked up into the clear sky above. "I feel so small," was his wistful thought, "and heaven is so big; but I'll do something big enough to get, 'Well done good and faithful servant,' said to me when I die, I hope. And I'll try every day till I do it!" II A SONG "Come here, boys. I have had some new music from town, and here is a song that you will like to listen to, I expect." It was Miss Bertram who spoke, and her appearance in the nursery just saved a free fight. Wet afternoons were always a sore trial to the boys: their mornings were generally spent at the Rectory under Mr. Selby's tuition, but their afternoons were their own, and it was hard to be kept within four walls, and expected to make no sound to disturb their grandmother's afternoon nap. The old nurse was nodding in her chair, and her charges with jackets off and rolled up shirt sleeves were advancing toward each other on tiptoe, and muttering their threats in wrathful whispers. "I'll show you I'm no coddle!" "And I'll show you I'm no lazy lubber!" At the sound of their aunt's voice they stopped; and each picked up his jacket with some confusion, Dudley saying contentedly, "All right, old fellow, pax now, and we'll finish it up to-morrow." "Aunt Judy, do let us come into the drawing-room then, and hear you sing; we're sick of this old nursery, we're too big to be kept here." Roy spoke scornfully, but his aunt shook her head at him: "Do you know this is the room I love best in the house? Your father and I used it till we were double your age, and no place ever came up to it in our estimation. Don't be little prigs and think yourselves men before you're boys!" "Why, Aunt Judy, we've been boys ever since we were born!" "I look upon you as infants now," retorted Miss Bertram, laughing. "Come along--tiptoe past granny's room, please, and no racing downstairs." "We'll slide down the rails instead, we always do when granny is asleep." "Not when I am with you, thank you." A few minutes afterward, and the boys were standing on either side of the piano listening with delight to the song that has stirred so many boyish hearts: "'Tis a story, what a story, tho' it never made a noise Of cherub-headed Jake and Jim, two little drummer boys Of all the wildest scamps that e'er provoked a sergeant's eye, They were first in every wickedness, but one thing could not lie, And they longed to face the music, when the tidings from afar Brought the news of wild disaster in a wild and savage war. Said the Colonel, 'How can babies of battle bear the brunt?' Said the little orphan rascals, 'please Sir, take us to the front! And we'll play to the men in the far-off land, When their eyes for home are dim; If the Indians come, they shall hear our drum In the van where the fight is grim. Our lads we know, to the death will go, If they're led by Jake and Jim.' "In the battle, 'mid the rattle, and the deadly hail of lead, The two were in their glory--What did they know of dread? And fierce the heathen cry arose across the Indian plain, And 'twas Home, for the bravest there would never be again, The raw recruits were restless, and they counted not the cost, And the Colonel shouted, 'Steady lads, stand fast, or else we're lost.' A rush! 'twas like an avalanche! a clash of steel and red! A shock like mountain thunder, then the reg'ment turned and fled. 'Give me the drum, take the fife,' said Jake, 'And with all your might and main, Play the old step now, for the reg'ment's sake As they scatter along the plain. We'll play them up to the front once more, Tho' we never come back again.' "Then might the world have seen two little dots in red, Facing the foe, when the rest had turned and fled! So young, so brave and gay, while others held their breath, They played ev'ry inch of the way to meet their death; And _then_ at last the reg'ment turned, for vengeance ev'ry man To save the lads they turned and fought as only demons can; They swept the foe before them across the mountain rim, But victory that day could never bring back Jake or Jim. And they silently stood where the children fell, Not a word of triumph said, For they knew who had led as they bowed each head, And looked at the quiet dead; That the fight was won, and the reg'ment saved, By those two little dots in red." Miss Bertram stole a glance at the boys' faces as she finished singing. With a wriggle and a twist Dudley turned his back upon her; but not before she had seen the blue eyes swimming with tears, and heard a choking sob being hastily swallowed. Roy stood erect, his little face quivering with emotion, and his usually pale cheek flushed a deep crimson, whilst his small determined mouth and chin looked more resolute and daring than ever. His hands thrust deep in the pockets of his knickerbockers he looked straight before him and repeated with emphasis, "They played every inch of the way to meet their death!" "Regular little heroes, weren't they?" said Miss Bertram. "Rather," came from Roy's lips, and then without another word he ran out of the room. "Do you like it, David?" Miss Bertram asked, touching Dudley lightly on the shoulder. "No--I--don't--it makes a fellow in a blue funk." And two fists were hastily brushed across the eyes. "Shall I sing you something more cheerful?" "No, thanks, not to-night, I think I'll go to Roy." And Dudley, too, made his exit, leaving his aunt touched and amused at the effect of the song. An hour after the rain had ceased, and the sun was shining out. Down the village street walked the two boys enjoying their freedom more soberly than was their wont. "We must, we must, we _must_ be heroes, Dudley!" "Yes, if we get a chance." "But why shouldn't we have it as well as those two boys. I wonder sometimes what God meant us to do when He made us! And I'm not going to be in the dumps because I'm not very strong. For look at Nelson: old Selby told us he was always very seedy and shaky, always ill; and not being big in body doesn't matter, for Nelson was a little man and so was Napoleon, and lots of the great men have been short and stumpy and hideous! I mean to do something before I die, if only an opportunity will come! Do you remember the story of the little chap in Holland, who put his hand in the hole in the sand bank, and kept the whole ocean from coming in and washing away hundreds of towns and villages? If I could only do a thing like that, something that would do good to millions of people; something that would be worth living for! If I could save somebody's life from fire, or drowning, or some kind of danger! Don't you long for something of that sort, eh?" "I don't know that I do," was the slow response; "but I should like you to get a chance of it if you want it so much." "Oh, wasn't it splendid of those two little chaps--a whole regiment! And only those two who didn't run away! I think I could stand fire like that, couldn't you?" "I would with you." "But I don't expect I'll ever go into the army." This in sorrowful tones. "Why not?" "Oh, they'd never have me. I'm too thin round the chest; nurse says I'm like a bag of bones, and I wouldn't make a smart soldier. Now you'd be a splendid one, no one could be ashamed of you." "Well, I won't go without you." "But I'll do something worth living for," repeated Roy, tossing up his head and giving a stamp as he spoke; "and I'll seize the first opportunity that comes." Dudley was silent. They had now reached the low stone bridge over the river, a favorite resort amongst all the village boys for fishing; and quite a little group of them were collected there. Roy and Dudley were welcomed eagerly as though perhaps at times they were inclined to assume patronizing and masterful airs; yet their extreme generosity and love for all country sport made them general favorites with the villagers. Roy was soon in the midst of an eager discussion about the best bait for trout; and was presently startled by a heavy splash over the bridge. Looking up, to his amazement, he saw Dudley struggling in the water. "Help, Roy, I'm drowning!" Both boys were capital swimmers, but Roy saw that Dudley seemed incapable of keeping himself up, and in one second he threw off his jacket, and dived head foremost off the bridge to the rescue. The current of the river was strong here, for a mill wheel was only a short distance off; and it was hard work to swim safely ashore. Roy accomplished it successfully amidst the cheers of the admiring group on the bridge; and when once on dry ground again, neither of the boys seemed the worse for the wetting. In the hubbub that ensued Dubley was not questioned as to the cause of the accident; but it appeared that his feet had got entangled in some string and netting that one of the boys had brought with him to the bridge, and it was this that had prevented him from swimming. "It's awfully nice that I had the chance of helping you," said Roy, as the two boys were running home as fast as they could to change their wet clothes; "I didn't hurt you in the water, did I? I believe I gave a pretty good tug to your hair, I was awfully glad you hadn't had your hair cut lately." "You've saved my life," said Dudley, staring at Roy with a peculiar gravity; "if you hadn't dashed over to me, I should have been sucked down by that old wheel, and should have been a dead man by this time. You've done to-day what you were longing to do." "Yes, but I tell you I felt awfully squeamish when I saw you in the water and thought I might be too late." As they neared the house, Roy's pace slackened. "Go on, Dudley, and leave me, I can't get on, I believe that horrid old asthma is coming on, I'll follow slowly." "I'm not quite such a cad," was Dudley's retort, and then hoisting Roy up on his back, as if that mode of proceeding was quite a usual occurrence, he made his way into the house. They crept up to their bedrooms and changed their wet clothes before they showed themselves to any one. Then Dudley waxed eloquent for the occasion, and the story was told in drawing-room and servants' hall, till every one was loud in their praises of the little rescuer. "He looks too small to have done it," said Miss Bertram, smiling; for though Roy was Dudley's senior by two months, he was a good head shorter. Roy got rather impatient under this adulation. "Oh, shut up, Dudley, don't be such an ass, as if I could have done anything else!" An hour after, and Roy was sitting up in bed speechless and panting, with the bronchitis kettle in full play, and nurse trying vainly to battle with one of his worst bronchial attacks. "I say "--he gasped at last; "do you think--I'm going to die--this time?" "Surely no, my pet. It's more asthma than bronchitis; I'll pull you round, please God." Midnight came, and when nurse left the room for a minute she found a small figure crouched down outside the door. It was Dudley. "Oh, nurse, he's very bad, isn't he? Is he going to die? What shall I do! I shall be his murderer, I've killed him!" Dudley's eyes were wild with terror, and nurse tried to soothe him. "Don't talk nonsense, but go to bed; he'll be better in the morning, I hope. It's just the wet, and the strain of it that's done it. There's none to blame. You couldn't help it, and he's been as bad as this before and pulled through. Go to bed, laddie, and ask God to make him better." Dudley crept back to bed, and flung himself down on his pillows with a fit of bitter weeping. "She says I couldn't help it; oh, God, make him better, make him better, do forgive me! I never thought of this!" III MAKING AN OPPORTUNITY It was two days before Dudley was allowed to see the little invalid. The doctor had been in constant attendance; but all danger was over now, and Roy as usual was rapidly picking up his strength again. "His constitution has wonderful rallying powers," the old doctor said; "he is like a bit of india rubber!" It seemed to Dudley that Roy's face had got wonderfully white and small; and there was a weary worn look in his eyes, as he turned round to greet him. "Now sit down and talk to him, but don't let him do the talking," was nurse's advice as she left the boys together. Dudley sat down by the bed, and squeezed hold of the little hand held out to him. "I'm so sorry, old chap," he said, nervously; "do you feel really better? I've been so miserable." "I'm first-rate now," was the cheerful response; "it's awfully nice getting your breath back again; it's only made me feel a little tired, that's all!" "It was all me!" "Why that has been my comfort," said Roy, with shining eyes; "I felt when I was very bad, that if I died, I might have lived for something. It would have been lovely to die for you, Dudley--at least you know to have got myself ill from that reason; it's so very tame when I get bad from nothing at all; but I'm well again now, so I know God is letting me live to do something else!" "I was the one that ought to have been made ill to punish me," blurted out Dudley, and then he was silent. Roy's eyes rested on his flushed face with some wonder. "It wasn't wicked of you to fall into the river; you couldn't help it." A crimson flush crept over Dudley's face up to the very roots of his hair; he picked the fringe of the counterpane restlessly between his fingers, and kicked his heels against the legs of his chair. Silence again: Roy looked steadily at him; and then an expression of astonishment and bewilderment flitted across his face, followed by one of strange, conviction. "Dudley, look at me." Roy's tone was peremptory, but Dudley never moved, until the command was given in a sharper tone. Then he raised his head, but his blue eyes had a guilty harassed look in them, and he dropped them quickly again. "It's no good; I've found you out. Did you tie up your feet like that yourself?" After a minute, in a sepulchral tone, came the words, "Yes, when you weren't looking!" Roy lay back on his pillows with a sigh. A little disappointment mingled with his feelings which were somewhat mixed. After a pause, he said, "You _are_ a good fellow! To think of doing that for me! What would you have done if I hadn't jumped in to save you?" Then Dudley raised his head: "I knew you wouldn't fail me," he said, triumphantly; "I knew I could trust you!" Roy put out his thin little arm and drew Dudley's bonny face down by the side of his on the pillow. "I don't think," he whispered, "that even I could have been plucky enough to do that--not in sight of that old mill wheel!" Neither spoke for a few minutes; then Dudley said, "I should have been your murderer if you had died. That has been the worst of it. But you did like saving a drowning fellow, didn't you?" "Ye-es, but it wasn't quite real--at least it isn't as if you really had tumbled in by accident." "Well but I only did what you said we must do. I made an opportunity." And after this remark Roy had nothing more to say; but neither he nor Dudley ever enlightened any one as to the true cause of the accident. When Roy had quite recovered, the two boys set out one afternoon to visit their greatest friend in the village. This was the old man every one called "old Principle." He lived by himself in a curious three-cornered house at the extreme end of the village, and kept a little general shop where everything but eatables could be obtained. "I keep every article that man, woman, or child can want for their use, for their homes, their work or their play; but food and drink I will not cater for. It's against my principles to sell perishable goods, and I will not be the one to minister to the very lowest animal wants of my fellow creatures." This was his favorite speech, from which it may be judged he was somewhat of a character. He had several hobbies, and was a well-read man and superior to those around him; and perhaps this was the cause of his holding himself aloof from most of the villagers. They termed him "cranky and cracked," but his goods were always acceptable, and he was thoroughly successful in his business. When his shop was closed he would go out on the hills, and there spend his time studying geology and botany. He knew the name of every plant and insect, and the strata of the earth for many miles round; and it was out of doors that the boys first made his acquaintance. They found him on this afternoon seated behind his counter mending an eight-day clock. "Well, old Principle, how are you?" said Roy, climbing up to the counter and sitting comfortably on it with his legs dangling in mid air; "we haven't seen you for ages." "Are you going out this evening?" enquired Dudley, as he proceeded to follow Roy's example. "To be sure, when my work is done," responded the old man pushing up his spectacles and regarding the boys with kindly eyes; "these light evenings are my delight, as you know. If you sit still till I have finished this clock, I will show you a treasure I found yesterday." "Can you mend everything?" asked Roy, curiously; "I never knew you understood about clocks." "I've learned to mend most things," was the answer; "it isn't given to every one to make, and I'm one of the menders in the world not the makers. There's one thing I can't mend--and that is broken hearts." There was silence: Roy broke it at last by saying with knitted brow, "I'd rather be a maker than a mender, but lots of people aren't either." "Quite right," nodded the old man; "most folk are breakers." "I wish I was as clever as you," said Dudley; "you mend umbrellas, and kettles, and plates, and windows, and gates, and all sorts. How did you learn?" "Well, I ain't ashamed of owning that my father was just a travelling tinker, and when I was a little fellow I used to go round with him and see him do most things. It was from travelling through the country I learned to love it so. And my father, he was a thoughtful man, and when I used to ask where the tin came from, and where the iron and where the lead, he took to learning of it up so that he could answer me; and then I came to find that most of our comforts come from underground, and so I fell to digging. Ah, youngsters, earth is a wonderful treasure house!" The clock was done. Old Principle put it carefully by and then mounted on some wooden steps, and took down a tin saucepan. The boys knew the shelf well; as though apparently it was just a row of tinware for sale, many a pot and pan held treasures that geologists would have given a great deal to possess. Now when old Principle held out a peculiar shaped stone with loving pride, Roy and Dudley pressed forward to look at it. "I know, it's a Roman hammer," shouted out Dudley. "It's a Saxon jug," suggested Roy. "It's part of a jaw of a mammoth many thousands of years old, and there are two teeth in perfect preservation," old Principle said solemnly. "Where did you find it?" "Ah, you must come and see! In a cave that I have only just discovered, and which must originally have been by the side of a river. I'll take you there to-night if you can get permission to come." Nothing delighted the boys more than an expedition with old Principle. They promised to be down at his shop punctually at half-past seven that evening, and then the conversation drifted into other channels. "Old Principle, do you think we ought to make opportunities?" questioned Dudley, presently; "Roy thinks we ought, and I did make one the other day, but it didn't turn out well." "Ay, Master Roy is always for making," said the old man with a smile; "he will try and cram his life with what will come fast enough naturally, if he only waits." "But will it?" questioned Roy, flushing up with eagerness; "do you think it will? I'm longing to do something big and grand and good; I mayn't live to grow up you know, and I'm sure we're meant to do something when we're boys." "We're trying to do good to all men as we have opportunity," said Dudley, gravely. "Ay, stick to that, boys, and you'll succeed. There's none too small to be true philanthropists." "What is a philanthropist?" asked Roy. "A man who benefits his fellow creatures. 'Tis a good principle to keep in mind." "But it's difficult for boys to do grown-up people good. They always do boys good." "Now look here, Master Roy. I've lived and learned where you haven't, and I try and pass my principles on to you. That's how I do you good. You come to me and take what I give you and seeing you act out the advice I offers you does me good. You do me good too, every time you comes to see me; it's cheery to hear and see you." "But that's very tame for us," said Roy, a little scornfully. "Oh, well, if your own likes must come into the question, it's a different story! I didn't know it mattered about our feelings as long as the good is done! 'Tis a bad principle to try to please others only when it pleases ourselves." Roy looked a little ashamed of himself. He said no more on the subject, and shortly after he and Dudley ran home to tea. They were very disappointed when their aunt refused to let them go out again that evening. "It is too damp a night for Jonathan to be wandering through wet grass and bog. You can go, David, if you like, but he must wait for another opportunity." "I shan't go without Roy," said Dudley, sturdily. "We'll come and make a cave in the attic," suggested Roy, trying to be cheerful. And for the rest of that evening they were absorbed in making a great dust and racket amongst lumber boxes far away from their grandmother's hearing. IV AN AWKWARD VISIT "And how do you know a river has been here?" "By the soil and by the relics I have found. Look at this fossil. Do you see the outline of the fish? Fish don't live on dry ground." "There might have been a fishman passing by who dropped one out of his cart." Old Principle laughed at Dudley's sceptical notion, and went on shovelling out earth with great alacrity. It was Saturday afternoon: old Principle had shut up his shop and taken the boys up to the hills surrounding the little village, where in a ravine between two precipitous crags, in the midst of a green bower of ferns and moss, he was hard at work excavating an old cave that had been buried for many years out of sight. Dudley and Roy were eagerly helping and chattering as only boys know how. "This little ravine has been formed by a mountain stream rushing down," continued the old man, resting on his spade for a minute; "'tis a good principle, Master Dudley, to trust grown-up folks' knowledge better than your own." [Illustration: "Old Principle laughed at Dudley's notion."] "I wish," said Roy, reflectively, "that this cave was nearer home; it would be so lovely to come out whenever we wanted to, wouldn't it, Dudley? Perhaps some king has hidden away in it, or soldier when he was pursued by his enemies!" "Hulloo," said Dudley, looking up the hill; "here is such a funny looking woman coming down with a donkey, her skirt is nearly up to her knees, and she has a man's boots on." Old Principle paused in his work, and in a minute or two greeted the newcomer. "Good-afternoon, Mrs. Cullen, how's your husband to-day?" "Badly, very badly, but I's forced to leave he. I lock the door and put the key in me pocket, for I's bin up the hill yonner cuttin' peat sin seven o'clock this mornin'. He do get awfu' lonesome, he say, an' if me niece hadn't a married and gone to 'Merica, I should have kept she to tend him." "Who is she?" asked Roy, as after a few more words the woman moved on. "She lives at the bottom of the hill over there. Her husband has been ill of consumption these last two years, and she works to support them both. She's a hard-working woman, is Martha Cullen; she works in the fields harvesting just now; if I could feel I'd be welcome I would go to sit with her husband sometimes, but she's very queer, she won't let a neighbor come near him, I have tried more than once. It seems hard on him to be bedridden there day after day without a soul to speak to; or any one to give him a drink!" Roy gazed thoughtfully after the retreating figure of the woman, and then turned his attention again to the cave. When an hour later he and Dudley were walking home footsore, and rather dirty, but with little bundles of treasures from the cave in their grubby hands, he startled his cousin by saying-- "To-morrow we'll go and see Martha Cullen's husband. It's an opportunity for us." "How shall we get in?" queried Dudley. "Climb in at the window. She told old Principle she would be out all day at Farmer Stubbs. We'll go and do him good." "How?" "We'll wash his face, and make him a cup of tea, and sweep his room, and give him his medicine," responded Roy, readily; "that's what nurse does when she goes to visit any of Aunt Judy's sick people." Dudley did not look as if he relished the prospect before him. "That's girls' and women's work," he said; "boys needn't do that kind of thing." Roy flushed up angrily. "All right, if you don't want to come, stay at home. It is a week since we started to do good when the opportunity came, and we haven't done any good to any one. I'm not going to waste any more time." Then after a pause he added, "Besides I think it will be rather fun breaking into a strange cottage; we may have to get down the chimney." At this Dudley's face cleared. "I'll come," he said; "we'll go directly after dinner." "And we'll stow away a little of our pudding to take him--sick people always have puddings." They had no difficulty in carrying out this plan. They always dined in the nursery, and if nurse wondered at the amount of pudding that her charges managed to consume that day, her old eyes were not sharp enough to detect the transfer from plates to pockets. She sent them out into the garden to play, and they soon were scampering out of the back gate and along the road toward the little cottage at the bottom of the hill. It was a warm afternoon, and when they at length came near it they threw themselves down on the grass to rest. "We mustn't frighten the old man," said Dudley, gazing at the thatched cottage with a critical eye. "I see the windows are tight shut in front, but there's one open at the side; we must creep up very quietly and get in before he sees us, and then we can explain who we are." "And if the window won't do, we'll try the chimney, it looks a jolly big one." Then after a pause-- "I suppose he'll be glad to see us?" "Of course he will. He must be dreadfully dull all alone." A few minutes after, they were holding a whispered consultation outside a small pantry window through which Roy was going to squeeze himself. "I'll go first. It will be a tight fit for you, Dudley, but I'll give you a good pull through, and you must hold your breath well in." "It's a kind of housebreaking," Dudley said, ripples of fun passing over his face; "I don't mind visiting sick people if we go in at their windows like this!" But Roy's little face was full of anxious gravity and purpose, and he checked Dudley's inclination to laugh at once. He accomplished his part successfully, and then poor Dudley was hauled and pulled at till purple in the face, and breathless with exertion, he exclaimed, "I'm being squashed to a jelly; let go, I can't do it!" "Just one more try--now then--there, we've done it!" But Roy's exclamation of delight was drowned in an awful crash, as Dudley swept off some shelves a bowl of milk, two plates, and a cup of soup, and fell to the ground himself in the midst of it all. Immediately a man's voice called out, "Who's there! Hi! Help! Thieves! Help!" Roy darted into the kitchen, and confronted a tall, hollow-cheeked man who had scrambled out of his bed in the chimney corner, and stood trembling from head to foot clutching hold of the bed-post, and coughing violently. He did not seem at all appeased at the sight of the boys, but shook his fist at them in a paroxysm of fright and rage. "Go away, you young blackguards--a robbin' honest folk, and a darin' to show yer impudent faces, and disturbin' a dyin' man, knowin' as he's too bad to give yer the hidin' ye desarve!" Roy was quite taken aback. "You're quite mistaken--let us explain--we've come to see you and do you good. Don't you know who we are? We live at the Manor. Look--get back into bed again, you'll take cold. We've brought you some pudding." Here a parcel of currant pudding was taken out of his jacket pocket and held out temptingly. "A' don't believe a word! Ye've been in the pantry a smashin' the missus' things, and a eatin' and a drinkin' all ye can lay hands on--begone, I tell ye!" "That was me," put in Dudley, edging up to the irate invalid; "you see the door was locked and we had to come in at the window, and I'm rather fat about the shoulders, and Roy jerked me through too quick and I fell amongst some plates. But we really haven't stolen anything, we aren't robbers!" "Begone, ye rascals!" repeated the old man, and then such a violent fit of coughing took possession of him that he sank back on his bed perfectly exhausted and helpless, waving them away and shaking his head at them when they tried to approach him. Dudley looked doubtfully at Roy. "I'm afraid we aren't doing him any good," he said, slowly. "He won't let us." "No," was Roy's response, "we must go, I suppose. He is a foolish, stupid old man, or he would listen to us and let us explain." Then advancing again to the sick man Roy said slowly and solemnly, "You'll be very sorry one day when you know how you've treated us, and we shall never, never try to see you again, or bring you pudding or comfort you, _never_! If you had let us, we should have washed your face and hands, and made you some gruel, and given you your medicine, and then sat down by your bed and talked nicely to you, but you won't let us do you good, so we shall leave you, and if you're lonely locked in here all day with no one to speak to, it's your own fault!" Then holding his head up bravely, Roy marched out of the kitchen, and Dudley followed him with some misgivings as to his exit again by the pantry window. But Roy solved this difficulty. "Look here, the key is in the back door; we will unlock it and get out properly. I'm sorry we've smashed those plates." They walked home in the deepest dejection; as they went through the village there met them on the bridge the same man that had passed them when on the garden wall. He was much the worse for drink, and seemed inclined to be quarrelsome. "Look 'ee here now, I'll just trouble 'ee to give me another sixpence, young gent, or I'll help myself, and no nonsense, for I'm the feller for fightin'!" He stood barring their way, lurching from side to side, and brandishing a stick in his hand. Neither of the boys were daunted. Dudley shouted out, "Let us by at once, or we'll make you! You'd better look out how you cheek us!" And Roy in a moment had his jacket off, and was rolling up his shirt sleeves. "Come on, Dudley, we'll lick him into shape, if he dares to touch us!" What might have befallen our two little heroes cannot be told, for at this critical juncture the rector came up, and in stern, commanding tones ordered the man on. "That stamp of man is a pest in the place," he said; "he won't be influenced for good but hangs about the ale-houses and lives on the proceeds of his begging. If people only knew the harm they do in giving him money instead of a little honest work! Well, boys, run along home, it's a good thing I came up to stop a free fight. How do you think you two atoms could have got the better of a man like that? 'Discretion is the better part of valor' remember. Keep your fists for a good cause. And never entice a drunken man to fight. It is a degrading spectacle." Saying which Mr. Selby passed on, and Roy and Dudley walked home without saying a word to each other. By the time they had finished their tea, they recovered their spirits, and were in the midst of an exciting game of cricket in a field adjoining the house with the old coachman and the stable-boy, when a summons came to them from the house to come in at once to their aunt. "What's up, I wonder!" exclaimed Dudley, as he raced Roy up to the front door; "Aunt Judy never sends for us at dinner time." They found their aunt in the library. She was in her dinner dress and the dinner gong was sounding in the hall, but her face was puzzled as she turned from a woman talking to her, to the boys. "My nephews are little gentlemen; you must be mistaken," she was saying. Roy and Dudley recognized the woman immediately. It was Mrs. Cullen, and their hearts sank. "Come here, boys," Miss Bertram said; "I have been hearing a strange story from Mrs. Cullen, of two boys breaking into her house while she was away this afternoon, frightening her dying husband so much that the doctor fears he won't outlive the night, and breaking, and stealing things from her pantry. She insists upon it that it was you; her husband told her so, but I cannot believe it. You would have no object in behaving so wickedly." Dudley's cheeks were crimson, and he hung his head in shame. Roy, as usual, was not daunted. "It's all a great mistake, Aunt Judy, we never stole a thing; we went to see him and take him some pudding and do him good. We had to get in at the pantry window because the doors were all locked, and we did spill some milk and some soup, and broke a few plates. We couldn't make him understand we weren't robbers, so we came away again--and we're very sorry." Mrs. Cullen turned furiously upon them, and her language was so abusive, that Miss Bertram sent the boys away, and brought the poor woman to reason by quiet, persuasive words. "I will enquire into the matter. I cannot quite understand their motive; boys are thoughtless, and perhaps their intentions were good. I know they will be extremely sorry at the result of their visit. If you come with me to the housekeeper she will give you some good, strong soup for your husband. I will come and see him myself the first thing to-morrow morning." It was not till after she had dined with her mother, that Miss Bertram sent for her little nephews again, and then she gave them a severer scolding than they had received from her for a long time. They crept up to bed that night feeling very woe-begone. "I'm sure we'd better give up these opportunities," said Dudley, disconsolately, as they paused at an old staircase window on their way to their rooms; "you see this is the third one, and they all turn out badly. There was that tramp who must have got drunk with your sixpence, and then there was saving me, and that made you so awfully ill, and now here's this old fellow that perhaps we shall make die. It all goes wrong, somehow." Roy looked out of the window with knitted brow. "I was thinking of that King--Bruce--who saw the spider try three times and then succeed. We must try again, that's all! I shan't give up yet. It is really a big opportunity I'm looking for!" And Roy laid his head down on the pillow that night, steadfastly purposing to continue his rôle of benefiting the human race. V A LOST DONKEY Fortunately for the boys, John Cullen got over his fright and took a turn for the better, but Miss Bertram began to exercise more control over their many spare hours. She took them out driving with her in the afternoon, or expeditions by foot; sometimes to some farmhouse to tea, sometimes to some neighboring squire who had young ones to entertain them. And Dudley in his happy, careless way soon put all thoughts of improved opportunities out of his head. He was ready enough to put into action any proposal of Roy's, but left alone he was perfectly content to enjoy himself in his own easy fashion; and Roy seemed to be willing to let the matter rest, as he never now alluded to it. But one morning two or three weeks later, as the boys were returning from the Rectory with their satchels in their hands, they met an old man they knew in deep distress. "What's the matter, Roger?" asked Roy; "why are you muttering away and shaking your head so?" "Ay, young master, I be in a sorrowful plight. My donkey has strayed away and I cannot find she nowheres. I've been up over the hills, and not a sign of she! And it's to-morrow that's market day, and how I'm to get my veggetubbles to town is more'n I can tell 'ee!" "She can't be lost; when did you have her last?" "'Twas yest'day mornin'. Ay, she be just a kickin' up her heels miles away and a laughin' at her poor old master. She be a terrible beast for strayin', and I just let her out on the green for a bit thinkin' to give her a pleasure, and that's how she treats me, the ungrateful creature! I heerd she were seen on the hills, but I'm a weary of trampin' up and down 'em." "We'll go out on the hills and look for her this afternoon," said Roy, eagerly. "If Aunt Judy will let us," added Dudley. But Miss Bertram having gone out to lunch with some friends could not be asked, so the two boys set out after their early dinner with light hearts. "It's doing old Roger good, and ourselves too," said Roy; "I'm longing to have a good outing, and we needn't be back very early, for granny isn't well enough to see us to-day, nurse said." It was a delicious afternoon for a ramble; a soft breeze was blowing, and the sun was not unpleasantly strong. The boys did a good deal of looking for the missing donkey, but also managed to combine with that a few other things, such as bird-nesting, picking wild strawberries, and enjoying themselves as only boys can, when roaming about in the open air. At last rather late in the afternoon they spied in the distance a donkey, and delighted to think their quest was at an end, they hastened up to it. Dudley had brought some carrots in his pocket, but the donkey was utterly indifferent to such a dainty; she waited till the boys were nearly up to her, and then with a kick up of her heels away she galloped, evidently enjoying the chase. "Won't I give her a licking when I catch her," shouted Dudley, wrathfully, as after a long and tiring race, they stopped a minute to rest; "let us leave her and go home, Roy. I'm sure it's tea time, for I feel dreadfully hungry, and we're miles and miles away. I've never been so far before." "Oh, we mustn't give up," Roy replied, with his usual determination; "we won't be beaten by an old donkey, and when we do catch her, we will both get on her back and ride her home. Come on, let us have another try!" "We haven't got a halter, that's the worst of it." [Illustration: "'Now then, you rascals, what are you doing to my donkey?'"] But Dudley plucked up courage, and in another half hour they were successful; Roy seated on the donkey's back, and Dudley holding firmly to her tail. "Now then--away with you--hip--hip--hurray!" Away they tore, both donkey and boys in best of spirits now: but before long they were brought to a standstill. A man brandishing a huge stick sprang out in front of them. "Now then, you rascals, what are you doing to my donkey? Get off it this instant!" "It isn't your donkey, it's old Roger's, and we're taking it home to him. Don't you cheek us! You're a rascal yourself!" Dudley spoke angrily, but as he noticed the donkey stop instantly, and begin to sidle up toward the man an awful fear smote him, and Roy added quietly, "You see you may be a thief or any one, for all we know, and it isn't likely we're going to let you have the chance of stealing old Roger's donkey. You go away and leave us alone. We're going home now--Gee-up. Come on, Dudley." Not an inch would the donkey stir; and the man with a laugh, slipped a halter out of his pocket and in another minute Roy was rolling on the grass, and the donkey was being led off in the opposite direction. "You may think yourselves lucky to escape the thrashing ye desarves!" shouted out the man; "ye've given me a nice chase after my beast for the last hour, and ye needn't add a pack of lies to your wicked pranks!" The boys sat down on the grass to consider their position. "Well, I call it beastly rot," grumbled Dudley, thoroughly cross; "if that's his donkey I don't believe old Roger's is on the hills at all. It must have been this one that somebody saw, and now I come to think of it Roger's has a black stripe down her back, and this one hadn't!" "I'm so awfully tired," said Roy, disconsolately; "we've done no good as usual. I don't believe we ever shall do any one any good!" When Roy's spirits sank it was a bad case, and for some minutes there was silence between them. Then feeling they must make the best of it they scrambled to their feet and plodded slowly on in the direction of home. A heavy mist was falling by this time, and dusk was setting in. Roy began to cough, and at last in despair Dudley cried out, "I do believe we're lost; I don't know where the path is, and I'm sure this isn't the way we came!" "Well," said Roy, gasping as he spoke; "I'm afraid this old mist is getting into my chest, and I can't go very fast when my breath gets short. What shall we do? Can you shout--p'raps that man with the donkey might hear us." Dudley shouted and shouted till he was hoarse, and then the little fellows trudged wearily on. "You see," said Roy, bravely; "we must get somewhere if we go straight on." "I believe," said Dudley, in doleful tones; "that you get right round the world and come back to where you started, if you only walk straight enough!" This depressing view did not comfort his cousin. "I've always thought it would be very exciting to be lost," Roy said with a sigh; "but it doesn't seem very nice, does it? And it is so cold. I wonder if we shall meet with any adventures, lost people generally do." "If we could come into a gipsies' camp with a huge fire and a pot of stewed hares, it would be stunning! Or if we could find old Principle's cave, that would be better still!" They were stumbling on, Roy gasping and panting for breath, and Dudley every minute or two giving a shout, when suddenly almost as if he had risen from the ground, a lad appeared in front of them. "We're lost," shouted Dudley; "who are you? Can you tell us where Crockton village is?" "Ay, can't I! You're only about four mile off!" "Is it straight on?" questioned Roy, wistfully. "No, you're goin' away from it." The lad stood looking down at the two small boys and there was some pity in his tone. "The little 'un is dead beat. Here--let me hoist you on my back, I'd as lief go to Crockton as anywhere else to-night, and I know every inch of these hills, I've been looking after cattle here since I were a babby! There now, ain't that better?" Roy was too tired out to resist, though he made a faint protest, and Dudley seeing him comfortably settled on the broad shoulders of the lad, trotted along contentedly by his side. "How did you find us? Did you hear us shouting?" "I was trapping some moles close to yer, as ye came on." "Where do you live? And what's your name?" "I'm called Rob. I don't live nowheres now. Got chucked out last night!" And Rob gave a short laugh as he spoke. "Where from?" "Well, you see there's a lot of us, and the old woman--she's my stepmother--she told me she wouldn't keep me no longer. My father--he died last year, and work is hard to get. I'll tramp into some town and try my luck there." "Then where were you going to sleep to-night?" "Sleep? Oh, bless yer--there's plenty o' room and accommodation in the open. And I haven't been about these parts for so long without knowing many a snug corner. I could show yer plenty a one. My pet one has been found out by some old chap lately. He goes into it and digs up quantities o' stones and then sits and hugs them, all as if they was gold! I laugh to see him sometimes!" "Why that must be old Principle, and that's the cave he thinks so much of! He looks for bones." Rob gave another of his hearty laughs. "Well, if he has a taste that way, why don't he go to a churchyard, he'll dig to more success there." "No, it's only animals' bones he likes, very, very old ones." They tramped on, and then Roy asked if he could be put down, and Dudley given a lift instead. Rob good-naturedly assented, but some minutes were spent in altercation between the two boys before Dudley would consent to this arrangement. "You're as tired as I am," persisted Roy. "Oh, no, I'm not--at least it's only my legs. You see I haven't a chest like you. I'll manage, it's always you that gets home ill, I never do." "I can't help it," said Roy, in a shaky voice; "I know I shall never be good for anything, I don't think I'm much better than a girl, I suppose I ought to have been made one." Roy was always in the depths of misery when he came to this climax, and Dudley hastened to reassure him. "Rot! You're as good a walker as I any day. Yes, I'll have a ride on your back, Rob, if you like. I'm nearly done for, and Roy looks quite fresh again." There was great commotion when the trio reached the Manor at last. Miss Bertram came out into the hall to greet them with an anxious face. "Oh, you scamps! You'll turn my hair grey before long. Where have you been? Half the village has turned out to look for you! What mischief have you been up to?" When the explanation was given Miss Bertram gave a little groan. "If we are going to have these kind of expeditions, I really must insist upon your leaving off trying to do other people good. Old Roger told me he found his donkey quite early in the afternoon. Now come off to bed both of you. I believe nurse is already getting her poultice ready in anticipation of a bad night, Jonathan!" "What is Rob going to do?" Roy asked, shortly after, when he was comfortably tucked up in bed, and was enjoying a hot basin of bread and milk. Miss Bertram had just come in to see how he was. "Is that the lad that brought you back? He is having a good supper in the kitchen, and then will go home, I suppose." "But he hasn't any home," said Roy, putting down his spoon and looking at his aunt with an anxious face; "he can't get work, so his mother turned him out of doors, and I want him to come and live with us, and when I grow up he shall be my servant!" Miss Bertram laughed. "My dear boy, not quite so fast. I shall not turn him out to-night, if he has no home to go to; but we cannot keep a lot of idle boys about the establishment." Roy's brown eyes filled with tears. It was so rarely that he showed his feelings that his aunt began to wonder whether he was not too weak and exhausted from his walk to be talked to. "Don't worry your little head over him," she said, kindly; "go to sleep, and I'll let you see him to-morrow morning." "Have you ever been lost, Aunt Judy?" Roy was struggling for self-command, and his voice was very quiet. "No, I'm thankful to say I never have." "I prayed to God," he went on solemnly; "that He would send some one to show us the way home, and Rob was the answer. And when he took me up on his shoulders and I knew he was taking me home, I thought of that picture over there!" Roy pointed to a print of the Good Shepherd with the lost sheep across his shoulders, and Miss Bertram's face softened as she stooped and kissed her little nephew. "Good-night dear. We will see what can be done." She left the room and when nurse came bustling up to see if the bread and milk had disappeared she found her little charge gazing dreamily in front of him. "Come, dearie, eat your supper. Don't you feel easier?" "I was thinking," Roy said, slowly bringing back his gaze to the basin before him; "that if you're very strong you miss a lot of comfort; and however big and strong I grow up to be, I hope I shan't be too big and strong to be carried by Him!" He pointed to the picture again, and good old nurse responded, "If you outgrow the Lord, you'll outgrow heaven!" VI ROB Roy was not allowed to go to the Rectory the next morning as it was rather damp, and nurse was carefully trying to ward off a bronchial attack, but he was permitted to see Rob, and the latter came in looking rather sheepish and as if he did not know what to do with his hands and his feet. "What are you going to do, Rob?" asked Roy, eagerly, after their first greetings had been exchanged; "you aren't going home again?" "I'd sooner be shot," was the short reply. "I've been talking to Aunt Judy about you again this morning, and she says if you would like to help our old gardener in the garden and could get a character from some one, she'd try you. I don't quite know what she means about the character. I thought that belonged to you and not to any one else. She says she doesn't know what you're like, but I told her I'd find out. I say, take a chair, won't you. Now then, you don't mind my asking you a few questions, do you? Are you a thief?" Rob took the chair that was offered him, squared his shoulders, and looked up with a pleasant smile at this blunt question. "No, I ain't that." "Have you ever killed anybody?" "No." "Are you a drunkard?" "I hate the stuff!" "Are you a fighter?" "Well, no, not a reg'lar one. I can't say I've never knocked a feller down, or squared up with him a bit, but I don't fight till I'm driven to it." "Are you a liar?" "No." Roy drew a sigh of relief, then continued: "Well, if you aren't any of those, I'm sure Aunt Judy will have you, I told her I knew you weren't wicked." "But I ain't no scholar," said Rob, doubtfully; "I can't write nor read, and that's against a feller!" "Oh, well, you won't have to read and write much in the garden. Old Hal can't read either, and he makes a cross for his name when he has to write it. But I suppose you can learn, can't you?" Rob nodded. "You see I played truant mostly when I was sent to school, and then I began to mind the cattle soon after I were eight year old, but if any body would start me, I believe I could pick it up." "I'll teach you myself when I've nothing else to do," said Roy, grandly; "for I want you to be clever. I want you to come with me, when I'm grown up, to my big house. You shall be my head servant, and live with me always. Would you like that?" Rob grinned, and seemed to think it a great joke. Roy continued: "Of course I shall want you more when Dudley goes away. He has got a stepfather, so when he grows up he will go out to India, I expect, to live with him, but we don't talk of it, and we pretend we're never going to leave each other. Did you find Dudley very much heavier to carry than me?" "Well, yes, he were a bit heavier." "I'm afraid I shall never catch him up, he is nearly a head taller, and he seems to grow quicker every month. I grow so slowly. I think it is because I lie in bed so much more than he does, I'm always having to go to bed in the daytime when I'm ill, and that must keep you from growing, don't you think so?" The conversation was here interrupted by Miss Bertram's entrance. She had a long talk with Rob, and in the end took him for a month on trial, as she had known his father. The boys were delighted, but Roy still persisted in regarding him as his special protégé, and more than once this had occasioned a heated argument between the two cousins. "He doesn't belong to you. You order him about as if he were your servant," said Dudley, impatiently, one afternoon after Roy had sent Rob on more than one errand to the house for him. "Well, so he will be one day," returned Roy, flushing up. They were seated again in their favorite corner on the wall, some ripe plums having just been handed up to them by the obliging Rob, and Dudley having put an extra big one in his mouth was speechless for a moment. "I suppose you'll get so fond of Rob, that you won't want me any longer," he said, after some consideration. "Rob is my servant, but you're a friend and relation," asserted Roy. "He is an opportunity, and a pretty big one, isn't he?" "Why, yes; I never thought of that! How splendid!" Roy's large eyes were shining, and he gazed with tender pride at Rob who was now sweeping the lawn. "We have done him good already, haven't we?" pursued Dudley, reflectively; "only he started by doing us good. I tell you what we might do for him. Teach him to read." Roy looked very doubtful. "It is so difficult, and he seems so stupid. I did try the other day, for he asked me to; but I never thought any body _could_ be so stupid! I told him we would have to give it up, for it made me lose my temper so. I thought perhaps he could go to old Principle. You see he is too big for school, but old Principle is always saying he likes to teach people things." "Well, that is awfully funny," said Dudley, pointing down to the pine woods opposite them. "Talk of him and there he is! Isn't that him walking along over there? Look--now he's stooping down to look at something. I'm sure it's old Principle; we'll call him!" Two shrill boyish voices rang out, "Old Principle! Hi! We want you! Old Principle!" Soon after old Principle was standing beneath the wall, having obeyed the summons. He stood looking up at them with his straw hat pushed to the back of his head, and his keen, piercing eyes twinkling kindly under his thick, shaggy eyebrows. "Well, laddies, you're above me now. 'Tisn't often you can look down at old Principle from such a superior height." "We want to ask you if we may send Rob down to you for you to teach him to read," said Roy, eagerly. "And why have not two idle boys more time than a busy shopkeeper to do such a thing?" demanded the old man. "Oh, well, you see," explained Roy, confusedly; "grown-up people know how to teach, and boys don't. Besides, we aren't idle, we work hard at lessons all the morning, and we have half an hour's prep after tea." Old Principle shook his head. "And you're the lad for making people better, and doing good to all. 'Tis a bad principle, my boy, to wait for great opportunities, and let the small ones go!" "Do you think we ought to teach him?" questioned Dudley. "If he wants to learn, and you have the time, you will be letting the opportunity slip, that's all. And moreover old Principle isn't going to be the one to help you do it." The old man turned his back upon them and walked into the pine wood again, leaving the two boys gazing after him with perturbed faces. "He's rather cross this afternoon," observed Dudley. "I s'pose he thinks it's for our good. Shall we try again? Could you teach him one day, and me the next? That wouldn't be quite so tiring." Rob was called upon and consulted, and it was finally arranged that every afternoon from two to three he should have a reading lesson on the top of the garden wall. "We shan't feel sleepy here, and it's the time everybody else is taking a nap," said Roy, trying to take a cheerful view of it. "I'm going to try and be very patient and not be cross once, for you're our opportunity, or one of them, isn't he, Dudley?" Dudley nodded. "The biggest we've had yet," he said. Rob grinned and went away delighted. He was a steady, honest lad, devoted to both boys; but especially to Roy, who, without Dudley's constant remonstrance, would have tyrannized over him to his heart's content. Miss Bertram left them alone; she exercised a certain supervision over Rob's work, but never objected to his joining her little nephews' amusements. "They will not learn any harm from him," she told her mother; "and he may teach them many things that are good." So it came to pass that reading lessons took place regularly every day on the top of the wall, and Rob's eagerness to master all hard words, and his humble diffidence, when his little teachers waxed wrath with him, was touching to witness. Sometimes conversation would bear a large part in the lessons, especially when Roy was the teacher. And Dudley would always insist on having a break for refreshments. "You will be able to write letters for me, Rob, when I grow up," said Roy, one afternoon, pausing in the lesson. "I don't like writing letters, and I'm thinking of travelling round the world and discovering countries, so I shall have to write home sometimes. You will come with me, won't you?" "For certain I will," was the emphatic reply. "I've been thinking," pursued Roy, thoughtfully, as he let his gaze wander from the book between them to the top of the dark pines swaying gently in the summer breeze; "that I may be quite strong enough when I grow up to be a discoverer. You see I can't be a soldier or sailor, but I haven't anything the matter with me but a weak chest, and doctors say sea voyages and travelling do weak chests good sometimes. Do you think I'm a very poor body to look at, Rob? That's what some of the villagers say I am, but my head and legs and arms are all right. I'm not a cripple or a hunchback, or blind, or deaf, or dumb, so I must be very glad of that. What do you think?" "You're just as straight and plucky as Master Dudley, and you'll grow up a big, strong man, I dare say," said Hob, sympathetically. "Old Principle says you may be a maker, a mender, or a breaker in your life. I want to be a maker. And I should like to find a country and make it into a nice big town. I want to do something big. I ask God every day to let me find something to do." "Do you believe in--in God?" asked Rob, rather sheepishly. "Of course I do; what do you mean? Don't you?" "I don't know. I don't know much about Him, only you often talk as if you're--well quite friends with Him, and I've wondered at it." Roy brought down his gaze from the hilltops to his companion's face with grave interest. "I've known God since I was a baby," he said. "I don't remember when I didn't know Him. Nurse used to talk to me when I was very small, and when my father was dying he called me to him, and said,--'Fitz Roy! Serve God first, then your Queen, and then your fellow men!' I've always remembered it, only you know we don't talk about these things, and I've only told Dudley. I'm trying to serve God--you don't want to be very strong to do that; but I'm longing to serve the Queen, and when Mr. Selby talked to us of opportunities for doing good to all men I've been longing to find them ever since. Don't you know much about God, Rob?" Rob shook his head. "I used to larn He made the world and me, and I know He'll punish the wicked, but I've never tried to serve Him, and--and I don't think as how I care about it." "P'raps you don't know about Jesus Christ?" asked Roy, solemnly. "Well, yes, I used to larn about Him when I was a kid at the Sunday-school. I know He came into the world to save people, but I never rightly understood why, nor what difference it makes." "I'll be able to tell you that. If He hadn't died, I suppose I shouldn't have cared about serving God because it would have been no use--nothing would have been any use, for we should all have had to go to hell when we died, to punish us for our sins. We could never have got to heaven at all." "If we had been very good I reckon we could," put in Rob, knitting his brows with this aspect of the subject. "But you see the Bible says we can't be good, not one of us--the devil won't let us." "But there are good people in the world." "You interrupt so," said Roy, a little impatiently. "I was going to tell you. Jesus died to let God be able to forgive us and take us to heaven. It's rather difficult to explain, but God punished Him _instead_ of us, do you see? So now we can all go to heaven, and the reason we try to be good is to please Jesus because He has loved us, and the reason we are able to be good is because Jesus helps us to be, and He can fight the devil better than we can. There, I think I've told you it right. Now shall we go on with the reading?" Rob said no more till after the lesson was over, then he said slowly, "It's rather strange, that what you were a tellin' me, but I don't see it quite. P'raps another day you'll tell me again." "If you make haste and read, I'll give you a Bible, and then you'll be able to read about it yourself. Of course you ought to be serving God just as much as anybody else, and you'd better begin at once!" Saying which Roy scrambled down from his high perch and raced across the garden to the stables where he had settled to meet Dudley; whilst Rob descended more slowly, muttering to himself, "'Tis a good thing not to be afraid of God like Master Roy, but I doubt if I should ever get to serve Him!" VII A WALNUT STOKY "I say, Dudley, do come out for a ride! Aunt Judy is with granny, and she says the house must be quiet, and I hate being in a quiet house. Come on! What are you doing?" Roy finished his sentence by springing on Dudley's back, and as he was in a crouching attitude in a corner of the old nursery, he brought him flat to the ground by his unexpected attack. For a minute or two both boys rolled on the ground in each other's clutches, and feet and hands were having a busy time of it. Then Dudley sprang to his feet. "I like you coming in to tell me to be quiet, and then beginning a fight at once! Do shut up! You've quite spoilt my last letter!" "Well, what are you doing?" "I'm carving my name in the corner here, just below my father's." Roy looked with curiosity at Dudley's handiwork. "Yes, your M is very crooked; but I wouldn't choose to write my name on the wainscoting. It's too low down. I like to be at the top of everything. Now if you carved it on the ceiling that would be something like!" "You're always wanting to do impossibilities!" "I should like to have a try at them," rejoined Roy, quickly. "I hate everything that is easy. Now come on, do! and we'll have a good gallop over the down!" Half an hour later and the boys were tearing through the village on their ponies, and were soon out on an open expanse of heather and grass. Roy was in the midst of an eloquent harangue on all he was going to do when he was grown up, when Dudley suddenly came to a standstill. "Something is the matter with Hazel. I believe she's going lame. Oh, I see, one of her shoes is loose! Now what are we to do!" He sprang off his pony as he spoke, and looked perplexed at this calamity. "Lead her on gently," was Roy's ready advice. "We aren't far off from C----, and I know there's a blacksmith there." Dudley grumbled a little at having his ride spoiled in this fashion; but it was not long before they reached the neighboring village, and the smith's forge was soon found. Then, whilst Hazel was being attended to, Roy suggested that they should go and see an old lady, a great friend of their aunt's, who lived just outside the village. "She might ask us to tea," suggested Roy, "and she has awfully nice cake always going. I'll leave my pony here, and we'll call again for them on our way back." "I don't like paying visits," objected Dudley, a little crossly. "But Mrs. Ford isn't half bad to talk to, she's full of stories." And by dint of these two baits, "cake" and "stories," Dudley's shyness was overcome, and the two boys were soon walking up a sunny little garden and knocking at the rose-covered door of "Clematis Cottage." It was a tiny house, but spotlessly clean and tidy, and the long, low, dainty drawing-room into which they were shown had a sense of rest and repose which insensibly affected even the boys' restless spirits. "A nice room to be ill in," was Roy's comment; "there would be such a lot of jolly pictures and things to look at on the walls when you were in bed." "I should like to sit here on Sunday," said Dudley. "I am sure I could be still for quite half an hour!" The door opened and a little old lady in widow's cap and gown came forward. She was a fragile, delicate-looking little woman, with a very bright face and smile, and she beamed upon the boys delightedly. "My dear boys, this is quite a treat! I don't often get a visit from young gentlemen. How is your grandmother? Have you brought me any message from your aunt?" "Granny is not very well to-day," replied Roy, frankly, "and Aunt Judy didn't know we were coming here. We have been riding, and Dudley's pony has had to be shod, so we've left him at the blacksmith's and come on here. You see we thought it would pass the time." "And so it will, and you shall have a nice cup of tea before you go back. Why, what big boys you are growing! Which is the elder? I always forget." "I am," said Roy, a little shamefacedly; "but of course most people think Dudley is, because he is the biggest." "It's only two months and five days, though, between us," put in Dudley, eagerly, knowing what a sore point his size was to Roy; "and you see, Mrs. Ford, Roy's brain is much bigger than mine--Mr. Selby says it is, so that makes us quits!" "And I wonder which has the biggest soul?" said Mrs. Ford, quaintly. The boys stared at her. "Shall I tell you a little story while we are waiting for tea?" she asked, sitting down in her easy chair by the open window, and looking first at the boys with loving interest, and then away to the sweet country outside her garden. Roy gave Dudley a delighted nudge with his elbow. "Yes, please; we love a good rattling story; and make plenty of adventures in it, won't you?" But Mrs. Ford shook her head with a little smile. "I can't tell you of fights with red Indians, and shipwrecks, and lion hunts, and all such things as that; but you must take my story as it is, and think over it in your quiet moments. "There was once an old garden. Flowers and fruit of every description grew in it, and when no human creature was about the air was full of flower laughter and fruit conversation. One day in autumn some saucy sparrows were teasing a young walnut-tree that stood between an apple and a pear-tree, opposite a wall which was covered with beautiful golden plums. "'What are you here for?' they said, pecking at the round green balls that hung on the tree, and then wiping their beaks in disgust on the grass underneath. 'Ugh! you're sour and bitter and nasty enough to poison a person! You're a disgrace to your master. The red and yellow apples next door to you are delicious this warm day, and the pears make one's mouth fairly water, while as to the plums over there--well, every one is fighting for them, from the slugs and snails to every bird in the country, and the boys and girls and men and women--all of us have to be kept off by those horrible nets which the old gardener is continually spreading!' "'I'm sure,' whispered the young walnuts, humbly, 'we don't mean any harm. We don't quite know why we are here ourselves. We have been hoping to see our green skins get red and yellow, and soft and ripe, like everything else round us, but they seem to get harder and uglier as time goes by. They feel very heavy, and our stems ache with holding them up; do you think it just possible there may be something inside?' "'Inside!' laughed the sparrows; 'who ever heard of the inside being better than the outside? You're stuffed with conceit, but nothing else.' "And away they flew, for they were not a year old themselves, and knew nothing about autumn nuts and berries. "The walnuts sighed and appealed to an old crow flying by. "'Do you think we have been planted in this beautiful garden by mistake?' they said. 'We have been waiting a long time to give pleasure and to do good to those around us. The bees give us a wide berth--they say they can get no honey from us; we have no sweet scent to please the passer-by, no lovely blossoms to delight their eyes. The apples have had blossoms and fruit, and all the other trees the same, yet here we hang and grow, and the days go by and we're only laughed at for our ugliness and want of sweetness.' "'Wait a little longer,' said the old crow; 'wait, and take pains to grow!' "And the walnuts waited, and the sun kissed their hard skins, and the rain refreshed them when dry and thirsty; and still the sparrows mocked them, and the apple and pear-tree talked to each other over their heads, for they too looked upon them as a failure. One day the biggest walnut broke from his stem and dropped in the long grass. No one heeded his fall except his brothers; the gardener came by and gathered the apples and pears, but did not look at the walnut-tree; and when he kicked the fallen walnut with his feet he took no more notice of it than if it had been a pebble. "'Is that our fate?' sighed the walnuts. 'Now we know we are no good. What is the use of trying to grow? What is the good of living at all when we're so ugly and useless, and the end of us is to lie and rot in the grass and be kicked by every one who passes?' "And they wept bitter tears of disappointment and mortification; and one by one they dropped from the tree and lay unheeded, uncared for on the ground below. "Then one morning came up the old crow. "'Why did you tell us to wait?' cried one walnut in petulant tones. 'We're rotting, dying here, and this is the end of us.' "'Wait a little longer,' said the crow again; 'it is when we are very low that we are lifted very high. When we come to an end a new beginning is coming.' "The walnuts sighed as he flew away; yet the biggest one turned with a spark of hope to his brothers. "'I do believe we have been made for something. My skin is rotting and dying, but in spite of it all I feel as if I have something inside that is still alive. Let us wait and be patient a little longer.' "And then at last one day, when the apple and pear-tree were fruitless and leafless, when the flowers and butterflies and bees had all disappeared, down the garden came the master himself and the gardener. "He stopped when he came to the walnut-tree, and stooping down in the long grass he gently raised one of the fallen nuts. "'You must gather these in,' he said to his gardener; 'we have a good many for the first year.' "'Yes,' said the gardener, 'they are ready now. I've let them lie till you saw them.' "And the walnuts whispered to themselves in surprised delight that it was not neglect and indifference had left them there, but that the gardener had watched each one fall, and knew where to find them when their time came at last. "And when their green husks were removed, and their brown shells cracked at the master's table, they discovered that the most valuable part of them was what could not be seen by outsiders, and could only be brought to light by the master's hand." "That's a kind of parable," said Roy when Mrs. Ford ceased speaking. "Yes," she said, smiling; "most people are like the sparrows: they think it is only the outside you should go by. Now, when I see a person for the first time I always wonder what their soul is like. If that is beautiful it doesn't matter about their body. And a little body may contain a very big soul." "Can we make our souls big?" asked Roy, with an anxious face. "They should be growing, my boy, day by day. Put them into the Gardener's keeping and He will make them grow. It isn't the handsome and the strong who do all the good in the world; very often it is just the other way." "Then there is hope I may do something," said Roy, brightening up; "I like that story about the walnuts, don't you, Dudley?" "Yes, I'll think of it when I crack them next," said Dudley. Tea was now brought in, and the boys did it full justice, and shortly after they were on their homeward way. "She's a jolly old thing," remarked Dudley, presently, "and her cake was awfully good. I'm glad we went to see her." Roy was unusually silent. Dudley continued-- "I expect you've got the biggest soul of us too, Roy; nurse is always saying your soul is too big for your body." "I wish I had no body sometimes," said Roy, with a sigh; "it gets so tired and stupid." "Well, we won't talk about souls and bodies any more," Dudley said, quickly, "they aren't interesting. I say, do you think we could teach Rob cricket?" Rob was a topic which always interested Roy. He brightened up at once. "We'll teach him everything," he said, eagerly. "I want him to be able to read and write and play, and do everything that we do, and more besides, for I shall have him for my friend as well as a servant when I grow up." "A funny kind of chap for a friend," said Dudley, a little crossly; "he's twice as old as you are, to begin with, and he's an awfully stupid, thick-headed fellow." "Don't you like Rob?" Roy's tone was an astonished one. "Oh, I like him well enough, but I'm getting rather sick of hearing you crack him up so." Roy changed the subject. He wondered sometimes why Dudley seemed to lose his temper so over Rob; it never entered his head that Dudley might regard him as a possible rival; that Rob, the country lad, might spoil the covenant of friendship between them. VIII THE BERTRAMS' LEAP It was Roy's birthday, and he was standing at his bedroom window before breakfast looking out into the old garden below, his busy brain full of thought and conjecture. His birthday was a very important day to him, and for some years now there had been a settled programme for the day. His guardian, an old Indian officer living in the neighborhood, and formerly a very old friend of his father's, always came over to see him and stayed to lunch, the two boys joining their elders at that meal. Directly after, they would drive or ride over to Norrington Court which was Roy's future home, and stay there for the rest of the day. The boy's heart was full of the future as usual, and when Dudley burst into his room with a radiant face to offer his good wishes, he turned to meet him gravely. But Dudley was too occupied in tugging in a small basket to notice it. "This is my present, old chap. Just open it and see if you don't like it." Roy's little face became illumined with smiles a moment after, when he saw two beautiful little white mice amongst the straw looking up at him with calm curiosity out of their bright beady eyes. "They're tame," said Dudley, delightedly; "old Principle has had them, taming them for over a month. Their names are Nibble and Dibble. Look! This is Dibble with the little black spot on his nose. You never guessed, did you? I've been down to see them lots of times and they'll eat food out of my hand. You just see!" Roy was too excited over his mice to eat much breakfast, and when Rob came up to him immediately afterward with a new cricket ball, bought out of his small wages, he declared he was the "luckiest fellow in the world." Miss Bertram presented him with a handsome writing case, and every one of the servants had some trifle to offer him. At ten o'clock he went to his grandmother's room. This was also part of the programme. Mrs. Bertram received him very impressively, as was her wont. "Sit down, Fitz Roy; you are getting a big boy; have you been measured this morning?" "Yes, granny, and I really have grown an inch and a half since last year. That isn't very bad, is it?" "Your father was very much taller at your age. I cannot understand it." Roy began to feel rather depressed. "General Newton will be here soon, I suppose," continued Mrs. Bertram, precisely, "and I wish you to convey him a message from me. Give him my very kind regards, and ask him to excuse me from coming down to see him this morning. I have had a very bad night, and am not feeling fit for any extra fatigue. I hope he will find you improved in manners and appearance. I could wish you talked and laughed less and thought more. You must endeavor to realize your responsibilities when you visit Norrington Court this afternoon. It is a very large and important property for a little boy like you to be heir to, and I hope you will fill the position worthily when you come of age. Your uncle was the most respected and honored man in the county, and if your dear father had lived to come back from Canada, he would have walked in your uncle's steps." "And who will walk in mine when I'm dead, granny?" "My dear, you must learn not to interrupt grown-up people when they are speaking." "I'm very sorry, but do tell me if I died before I grew up, would Dudley have my house?" "Yes, by the terms of the will he would, as his father came next in age to yours." "That is what Aunt Judy means, when she calls me Jonathan and says when I brag, that I must remember my namesake never came to the throne at all. I like to think that Dudley may have it, he would make a grander master than me, wouldn't he?" Mrs. Bertram gave a little sigh. Roy's delicacy was a sore point with her, and she could never get reconciled to his small stature. "Well," said Roy, after a pause; "I'll do my very best, granny, to grow up a big strong man. I take my tonics now whenever nurse gives them to me, and I never pour them out of the window as I used to do. And I'm hoping to do something great before I die, and I'm trying to grow up a good man. Do you think that will do?" he added, a little anxiously, as he fancied his grandmother's gaze rested on him with some dissatisfaction. She did not reply, only drew out her purse from her pocket, and Roy knew this was a signal for his dismissal. "Now," said Mrs. Bertram, "this is the sovereign that I usually give you. I hope you will spend it wisely. Tell me when it is gone what you have done with it. I hope you will spend a happy day. Give me a kiss and leave me. Oh, if only you were more like your handsome father!" Roy took his gift, thanked her for it, and giving his grandmother a kiss, left the room very quietly. Outside the door he paused on the door-mat, and drew his jacket across his eyes with a strangled sob. "It's a pity God won't make me strong, but I don't seem to be able to do it myself." And then with a shout for Dudley, a minute after he was tearing round the house, showing his pet mice to all, and chattering away as if he had not a care upon him. General Newton arrived soon after and took a more cheering view of his ward's appearance than had his grandmother. "You'll grow into a splendid fellow yet," he said, patting him on the shoulder, "and you'll out-top your cousin. Have you been in many scrapes lately?" "They're good boys on the whole," replied Miss Bertram, smiling; "except when they try to be philanthropists, and then they come to grief." "Oh, that's the last idea, is it? When I was here before they were going to be travelling peddlers. Have you made a choice of any profession yet, either of you?" "Yes, I'm going to be a traveller and discoverer," said Roy, with decision. "Oh, indeed! Then you've still the love for exploration. How is your friend old Principle? Is he still unearthing wonders and keeping them in his kettles?" "He is busy in a cave now," said Dudley, eagerly; "would you like to come and see it one day?" "No, thank you. And are you lads still devoted friends?" "David and Jonathan, still," said Miss Bertram; and the old general laughed heartily. Before he left, he also gave Roy a sovereign, which made the little fellow confide to Dudley, "I've put granny's in my right hand pocket, and the general's in my left, they won't mix together well, because hers is such a solemn one, and his is so jolly!" It was a happy little party that set off for Norrington Court. The boys were on their ponies, and Miss Bertram in her pony trap, with Rob sitting behind, proud in the consciousness of a new suit of clothes, and delighted at being included in the number. Up a long stately avenue of elms and beeches, with bracken and ferns covering mossy glades in the distance, and then Roy and Dudley flung themselves off their ponies before an old stone house with ivy-covered walls and turrets. Everything had been brightened up for their visit. The flowers on the terraces were one mass of sweet perfume and color, the drives weeded and rolled, and the velvet turf in only such a condition as centuries of care can make it. The old housekeeper opened the door in her very best black silk, and two or three more faithful retainers stood in the background. Roy spoke to them all with boyish frankness and grace, and then eagerly demanded if tea might be on the terrace. Miss Bertram agreed and while she went indoors for a chat with the housekeeper, the boys tore round the place dragging Rob after them. The stables of course were visited, and an old groom who had known the boys' fathers when boys, welcomed them with great warmth. "Ye must grow quicker, Master Fitz Roy. We want to see you here among us. I'm looking to see all these stalls occupied by hunters and sich like again. 'Tis mournful work to live year in and year out with only two bosses for company!" "Tell us about the old times, Ben, do!" Ben sat down and spread his hands out on his knees reflectively. "All the young gentlemen were born riders," he said, slowly; "I mind how Master Randolph would tear up the avenue after a long ride. 'There, Ben' he'd say to me, chucking me the rein, and jumpin' off as light as a feather, 'we've worked our spirits h'off--Ruby and me!' When the old squire were alive, he'd have all three young gentlemen up, and then he'd mount them and bring them down to Ruddocks stream, and see them jump it. He used to say, 'No grandson of mine is worth calling a Bertram if he can't take that leap before he is twelve year old!' They all did it before they was ten, and he used to stand chuckling and rubbing his hands as he saw them do it." "Is that the stream at the bottom of the back meadow?" asked Dudley, eagerly; "the one with the hedge in front?" "Ay, to be sure!" "But we have never jumped it," exclaimed Roy. "And I think we ought to for we're his great-grandsons." "We shan't be twelve for a long time yet," said Dudley, "but we really ought to try." "Well, we'll do it this evening after tea; and you shall come and see us do it, Ben." Ben grinned from ear to ear. "You'll go over it like a bird, if so be as your pony is accustomed to sich things!" "We haven't taken very high jumps," admitted Dudley, candidly. "Oh, we shall do it," said Roy, with a little toss of his head; "we'll _make_ them go over!" And then they turned to other subjects. "What do you think of my house, Rob?" asked Roy, later on as he was escorting his humble friend through the empty rooms and corridors upstairs. "It'll take a powerful number of people to fill it," said Rob, with awe. "I shall have a lot of friends to stay with me, of course, and then I shall marry; men always do that, don't they?" "I b'lieve they mostly does," was the grave reply. "And won't you like to come and live with me here?" "That I should." "Well," said Dudley, from a few paces behind; "if you're going to travel, you won't use your house much, Roy. If Rob is going to be your follower, I'll come and live here when you're abroad, and when you come home, I'll go away." "No you won't, you know we shall want you too." And seeing the frown on Dudley's face, Roy turned back and linked his arm in his. "Look here," he added, "Rob shall be your follower as well as mine, and we will all go out to look for a new country together, and when we've found it, we will come back and have a jolly time in this old house." "I shall have to work for my living," Dudley replied, gruffly. "Yes. I was thinking," and the earnest look came into Roy's eyes as he spoke; "I was thinking this morning, I mustn't just live as I like to live when I grow up. There will be an awful lot to be done. Old Principle was telling me the other day that the reason some people are overworked is because other people don't work enough, and an idle man puts his burden of work on other people's backs." "We don't want old Principle's sermons here," exclaimed Dudley, having recovered his good humor. "Aren't you awfully hungry? I'm sure tea must be ready." They went to the terrace where a most elaborate repast was set out, which they thoroughly enjoyed. After it was over all the servants came up to drink Roy's health; the old butler Pike made a little speech, and Roy responded; his words lingering in the memories of those who heard him for long afterward. Miss Bertram, as she looked at his upright, slender little figure, and noted the intense emphasis with which he spoke, felt a pang go through her, as she wondered if his frail young life would be cut short before he reached manhood. "I'm awfully much obliged to you all for your good wishes. I'm determined when I grow up and come to live with you that I'll do all the good I can to everybody. I hope I'm getting stronger, and I think I may be able to do as much as other people. But whatever I am, I promise you I'll do my very best for the property!" Then three cheers were given for the little master; and after the ceremony was over, Miss Bertram told her little nephews to amuse themselves quietly for another half hour before they returned home. Their plans were already arranged, and they went straight to the stables for their ponies to try the leap the old groom had mentioned to them. He had already saddled them, and a few minutes after, they came through the small paddock in front of the spot. It was rather an awkward hedge, though not a very high one with a broad stream of running water the other side. Old Ben began to get a little nervous as he saw the boys eyeing the leap rather doubtfully. "Has the hedge grown since our fathers were little boys?" asked Dudley. "A wee bit, perhaps, though we do keep it cut pretty much to the same level. It's a deal thicker than it used to be, but don't you try it if you hain't sure of your ponies. It 'ud be a awful thing if you hurt yourself and couldn't do it!" [Illustration: "'He's dead, Ben! he's dead!"] "If we try it at all, we shall do it," said Roy, spiritedly, and then he and Dudley rode back to put their steeds to a gallop. Old Ben watched them breathlessly. Dudley seemed to be hesitating. "I say, old fellow, don't let us do it to-night." Roy's look was one of astonishment mingled with a little contempt. "Not do it! Are you afraid?" Dudley's color rose. "I'm not afraid of our courage," he said, boldly, "but of our ponies: they have never been accustomed to it." "Then they can learn to-night. Now then, there's plenty of room for us both abreast. One--two--three--off! Hurrah for the Bertrams!" The ponies were fresh, the hedge was cleared; but as old Ben was in the act of waving his cap aloft to give a cheer--there was a crash--a sharp cry--and a sickening thud the other side of the hedge. And when the old groom with beating heart and trembling limbs, reached the farther bank, Roy and his horse were prostrate on the ground. Dudley had cleared it safely, and now having flung himself from his horse was leaning over Roy in agony of terror. "He's dead, Ben--he's dead--his pony rolled over him--oh, fetch a doctor, quick!" Ben took the unconscious little figure in his arms, with a heavy groan; and Dudley tore on to the house almost frantic with fright. Every one was in confusion at once, but it was Rob who tore off for the doctor, and brought him in an incredibly short time, considering that he lived three miles away. To Dudley, listening outside the bedroom door, it seemed years before the doctor came out, and when he did, he was too overcome to speak to him. But seeing the white unnerved face of the boy, Doctor Grant put his hand kindly on his shoulder. "Cheer up, my boy, it might have been worse--he is only stunned, and leg broken. I hope he will pull round again." And then Dudley burst into a passionate fit of tears, with relief at the doctor's words. IX MAKING HIS WILL It was long before the cousins met; Roy's delicate constitution had received such a shock that his condition for some time was a cause of grave anxiety. His leg did not heal, and then the terrible word was whispered through the house "amputation"! It was a lovely evening in September when after a long talk with the doctor in the library Miss Bertram came out, her usually determined face quivering with emotion. "I will tell him to-night, Doctor Grant, and we shall be ready for you to-morrow afternoon at three." She went upstairs, and Dudley with scared eyes having heard her speech now crept out of the house after the doctor. "Look here, Doctor Grant," he said, confronting him with an almost defiant air: "you're not going to make Roy a cripple!" "I'm going to save his life, if I can," said the doctor, half sadly, as he looked down upon the sturdy boy in front of him. "He won't live with only one leg, I know he won't, it will be too much of a disgrace to him; he'll die of grief, I know he will! Oh, Doctor Grant, you might have pity on him, it isn't fair!" "Would you rather see him die in lingering pain?" enquired the doctor, gravely. "Oh, I think it so awful! Why should he be the one to be smashed up. Look at me! I know everybody thinks it a pity it wasn't me. It would have made us so much more equal. Why should I be so strong, and he so weak! I tell you what! I've heard a story about joining on other men's legs. Now tell me, could you do it? Could you give him one of mine? I'd let you cut it off this minute--to-night, if you only would. If it would make him walk straight!" Dudley seized hold of the doctor's coat excitedly, and Doctor Grant saw his whole soul was in his words. "I'm afraid that would be an impossible feat, my boy. No--keep your own legs to wait upon him, and cheer him up all you can." "Cheer him up!" was the fierce retort; "what could cheer him! I know he won't be able to live a cripple. He always says he is straight and upright though his chest is weak, and now when he knows it's no use trying to be strong any more, for he'll never be able to--when he knows he won't be able to play cricket, or football, or even climb the wall or run races--oh, it's awful--it will break his heart, and I wish I was dead!" After which passionate speech Dudley dashed away, and the doctor continued his walk shaking his head and muttering, "It's a bad lookout for the little fellow!" Dudley ran across the lawn in his misery, and then nearly tumbled over Rob who was lying on the grass, his face hidden in his arms. He looked up and his eyes were red and swollen. "Master Dudley, is it true, is he going to lose his legs?" Dudley stood looking at him for a minute before he spoke, and then he said, "Yes, it's all that hateful doctor!" Rob dropped his head on his arms again and a smothered groan escaped him. Dudley continued his run out into the stableyard, from thence to the road, and he never stopped till he reached old Principle's little three-cornered shop. Old Principle was busy serving customers when he came in; he gave him a friendly nod, and went on with his business whilst Dudley crept into the little back parlor, and sitting down in an old horsehair chair tried to recover his breath. It was not long before old Principle came after him. "Well, my laddie," he said, laying his hand on the curly head, "there's sad news going through the village this morning, and I see by your face that 'tis true!" Dudley nodded and then seizing hold of the old man's hand, leaned his head against it and burst into tears. "Why does God do it!" he sobbed at length, "Roy is so much better than I am, he's always trying to please God, though he never talks about it, and I've prayed so hard that he might be made quite well!" "Ay, and the good Lord is making him well perhaps though not by the way you planned. He might a been killed outright, and then what a trouble you'd have been in." "This is nearly as bad," muttered Dudley. "Now, laddie, don't harden your heart, are you one of the Lord's own children?" "I don't know. I don't think I love God as much as Roy does." "'Tis an awful bad principle," the old man continued, "to doubt and complain directly we can't understand the Almighty's dealings with us. He loves Master Roy better'n you and me, and the time will come when we'll thank the Lord with all our hearts for this accident." This was utterly incomprehensible to Dudley. "I feel very badly about it," old Principle went on, "and so do you, but the one I'm most sorry for is Ben Burkstone. I hear say he's fit to kill himself with despair!" "Well," said Dudley, stopping his sobs for a minute; "I don't see it was his fault; it was the stupid pony; he funked it, and then fell and broke his knees; mine went over all right. Oh, why didn't it happen to me! If I had been spilled, I wouldn't have minded, and one leg wouldn't have been half so bad to me as to Roy!" "I reckon you'd have got your leg all right again without having to lose it. 'Tis the laddie's delicate constitution that is so in his way. But I think you'll find Master Roy as plucky over the loss of his leg as he ever was. Now lift your heart up to God and ask Him that he may overrule it all for good. There goes the shop-bell!" Old Principle disappeared, and Dudley soothed and comforted by his sympathy, retraced his steps to the house. Meanwhile Miss Bertram had been going through the trying ordeal of breaking the news to the little invalid. Roy was lying in bed, flushed and restless. His eyes looked unnaturally large and bright, as he met his aunt's anxious gaze. "I'm so tired of pain, Aunt Judy, and I can't get to sleep." Miss Bertram sat down and smiled her brightest smile. Taking his thin little hand in hers she said tenderly, "Yes, dear, you've been a brave little patient, but I hope you won't have much more to bear. You would like to be free from it, wouldn't you?" "Am I going to die?" "We hope you're going to get quite well again, if God wills, and if you will be a good boy and let the doctor cure you." Roy's eyes were fixed intently on his aunt now. "How are they going to cure me?" Then Miss Bertram nerved herself for the occasion. "Roy, dear, you have been so patient since you lay here, that I know you will be patient over this. Doctor Grant says that your leg will never heal as it is, but he is sure you will get well and strong again if--if you will make up your mind to do without it." "Does that mean he is going to cut it off?" "Yes." Dead silence, broken only by the flapping of the window-curtains in the breeze. Roy was not looking at his aunt now, but his eyes were fixed on the distant hills through the open window. A blackbird now hovering on some jasmine outside, suddenly lifted up his voice and burst into an exultant song. A faint smile flickered about Roy's lips. "Do legs _never_ grow again like teeth?" The pathos of tone saved Miss Bertram from smiling at the comicality of the question. "I'm afraid not, dear. Not until we reach heaven." Then there was silence again, broken at last by Roy's saying in a very quiet tone,-- "I want to see Dudley." Miss Bertram rose from her seat, but first she stooped to kiss him. "You are quite a little hero," she said; "I will send David to you. My poor little Jonathan!" A hot tear splashed on Roy's forehead; he put up his hand and stroked his aunt's face. "Never mind, Aunt Judy, David made a better king than Jonathan would have I expect. Don't call Dudley just yet--I--I want to be alone." Miss Bertram left him, but sat down outside his door on a broad window ledge and cried like a child. And then a short time after, Dudley stole softly into the room and Roy's arms were clinging round his neck. "Oh, Dudley, I've wanted you, kiss me!" "You're going to get well, old chap, aren't you? You'll soon be out in the garden again." Dudley was speaking in the gruff quick tones he used when trying to hide his feelings. "We'll talk about that presently," said Roy, lying back on his pillows and making Dudley take a seat on his bed. "Dudley, do you know what a will is?" "Yes; you've a strong will nurse always says." "No, not that kind of one. Uncle James left a will when he died saying he left Norrington Court to father, and father left it to me. It's a piece of thick paper they write it down on, and it has some sealing wax on it. Aunt Judy showed me father's will once." Dudley did not look enlightened, so Roy went on,-- "I want you to get a piece of paper and write down my will for me. I will tell you what to say." Dudley slipped out of the room obediently and returned with a sheet of note paper, but this did not satisfy Roy. "It must be a large sheet--very large," was his command. After some minutes' search Dudley came in with a sheet of foolscap, and then with pen and ink he began to write at Roy's dictation: "When I am dead"-- But Dudley's pen stopped. "You are not going to die, Roy?" "I hope I am," was the unexpected reply; "I've been asking God to make me. I shouldn't think many people lived after their legs were cut off: I know I don't want to!" "But I want you to live," cried poor Dudley; "oh! Roy you couldn't be so mean as to leave me all alone. Oh, do unsay that prayer of yours. You mustn't die!" "I'm going to get quite ready to die," persisted Roy; "and if you really loved me you wouldn't think of liking to see me alive hopping about on a wooden leg, I couldn't do it." "Nelson lived with only one arm," said Dudley. Roy lay back on his pillows to consider this; then he said in a tired voice: "Will you write what I want?" Dudley seized the pen and in round, childish hand wrote as follows: "When I am dead, Dudley is to have Norrington Court for his very own, and he is to live there instead of me. He can have Dibble and Nibble too. Rob is to have my musical box. I leave him my best tool box, and father's red silk pocket-handkerchief which I keep in the old tobacco pot on my chimneypiece. I leave granny her sovereign which she gave me, and my book 'Heroes of old England.' Aunt Judy is to have my best four-bladed knife, and my prayer book. I want old Principle to have my silver mug and my new writing case. I leave nurse the sovereign my guardian gave me to get herself some new shoes, and I leave her my Bible." Thus far; then Roy gave a tired sigh. Dudley having entered completely into the spirit of the thing looked up and said eagerly, "There's your telescope, you know, Roy! If you leave it to me, I'll let you look through it when we're off on our travels." "I shall never travel with no legs--besides I shall be dead. I'll leave my telescope to you." Dudley subsided at once; then after a silence he asked meekly, "Is that enough?" "Yes, I'm so tired, put--'I leave all my old clothes to the village boys, and my cricket bat and stumps to Ben'--but wait a minute, Dudley--there are all the servants, and I've got such heaps of books and toys--I think we'll leave it like that." Dudley looked at his paper with some pride. "I've only made six mistakes and three blots," he said; "now may I drop the sealing wax over it? I've got a lovely red piece in my pocket." "I think I have to write my name at the bottom first, I know father did. Give me the pen." Dudley handed it, and wondered why Roy's fingers shook so as he signed his name. "Is that all?" "No, wait a moment. I want to write something myself." And then in a large scrawl at the bottom of the paper Roy wrote-- "This boy died before he had time to serve the Queen, he tried to serve God, and he tried to do good to some people, only they turned out mistakes. He hopes the Queen will forgive him; he knows God will. Amen." Dudley read this with awe. "And is that a will?" he asked. "Yes, let me drop some sealing wax; fetch a candle!" Dudley was longing to do this part himself, but he generously said nothing, and presented Roy with a brass button out of his pocket, to stamp on the hot wax. A lot of sealing wax was dropped indiscriminately all over the paper, and then old nurse appeared on the scene to order Dudley off. "You've been far too long with him already, to my mind," she said; "if Miss Bertram wasn't beside herself she would never have given you permission at all; he ought to have been kept extra quiet, and he's worked himself all in a fever again." She put Roy gently back on his pillows, and did not notice in her short-sightedness the roll of paper being stuffed under his pillow. Dudley's spirits sank to zero, now he was about to be dismissed. "Good-bye, Roy, ask to see me again, won't you?" Roy held out his hand. "I'll talk about it to-morrow," he said, faintly. And Dudley crept out of the room feeling more forlorn and wretched than ever. X A CRIPPLE It was all over; two doctors had been closetted in the bedroom for a very long time, and then Dudley and Rob, sitting on the garden steps, were told that everything had been successfully carried out, and Roy was as well and better than had been expected. "I never saw such fortitude and calm self-control in my life," said Miss Bertram to her mother; "it was unnatural for a child of his age!" "He is a true Bertram in spirit," said the grandmother, proudly; then she added with a sigh, "but, alas, not in body." "Nurse," said Dudley that night as he was creeping into bed under her charge; "is Roy going to die?" "I hope not," answered nurse, a little tearfully. "Doctor Grant says he'll make a good recovery, but he whispered himself to me--Master Roy did just before he took the sleeping draught--'Nurse I'll have my leg buried with me!' he says." Dudley was silent for a minute, then he asked, solemnly, "And where is it, nurse?" Nurse turned upon him tearfully and angrily, "I believe as how you haven't one speck of feeling for that blessed darling, you naughty boy! To talk of such a thing in such a way with not a tear on your face! And to think of him laying there a helpless cripple, and him the owner of the biggest estate in the county!" Dudley crept into bed feeling he had no more tears to shed, wondering when he would be allowed to see Roy again, and also wondering who was the possessor of his lost leg. It was a fortnight before he was allowed to see the little invalid, and when the boys met, Dudley gazed with deep pity on Roy's white little face, looking smaller and whiter than ever. But he welcomed him with a smile. "It's years since you were here, old chap." "Yes," responded Dudley, "and it's been the most miserablest years of my life." "I thought I was going to die then," continued Roy, with still the same smile; "but God wouldn't let me. He was determined I should live, and do you know I've been thinking it out. I really believe it is because He is going to let me do something great still. And Doctor Grant has been telling me of a man in Parliament who took all the house by storm, and brought in a most wonderful law that thousands of people blessed him for, and he--he had a cork leg!" Certainly Roy had not lost his buoyancy of spirits. Dudley drew a deep breath of relief, and for the first time began to see brighter times ahead. "And I'm going to have a cork leg," went on Roy, "a leg that if I press a spring I can kick out. Think of that!" Dudley looked beaming, exclaiming,-- "And it will be very convenient to have a leg with no feeling, won't it, especially about the knee when you're crawling along a wall with broken bottles." "I'm going to see Rob to-morrow," announced Roy, after a little more conversation. "Has he learned to read while I have been ill?" Dudley shook his head. "No, we tried one afternoon on the wall, but we were too miserable, so we stopped." "Well, I can teach him here in bed. That's one thing you don't want a leg to do!" "I say, Roy," Dudley asked, very cautiously; "don't you feel very funny without it?" Roy looked away for a minute without answering, and then he said slowly: "I try and not think about it. It will be worse when I get up--people might think when they see me in bed that I'm all right, but they'll know the truth when I'm up." Then he added more cheerfully, "It's awfully queer, but do you know I'd never know it wasn't there as far as the feeling goes. Why I can feel the pain right down to my toes now. And at night I'm always dreaming I'm running races with you as fast as I can, and then I wake and can't believe I'll never run again." As Roy grew stronger he had more visitors; Rob came to him every day for a reading lesson, and old Principle brought him books and sweets. Ben was allowed an interview, and the old groom, with tears running down his cheeks, besought Roy to forgive him. "I never ought to allowed you, and 'twas me that egged you on and sent you to your death!" "No, it was my own fault, Ben," said Roy, humbly, "and the thing that pains me most--more than breaking my leg--is to think that I should be the first Bertram who has failed. Dudley did it, and I didn't, and of course I shall never be able to try it again. Perhaps I was too proud of what I could do. We have a picture in the nursery of a boy standing on the top of a bridge, and then tumbling in the water; it's called 'Pride must have a fall.' I've had a fall, haven't I, Ben?" Ben came out from that interview declaring that "Master Roy ought to be sainted!" One afternoon Rob was finishing his reading lesson when he looked up and said, a little shyly, "Master Roy, you mind what you were a telling me of once--about what your father told you. Do you think as how I could do it too?" "Of course you could, Rob. All of us ought to serve God." "I've been thinking a deal about it, and I should like to, if I knew how." "Well, the Bible tells you. I remember nurse made me learn a text a long time ago, 'If any man serve me let him follow me.' It's just following Jesus I suppose, and doing what He wants us to do." "How can we follow somebody we can't see?" Roy knitted his brows. Rob's questions were hard to answer sometimes, and then a smile flashed across his face. "I'll tell you. It's like this. On my birthday granny called me in to give me a birthday talk and, of course, she talked to me about my property. She said my uncle had managed it awfully well over there, and she hoped I would walk in his steps. That would be following him though he was dead, wouldn't it?" "Ye-es," was the slow response. "And so you see," Roy replied, leaning forward impressively, and his eyes glistening with earnestness, "we can each follow Jesus. Try and live as He did, and do and speak like Him. We read how He lived in the New Testament." "And He was the one that died for us," Rob said, reflectively. "Yes, He is the one you go to, to get your sins washed away. That comes first before we begin to serve Him." "But I never could serve Him proper, always," objected Rob. "No, nor more can any one. I'm awful, you know! Dudley says I think such a lot of myself. And of course Jesus never did. And I grumble and cry over my leg every day, and of course He wouldn't have done it. But Jesus forgives us again and again, and helps us to be good, and that's why we love Him, and because He died for us." "Would He forgive me, and help me?" asked Rob; "are you quite sure He would care to have me for a servant?" "Of course I'm sure. He wants everybody. You just ask Him." Rob said no more. He was a lad of few words, and for some days did not touch on the subject again. His reading was progressing rapidly, and when Roy and Dudley found out that his birthday was near they laid their heads together and presented him with a handsome Bible, as they knew he was saving up his pennies to buy one. His gratitude and delight overwhelmed them, and every day now, when his work was finished, he would sit down and spell out chapters of the gospels to himself. As the days began to shorten, Roy grew so much stronger that he was able to be carried downstairs, and the first evening he was in the drawing-room, he asked Miss Bertram for the song of the two little drummer boys. She sat down at the piano, and Dudley seeing Rob weeding a flower bed outside the open window, beckoned to him to come up closer and listen. "It's the best song out," he shouted. Roy's face shone as Miss Bertram's sweet voice rang out triumphantly. --"'the fight was won, and the regiment saved By those two little dots in red!'" "Oh, how I wish I could be a soldier!" was the muttered exclamation of Roy, "I shall never be able to serve the Queen now!" "Nonsense," said Miss Bertram, briskly; "granny would tell you 'that all the Bertrams have always served the Queen, and only a few of them have been soldiers!'" "Well, I suppose they have been sailors?" said Dudley. "Not at all; we have only had one admiral, and three naval captains in our family during the last hundred years. Your father, Dudley, served the Queen as a governor in India quite as well as if he were fighting for her. Roy's father was her servant in Canada, though he had to do with politics; your uncle James served as a member of Parliament. The Queen has numbers of servants. I always think policemen are quite as brave as soldiers!" "And what can a one-legged Bertram do?" Roy asked, with a pathetic smile that went straight to his aunt's heart. "There's no reason why he shouldn't go into Parliament, and perhaps end by being a member of the cabinet." "I never quite understand what that is," said Roy, contemplatively. "I don't think I should like to be shut up in a stuffy cupboard. They shut them up in it to talk, don't they, Aunt Judy?" How Miss Bertram laughed! But whilst she was explaining what a cabinet was, Rob crept away from the window muttering, "I suppose as how I could be a policeman, but I'd a deal rather be a soldier!" XI A GIFT TO THE QUEEN "Can I see Master Roy, please?" It was Rob who spoke, and he seemed breathless with haste and importance, as he stood at the front door one cold afternoon the end of October. "You can give me your message," the young footman said, rather superciliously. "No, I can't," was the blunt retort; "ask Master Roy to speak to me." Rob gained his point, and was ushered into the library where Roy and Dudley were amusing themselves in the firelight. The old nursery was not much used now, and the library had begun to be considered the boys' room, partly because owing to it being on the ground floor, and opening into the garden, it was more convenient for Roy's use. Roy was now the possessor of a cork leg; and with the help of a stick he was nearly as active as ever. His spirits were as high, and his purposes as plentiful as before his illness; and his grandmother and aunt marvelled that he could take his deformity so lightly. Yet there were times unknown to any, when Roy's brave little heart sank with the consciousness of it; and often in bed at night his pillow would be wet with tears. "Oh, God," he would often pray, "you wouldn't let me die, do help me to do something worth living for. I feel my leg will keep away all the opportunities now, but please give me something big to do for you still." "Hulloo, Rob, come on," was Roy's exclamation as he caught sight of his friend. "Just look at Nibble and Dibble, we're teaching them to draw a cart. It makes you die of laughing to look at them. There they go, and Dibble turns head over heels in his excitement!" Roy's happy laugh rang out, but though Dudley joined him, Rob's face was grave and set. "Please, can I speak to you on business, Master Roy?" "Goody! What a long face!" exclaimed Dudley, pulling down his own in imitation of Rob's, and thereby causing a fresh peal of laughter from Roy. "Have you been a naughty boy, Rob, and has old Hal been thrashing you? Have you been skylarking on the top of the greenhouse, and smashed through on Hal's pate?" "I should like to speak to Master Roy, alone," said Rob, a little wistfully; in no way disturbed by Dudley's teasing. "Oh, it's one of your secrets again. I'll be off, Roy, I want to see old Principle!" And Dudley dashed out of the room, whilst Rob came nearer and began his "business." "Master Roy, I've been thinking a lot lately, and Miss Bertram asked me the other day if I'd like any other job for the winter as there's hardly enough work for me in the garden now. And yesterday I saw a chap in the village I used to know. He's a recruiting sergeant for the ----shire regiment, and he wants me to enlist straight away. I wouldn't have given it a thought only what you said about serving the Queen has stuck to me, and it does seem a chance, and somehow that song has been in my head ever since I heard Miss Bertram sing it. I'd like to be in a regiment." Rob paused for breath, and Roy's eyes were wide open with wonder and astonishment. "But, Rob, you aren't old enough to be a soldier yet!" "I'm just the age--they take them at eighteen, and I was that the other day, only I don't look it." "But you're going to be my servant. I couldn't let you go." Rob's face fell. "I thought I could have seven years--or even twelve years would hardly find you ready to take up your property. And then I'd come back to you and never leave you again!" "But I want you with me now--always"--said Roy, in a distressed tone; "I couldn't do without you all that time, and it's horrid of you to want to get away from here, I think." "All right, Master Roy, I won't go--I'll get a job in the village that will keep me close at hand." Rob tried to speak cheerfully, and after waiting a minute to see if Roy would say any more, he left the room quietly; all the light having died out of his honest grey eyes. Roy watched the antics of his mice in the firelight, but his thoughts were far away from them. At last he opened the door and made his way up to his grandmother's room to have his usual chat with her before tea. "Granny, if a person you like will do anything you like, ought you to make that person do what you like instead of what they like?" "It sounds like a riddle," said Mrs. Bertram, with a smile. "I won't ask who the person is, the question is whether you like that person or yourself best. Which do you?" Roy did not answer for a minute, then he hung his head. "I'm afraid I like myself best." "If you give me more details, perhaps I can advise you." "Well, granny, may I talk first to Dudley about it, and then I'll tell you. But you see it's like this--the person wants to please you, and you can't pretend to be pleased if he does what doesn't please you!" "I think the best plan would be to leave yourself out of the question entirely, and only think of the other person; that would be the most unselfish way." Roy knitted his brows and heaved a heavy sigh. "Am I a very selfish person, granny?" "You are much more selfish than Dudley is," said Mrs. Bertram, decidedly, who never minced matters with her grandsons. Roy flushed a deep crimson, and his grandmother added, "I do not say that you are altogether to blame, for Dudley has always given way to you and spoiled you; but you do not very often think of his wishes before your own." "No, I never do." Roy's tone was of the deepest dejection; but the sudden entrance of Dudley gave a turn to the conversation, and he gradually recovered his spirits. When the two boys were at their tea half an hour later, Roy spread the whole matter before Dudley who looked at it in quite a different light. "How stunning! And is he really going? Hurray! One of us will be a soldier, at any rate. I wish I was big enough to go with him." "But I don't want him to go, and I told him so, and he isn't going!" Dudley opened his eyes at this. "You going to keep him back? Why you're the one that's always talking about serving the Queen, and fighting for her!" "Yes, I should like to, but--but Rob is different. I want him to be with me." "Then you don't care about serving the Queen, if you're going to do her out of a soldier who might fight for her!" This was quite a new aspect of the affair. "You think I'm like the dog in the manger? I can't go myself and I don't want him to. But if you go to a boarding school like Aunt Judy talks of, and I'm not allowed to go with you, and Rob is gone, I shall be left all alone; and I hate being alone, you don't know how I hate it--I think I should die!" "Well, if I was you and knew I couldn't be a soldier myself, I would love to send some one instead of me--you know how they do in France. Old Selby was telling us. They pay a subsidy--substitute--don't you call it?--to go and fight for them." "Yes, that is the coward's way," Roy said, scornfully. He paused for a minute, and then his eyes flashed fire. "Yes, Dudley, I'll let him go. It's me that's the coward to try and keep him back! You and I shall send him, and he shall be our substitute, and when we hear of him doing brave things, we shall feel it's ourselves. And we'll make him write letters to us and tell us all he is doing--oh, it will be splendid. How glad I am he has learned to read and write. Dudley, you just go and fetch him in, will you?" Dudley crammed rather a large piece of cake into his mouth, and dashed out of the room; and a few minutes later dragged in the would-be soldier. "We've settled you can go, Rob," said Roy, with a little of his masterful air about him; "only you're to go as _our_ soldier. I think if I had had a good, broad, strong chest and never broke my leg, I should have enlisted, but you can go instead of me. Are you glad?" "I'm sorry to leave you, Master Roy, but I'd dearly like to go." "We must tell granny and Aunt Judy, and see what they say first. But I'm sure they'd like you to go." No objection was made. Miss Bertram was rather pleased than otherwise. "He will make a good soldier," she said, when talking it over with the boys; "he is a steady, reliable lad, with not too many ideas of his own, and implicitly obedient." "Is that what makes a good soldier?" asked Roy. "I thought it was dash and bravery." "Dash is a dangerous quality. Steady perseverance is better, Jonathan!" The next few days were most exciting ones for the boys. Roy and Rob had many a long talk together, and very earnest and serious subjects were touched upon. Rob had little time left to bid his friends farewell, but he went to old Principle, as a matter of course. "Yes," said the old man, a little proudly; "all the younger folks going out in life comes to me for a parting word. They laughs at me and my principles, but I'm proud of my nickname, and 'tis only right principles will make a man live right, and they knows it. What can I say to you, lad, but fear God and honor the Queen and those in authority under her. Never be afraid of holding to the right and denouncing the wrong, and may God Almighty take your body and soul in His keeping until we meet again." Rob's last day came, and an hour before his departure, in company with his friend, the sergeant, he came up to the Manor to bid them all farewell. Roy had some farewell words with him in the privacy of his bedroom. "We shall miss you awfully," he said, walking up and down the room to hide his emotion; "and it makes me wish I had your chance. But you'll remember, Rob, I look to you to be a rattling good soldier, much better than I should have been, and you'll be sure to do something grand and brave the very first opportunity, won't you? You must get the Victoria Cross, of course, and the account of you must be in the newspapers, so that we can read about you. And I shall pray that God will keep you safe, Rob. I hope you'll never have an arm or leg shot off, though I think that would be better than having them cut off. I hope you'll come back safe and sound. When shall we see you again?" "The sergeant told me I should get a month or six weeks' leave this time next year, Master Roy." "A year is a very long time. Rob, if I should die before I grow up, I want you to promise me that you will be Dudley's servant instead of mine. He will be master of Norrington Court, then, and I want you to live there." "But you aren't going to die, Master Roy, you will live and do great things yet." Roy shook his head a little sadly. "Sometimes I wonder if I ever will. I won't give up trying, but I shall never be anything but half a man, with my cork leg and my weak chest. Dudley would make a much grander master. Still there's one thing I can do. I can serve God--and I've sent you to serve the Queen, and I can try to serve my fellow creatures. Good-bye, dear Rob, will you kiss me." And then forgetting his dignity, Roy flung his arms round Rob's neck and hugged him passionately. "I'll never forget you carrying me home that night," he whispered in his ear, "I loved you from that time. And Rob you'll do what father told me to do--serve God first." Rob nodded, and as he knelt on the ground holding the frail little figure to him, he made a promise there and then in his heart that he would never do or say anything that he would be ashamed of Roy's hearing. "They're calling me, Master Roy, good-bye." He was gone, and Roy sitting down on the floor, leaned his head against his bed and burst into tears. Dudley found him there, and soon comforted him. "Look here, if you like it, let us get upon the wall and see Rob and the sergeant drive by; we can just see the high road, and Rob had to go to the inn first, so we shall have plenty of time." Roy's whole face beamed, he seized his stick and limped after Dudley without a thought of his leg, but when he reached the wall he came to a standstill. "I'm afraid I can't climb it, Dudley, I've never been on it since my leg was broken!" But Dudley would take no denial. "Oh, yes, you can, I'll hoist you up, we'll manage it." And "manage it" they did to Roy's intense delight, though Mrs. Bertram would have been horror-struck at the narrow escape the little invalid had, of falling to the ground during the proceeding. When they saw the trap in the distance, they set up a wild cheer, and waved their handkerchiefs frantically, and when they were answered by a cheer and a fluttering piece of white, they felt quite satisfied at their farewell. Before they got down from their high perch, Roy said, earnestly, "If God sent us Rob as an opportunity, Dudley, I wonder if we did him good." "Well, you see he was such a lot bigger than us, and Aunt Judy says she never saw such a steady good boy; it's very difficult to do good to good people, because you want to be so extra good yourself." "At any rate, we've made him the Queen's soldier." "Yes," argued Dudley, provokingly; "but he was the first one that thought of it!" "Oh, shut up," was Roy's impatient retort; "he told me himself it was the song of Jake and Jim that did it, and--and my talking to him." "And I expect the sergeant thinks it's all his doing." "But he wouldn't have gone unless I had told him he might." And as usual Roy had the last word. XII LETTERS Very disappointed were the boys at Rob's first letter, which arrived about a fortnight after he had gone to the regimental depot at a neighboring town. "DEAR MASTER ROY: "I hope you and Master Dudley are quite well as it leaves me at present. I like it first-rate, but it is hard work, and I have a good many masters, but I means to do my best. God bless you. "From your faithful "ROB." "That's not a letter at all!" said Roy, scornfully; "why he tells us nothing at all! Why he might have gone to school and told us more! That from a soldier. It's the stupidest rot I've ever heard!" "I think you forget what a poor scholar Rob is," said Miss Bertram, reprovingly. "Now I think that is a remarkably good letter when I think what a short time he has been learning to write. You boys had better each write a proper letter to him yourselves, and ask him what you want to know. He will like to hear from you." And so that afternoon, sitting up in state at the library table, the boys spread out their writing materials and began to write. "I feel," said Roy, biting the end of his pen and looking up at the ceiling for an inspiration, "that I don't know quite how to begin. I should like to tell him not to write like an ass, when he knows he ought to tell us everything." "All right, tell him so," said Dudley, squaring his elbow and frowning terribly as he prepared himself for the task. "You know what old Selby says: 'Make your paper talk, my boys, and make it talk in your own tongues.'" After a great many interruptions from each other, and a few skirmishes round the table which resulted in the ink bottle being spilt, the letters were finished. Roy read his aloud with pride to Dudley, who did the same to him. "MY DEAR ROB: "You must write us longer letters. I am quite sure there is lots to tell. What do you have to eat? And where do you sleep? Have you got a gun of your own? Do they let soldiers shoot rabbits on their half-holidays? Does the band play while you are at dinner? What are your clothes like, and what are you to be called, now you're a soldier? When will you be a sergeant, and is there any fighting coming off soon? Old Principle says you will be learning drill. What is drill? He says it's learning how to march, but Dudley and I can do that first-rate. How many masters have you got? Write to me to-morrow and tell me all. I hope you will remember you are our soldier, and be sure you do something very grand as quick as ever you can. Have you got a sword and a medal? Do you ride on a horse, and can you fire off the cannon? I miss you very much but you belong to us, and must come back full of glory. "Your loving friend, "FITZ ROY BERTRAM." "MY DEAR ROB: "I hope you like being a soldier. How many soldiers are there in the same house with you? Give them my love and tell them we hope they liked the cake we put in your box for them. Roy came down to old Principle's with me yesterday. He showed us a hammer out of his cave he dug up. He says you will not be a full blown soldier for a year. He had a cousin who was a sergeant in India--and had his brains burst out in battle. When do you begin to fight? Tell us if you feel funky, and what the enemy looks like, and who they are. We think you ought to write us a much jollier letter. Roy's leg is first-rate, and he is up on the garden wall now like a cat. We sit there to do our evening prep: for old Selby. Good-bye. We're on the lookout for your name in the newspapers the first battle that comes off. "Roy's friend, "DUDLEY." "I don't think you've finished your letter properly," observed Roy, critically, as Dudley concluded reading his. "Why do you write you're my friend?" "Because I am," was the prompt reply; "I'm not Rob's friend and I shan't tell him I am. I just write to him because you do, that's all." "Don't you like him?" "I don't want him for my friend; he's going to be a kind of servant. Besides I wanted him to remember that I was your friend. I knew you long before he did, and if he was dead now, or if he never had been born, I should have been your friend just the same. We could have got on all right without him." This was not the first touch of jealousy that had appeared in Dudley's character. He had more than once quarrelled with Roy on account of the boy who he said had crept in between them, but on Roy always emphatically assuring him that Rob occupied a back place in his affections, Dudley would generally be appeased and become his sunny self again. "I like Rob very much," said Roy, slowly, "'specially now he's a soldier. I was thinking in church last Sunday, when they were reading about David and Jonathan, that Jonathan had an armor-bearer. That's Rob. Only I can't go to battle, so I send him. Don't you think that's a nice idea?" "Did he get killed?" asked Dudley, with interest; "I forget about him." "It doesn't say--I expect he lived as long as Jonathan did, and then perhaps David took him to be his servant. That's what I've settled with Rob, that he shall be your servant if I die." Dudley gave himself an impatient shake. "Oh, shut up with that rot, you'll live as long as I do!" Roy did not speak for a minute, then he said, slowly, "You remember my will that I made when I was so ill?" "Yes, what did you do with it?" "Aunt Judy found it the next morning on the floor nearly under the bed. She laughed a little at first, and then got quite grave when I explained it, and she took it away and locked it up somewhere. But if I never make another, you will remember that I have left Rob to you for your servant." Dudley looked up with a comical gleam in his eye. "And who gave Rob to you, old chap?" "I took him--at least he gave himself to me." Roy's tone was dignity itself, but Dudley laughed. "Well he doesn't belong to you any longer; the Queen has got him." "I have lent him to her, that's all." "You talk of Rob as if he is a slave. He's a Briton, and 'Britons shall be free!'" "So he is free, but he chose to be my servant when I grow up, and he shall be!" Dudley dropped the argument, for Roy's face was flushing hotly, and he was wonderfully patient with him since his accident. Miss Bertram entered the room at this juncture, and asked in her cheery brisk tones, "Would any boys like to drive me to the railway station in the pony trap? I am going up to London on business, and shall be away till to-morrow." "Hurray," shouted Roy; "we'll come, and just read our letters, Aunt Judy! Won't they make Rob see how he ought to write?" Miss Bertram took the letters in her hand, praised the little writers, and then sent them off to their rooms to get tidy for their drive. A short time after, Roy mounted in front with his aunt, was driving her with pride along the high road; whilst Dudley from the back seat kept them lively with his chatter and flow of fun. The boys always liked the bustle of the station; and getting a lad to hold the pony, they followed their aunt to the platform and saw her on board the train. Some friends spoke to her before the train went off and amongst them was a certain Captain Smalley. "I say," said Dudley, nudging Roy; "he's an officer, and he is in the army, I expect he knows Rob." "We'll ask him, directly the train is off." But in the bustle of the last few minutes they missed seeing him; the young captain got into his dog-cart, and was well on his way home before the boys were ready to start in their trap. "Oh, I say! See him in the distance! Whip up and let us catch him. Here, let me drive, it's my turn now!" But Roy clutched hold of the reins. "No, I want to." "I tell you it's my turn!" "It's the only thing I can do with one leg, it's a beastly shame of you!" Dudley, who had nearly got possession of the coveted reins dropped them instantly. "All right then, but go ahead!" And then Roy with a shamed look put the reins in his cousin's hands. "I'll give them up. Granny always says I'm selfish. It was awfully mean to talk of my leg. Now then hurry! Gee-up!" Dudley took the reins with a gratified smile, applied the whip, and the spirited little pony dashed along the road at such a rate, that a porter looked after them in dismay. "Those two young gents will come to their death afore they're satisfied," he remarked, and another man responded: "Yes, the little one is pretty well smashed up already, but legs or no legs, boys allays keeps their sperrits!" Captain Smalley was rather startled at hearing frantic shouts behind him, and when he pulled up wondering if some message were to be delivered, he was still more bewildered by what he heard. "Hi, Captain Smalley! Stop for us. We've come two miles out of our way. Now then, Roy, go ahead!" "Do you know Rob? We want you to tell us how he is. We can't get a word out of him; is there going to be any fighting? And how does he look in his clothes?" "Who is Rob?" asked Captain Smalley. "Why, he's a soldier like you. You must know him!" A few more explanations were made, and then the young man laughed heartily. "Your young friend is learning his recruit drill at the depot, I should think. If he were in my regiment I might not be able to give you much information about him. The army is a big affair, my boys, and I doubt if Rob and I will ever meet." The boys' faces fell considerably. "Do you think he likes it?" asked Roy, anxiously; "do you like being a soldier?" "Of course I do, and if he has any stuff in him he will like it, too." "And will he be sent to fight very soon?" "I dare say he may do his seven years without a single fight!" Roy looked very disappointed. "If he doesn't fight, he might just as well have stopped at home. What's the good of being a soldier if you don't have any battles?" "Soldiers prevent battles, sometimes." This sounded nonsense to the boys. They bade the captain good-bye, and turned their pony's head homeward quite disconsolate. "I'll write and tell him to come home if he's not going to do anything," said Roy, with his little mouth pursed up determinedly. "We'll give him a chance, first. He may go out to fight. Captain Smalley didn't say for certain." "I think Captain Smalley is funky himself about fighting, that's what I think!" And with this disdainful assertion Roy dismissed the subject. XIII OLD PRINCIPLE It was a soft, mild day in December. Mr. Selby's study seemed close and stifling to the boys as they sat up at the long table with books and slates before them, and a blazing fire behind their backs. "This sum won't come right, Mr. Selby," groaned Roy; "and I've gone over it three times. It is made up of nothing but eights and nines. I hate nine. I wish it had never been made. Who made up figures, Mr. Selby?" Roy's questions were rather perplexing at lesson time. "I will tell you all about that another time," was Mr. Selby's reply. "Have another try, my boy: never let any difficulty master you, if you can help it." A knock at the door, and Mr. Selby was summoned to some parishioner. He was often interrupted when with his pupils, but they were generally conscientious enough to go on working during his absence. But Roy's lesson this morning was not interesting, and he was unusually talkative. "It's no good trying to master this sum, it's all those nines. They're nasty, lanky, spiteful little brutes, I should like to tear them out of the sum-books." "Expel them from arithmetic," said Dudley, looking up from a latin exercise, his sunny smile appearing. "Don't you wish we could have a huge dust hole to empty all the nasty people and things in that we don't like?" "Yes--I'd shovel the nines in fast enough, and a few eights to keep them company, and then I would throw in all my medicine bottles, and my great coat, and--and Mrs. Selby on the top of them!" This last clause was added in a whisper, for if there was any one that Roy really disliked, it was his tutor's wife. She was a kind-hearted woman, but fidgety and fussy to the last degree, and was always in a bustle. Having no children, she expended all her energies on the parish, and there was not a domestic detail in any village home that escaped her eye. She had spoken sharply to the boys that morning for bringing in muddy footprints, and her words were still rankling in Roy's breast. "It's so awfully hot," Roy continued; "let us open the window, Dudley. Old Selby won't mind for once; it's like an oven in here." The window was opened with some difficulty, and the fresh air blowing in seemed delicious to the boys. Roy clambered up on the old window-seat, slate in hand, but his eyes commanded the view of the village street, and the sum made slow progress in consequence. "I say! Tom White's pig has broken loose, and that stupid Johnnie Dent is driving it straight into old Principle's! I expect he'll come out in an awful rage. No--the door must be shut, he can't get in. There seems quite a crowd round old Principle's. He's giving them a lecture, I expect. Here comes old Mother Selby tearing up the street, her bonnet strings are flying and she's awfully excited!" A minute after the door was thrown open. "John, it's the most extraordinary thing--oh, you are not here!--Where is Mr. Selby? I always knew something would happen to that old man roaming over the hills half the night, and digging holes big enough to bury himself! John! Where are you?" She disappeared as quickly as she had come, banging the door violently behind her; but Roy sprang down from his seat instantly. "Dudley, it's old Principle! Something must have happened to him, do let us go and see." Dudley dashed down his pen, and was vaulting out of the window, when he suddenly stopped. "Roy get your great coat, quick. Aunt Judy made me promise to look after you. I'll wait while you get it." Roy dashed out into the hall. He heard the rector's voice in the distance, but was too excited to wait to see him, and after impatiently tugging on his objectionable coat, he limped off as quickly as he could, joining Dudley at the garden gate. They heard the news on the way to old Principle's. It appeared that the old man had gone out the afternoon before, and had never come home. His shop was shut up exactly as he had left it, and the woman who went in every day to do his cleaning and cooking for him, was the first one to notice his absence. The group of idle women round his door were busily discussing the question when the boys arrived. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised if as how he has made away with hisself," suggested one, knowingly. "I always did say as he were queer in the head, a makin' out of a pack o' stones such amazin' stories! And a mutterin' to hisself like no ordinary creetur, and a walkin' through the woods and fields as if he seed nothin' but what other folks couldn't see at all!" "Ah, now! To think of it! And Bill is a goin' down the river to find his body; for him and Walter Hitchcock have searched the whole place since seven o'clock this mornin'!" "May be there's a murder in it," said a young woman, cheerfully. "He were an old man to wander off alone, and there's allays evil-doers round about for the unprotected." The boys listened to these and similar conjectures with frightened eyes; then Dudley whispered, "I believe he is in his cave, Roy; we'll go and look for him. Only don't tell these women about it, because he hasn't told anybody but us where it is." They left the shop and started for the hills, but Roy's lameness made progress very slow. At last he stopped, and struggling to hide his disappointment said, "You'll have to go on without me, Dudley. I only keep you back. This old leg of mine always comes in the way." Dudley stopped to consider. "It's a very long way, but we must get there somehow. Hulloo, here's just the thing." They had stopped at a small inn at the outskirts of the village; and tied to the drinking trough outside, was a rough pony and cart whose owner was enjoying himself in the tap room with his friends. "Jump in, Roy. It's to save old Principle, and anybody would be glad to lend his cart for that." Roy was not long in acting upon this advice. The pony trotted forward briskly, and the boys would have thoroughly enjoyed this escapade, except for the fears of their friend's safety. "If anything has happened to him, the village will go to the dogs!" Roy asserted, emphatically; "old Hal said the other day he was worth a couple of parsons. When I grow up, I think I shall try and be like him. I shall give good advice to everybody without ever scolding them, that is what he does." "Do you think he is dead?" asked Dudley, "I don't think he can be. Why it was only the day before yesterday we saw him, and he was as well as we are." It seemed a long time before they reached the cave; the hills were steep and the pony rather old, and more than once Dudley felt inclined to run forward on his own two legs. Roy at last suggested this. "I can drive up after you as fast as I can; and if you find him you holloa to me." So Dudley jumped out and was soon lost to sight behind the bushes and hollows that fringed the hills. Roy drove on busily thinking, and wondering if they had done wisely to take the matter into their own hands, and come off alone as they had done. When he at length reached the cave Dudley came to meet him with a puzzled face. "Something has happened, Roy. I can't get into it very far; there's a lot of earth tumbled down and I can't move it." "Then old Principle is buried alive!" cried Roy in terror. "Quick, Dudley, let us dig him out." Dudley seemed quite helpless. "I've no spade, and there's no place near to get one. I wish we hadn't come alone." This was a dilemma, but Roy would not be overcome by it. "Let us look about for his tools; he always brings them up with him. Isn't there enough room for me to get in, Dudley?" Dudley shook his head, and both boys approached the entrance. There had indeed been a serious landslip, and it was impossible to remove the great blocks of stone and earth that had fallen without proper tools; and though they searched for some traces of old Principle, not a thing belonging to him could they find. "Perhaps he may not be here." "I believe he is," maintained Roy; "and we must be as quick as ever we can. Dudley you go back in the cart and get some men to come and help. I will stay here. How I wish we hadn't come alone!" Left by himself, Roy did not sit down and do nothing. Clambering all amongst the fallen earth and stone, he eagerly searched for some crevice or opening; and at last high up in the ravine he found one. Then lying down flat on the ground he put his mouth to the hole. "Old Principle! Hi! Old Principle! Are you there?" It was not fancy that a muffled voice came up to him-- "Help! I'm here!" That gave Roy fresh strength. Eagerly he tore aside brambles and stones with small thought of his scratched, bruised hands, and at last had the satisfaction of viewing a hole big enough to drop his slim little body through. Then he called again, "Old Principle, I'm coming down from the top. Are you hurt? Can you tell me if it is far to fall?" And this time old Principle's voice sounded clearer: "God help you, laddie! For I can't help you or myself. No it is not a very big drop from where you are." For one moment Roy looked at the dark chasm below him with hesitation, then he murmured to himself, "If I break my other leg, I must get to him--poor old Principle." And then carefully and cautiously he let himself down, clinging with his hands to a stout twig of mountain ash that bent and swayed across the crevice with his weight. Another moment and leaving go of the friendly branch, he dropped on damp fresh soil, and found himself in almost total darkness. Then as his eyes got more accustomed to it, he saw the prostrate form of old Principle only a yard or two away from him. The old man was breathing heavily, and his legs were completely buried under fallen earth. "Is it Master Roy?" he said, as Roy came over and took hold of his hand; "ay, you shouldn't have imprisoned yourself with me, laddie--I didn't rightly think of what you were doing--I'm--I'm in such pain!" "Are you very hurt? Oh, dear, what can I do? I can't lift you. Are your legs broken?" "I don't rightly know. If you could shift a little of the earth off, may be it would ease me!" Roy looked round and then delightedly seized hold of a small shovel. "Your shovel is here. I'll do it," he said, cheerfully, and then to work he went. The soil was fortunately not heavy to remove, but there was a great quantity of it before poor old Principle's legs were liberated. Roy toiled on, hot and breathless, longing that help should come, his own fatigue forgotten in his pity for the helpless old man. "Can you lift yourself up, old Principle? I really think I've got the earth off your legs--at least most of it!" There was a struggle, then a groan. "I'm afraid not, laddie. 'Tis the power that has quite gone out of them. I'm fearing that old Principle will be never roaming the hills again, but there 'tis the Lord's will, and He never do make mistakes." "Do you think your legs are broken like mine were?" "I can't rightly say. It has seemed a weary time since I lay here. Many days and nights I suppose--and I'm longing for a drink, but thank the Lord, He has sent you to me." "It is only since yesterday that you have been lost. And Dudley has gone back to get some men to come. I wish I could get you some water, but there's none here, is there?" "I am afraid not." Silence fell on the pair, which was broken at last by,-- "'Tis a good principle to think of your mercies when trouble overtakes you. It has whiled away the time here, and I can thank the Lord with all my heart, that my head and hands are uninjured!" "How did it happen?" asked Roy. "I'm afraid I excavated too far and was in the midst of unearthing a large boulder of stone when I remembered no more--it took me so sudden, and when I came to life again I thought I was in my bed at home with a ton's weight on my feet. 'Twas good of the Lord to give me air--that crevice you came through has saved me." "You said a long time ago you could mend anything but broken hearts, but you can't mend broken legs, can you? Or you would have mended mine." "Ay, ay, so I would, surely. No--the mender has turned into a breaker this time, 'tis a good thing it's only himself that he has broken up." A slight groan escaped him, and Roy softly stroked his face, a broken sob escaping him. "Oh, old Principle, how I wish I was strong, how I wish I could move you! You aren't broken up! Don't say you are. Couldn't I help you to roll over on your back, wouldn't that be better?" After great effort this was partly accomplished, and then to Roy's intense relief he heard voices above. Running to the opening he shouted: "Here we are! Help us out, or old Principle will die!" But it was some time before the rescue could be accomplished. The opening was small enough to let Roy through, but not old Principle, and the boy refused to leave the old man. Pickaxes and shovels were set heartily to work, and after half an hour's hard toil, the old man was gently raised out of his dangerous position, and placed in the cart. Roy was put in with him, and Dudley walked by the side in silence until they reached the village. There was a great stir and excitement over their return. Mrs. Selby and their aunt met the boys at the entrance of the village, and Miss Bertram looked anxiously at Roy's little white set face. He could not be torn away from his old friend till he heard the doctor's verdict, and it was a far more hopeful one than anybody had anticipated. "It is a marvellous escape. Not a bone broken, but of course he is terribly bruised and shaken, and very stiff." "I'll sit with him till we can get a proper nurse," said good-natured Mrs. Selby; "he seems to have no kith or kin belonging to him. It will be a lesson to him, for life, I hope, and will put a stop to all this delving and digging and unearthing what is best left alone. It only fosters scepticism in the minds of the ignorant, and teaches them to disbelieve their Bibles!" Old Principle looked up with a smile after the doctor's visit. "Is little Master Roy there?" Roy pressed forward eagerly. "I'm thinking, laddie, that you and Master Dudley have had a rare good opportunity of saving a poor old man's life, and he is duly grateful to you." But Roy was very near tears. "I'm so glad--so glad your legs aren't broken," he said, in a quivering voice, "anything is better than being suddenly turned into a cripple!" And then bending over him he kissed the furrowed brow, and crept out of the room. XIV HEROES Old Principle's accident was a great event in the village. The boys got their fair share of praise in his rescue, but their grandmother did not see it in such a favorable light. "You ought never to have left your lessons without leave, or taken a cart belonging to a stranger all unknown to him, or gone off alone without telling any one about it. And you were shown the folly and uselessness of such a proceeding by arriving on the scene and being utterly unable to extricate him from his position. If children would realize their weakness and foolishness more in these days, they would develop into better men and women, but self-sufficiency and self-conceit are signs of the times!" Every day the boys went to see their friend, and even Mrs. Selby allowed that they could be quiet and well-behaved in a sick room. It was a long time before old Principle regained his health, and he seemed to have grown much older and feebler since his accident; but his serenity of spirit was undisturbed, and some of the neighbors who had before voted him close and cranky, now offered to come and sit with him, and learned many a lesson from his sickbed. When he was at last able to take his place in the shop again, Roy's mind was at ease about him. "I was so afraid he was going to die as long as he stayed in bed," he confided to Dudley: "I hope no one will ever die that I like, it must be such a dreadful thing to have them gone. I think I would rather die first, wouldn't you?" "We can't all die first," said matter-of-fact Dudley; "somebody must be last." "Well, I don't think I shall be," returned Roy, "that's the best of being weak like I am." But this assurance brought no comfort to Dudley. A few more labored letters came from Rob, and then one that stirred the boys' hearts after he had been about three months away from them. It was to say that he was going out to India in a draft, and had been allowed three days to come and say good-bye to his friends. Roy was almost beside himself with excitement at the prospect of seeing him again; and when the day came, he insisted upon going to the station by himself to meet him. Dudley perched on the garden wall awaited their coming. Rob was certainly improved in appearance. He held himself up bravely, but a softened light came into his eyes, as Roy, looking whiter and more fragile than ever, flung himself into his arms, utterly regardless of all onlookers. "I'm right glad to see you, Master Roy," said Rob, in a husky voice. "Oh, Rob, you look so splendid! And you've got to be quite a man! Come on, I'm going to drive you home, and we shall be all by ourselves. Now tell me, are you really and truly happy?" Rob did not answer this question till he was in the trap being driven homeward; then he said, slowly, "Yes, I'm thinking I like it first-rate, but 'tis hard in many ways. 'Tis hard to keep straight and do the right, when most seems to live the other way." "But most of the soldiers aren't bad, are they?" questioned Roy with startled eyes. "They aren't out and out bad--just careless, I reckon, but old Principle would say they're lacking in principle." "And is it hard being a soldier? I suppose it must be a little. I came across a text I thought would just fit you, Rob, the other day. 'Endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.'" Rob's eyes brightened. He seemed strangely older and graver in his ways, yet when they drove up in sight of Dudley who slipped down over the wall, and tumbled himself into the trap with them, he made the boys roar with laughter with his funny incidents of barrack-room life. The three days passed only too soon. Innumerable were the questions put to the young soldier, and Roy's curiosity about a military life was insatiable. "Well," he said at last, "I don't think I should be strong enough to be a soldier, but I'm awfully glad you're one, Rob. And now you've got your chance in India of doing something grand and getting the Victoria Cross. The opportunity has come to you, and Dudley and I can't get it, though we've tried hard. But we have helped to send you out to India to do it, Rob, so you won't fail us, will you? And then when you come back covered with medals, you shall live with me and always dress in your uniform, so we'll look forward and think of that!" When Rob departed, he had quite a little party of friends to see him off at the station. Old Hal, the gardener, Ted, the stable-boy, and old Principle were there, and Miss Bertram and her nephews were with him to the last. "He's begun right, and he'll go on like it," announced old Principle, with emphasis, as the train steamed out of the station, and Rob leaned out of the window to wave a last farewell to his friends. "'Tis the beginnin' of life that boys make such a mess of, as a rule!" Roy's eyes were tearful as he watched the train disappear. "I've given him to the Queen," he said, gravely, to his aunt; "and no one can say I'm selfish, for I'd much rather have had him stay with me. But as I can't do anything grand, he must do it for me!" The day after Rob left them, the boys had an invitation to spend the day with Roy's guardian, General Newton. He did not often ask them over to see him, so it was considered a great treat, and they set off in high spirits. The groom drove them over, and they were shown into the general's study at once upon their arrival. He was not by himself; another grey-haired gentleman was seated there smoking, and the boys wondered at first who he was, but General Newton soon enlightened them. "This is a very old chum of mine, boys, who was in my regiment with me when I first enlisted; he has been a hero in his time, so if you make up to him he will tell you some wonderful stories. Now, Manning, these boys are smitten with the 'scarlet fever' at present, as a young friend of theirs has just enlisted. Tell them something about the Crimea; you had plenty of ghastly experiences there." Colonel Manning laughed as he met the boys' admiring gaze, and before long he was enchanting them by his reminiscences. "Now will you tell us the very bravest thing that you ever saw any soldier do?" demanded Roy, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Colonel Manning looked at his little auditor rather thoughtfully. "I've seen a good many brave deeds done," he said, slowly; "but one stands out in my memory above and beyond them all." "Oh, do tell us." "It was quite a young lad, a recruit that came to join our regiment when we were in Malta. He was a fair, curly-headed boy, and seemed quite frightened at the rough life and ways of his comrades. I happened to be orderly officer one evening, and was going my rounds, when I passed one of the barrack-rooms just before lights were out. It was in a low building and the windows were open. The men were noisy, and the first thing I heard was a volley of oaths from one of the oldest soldiers there. The corporal in charge instead of reproving him, was joining in, and there was a great dispute between a lot of them about some small matter, when this young chap stood up with a flush on his cheeks. 'Comrades,' he cried; 'would any of you allow your mother to be called evil names in the barrack-room?' His voice rang put so clearly that there was a hush at once, and they turned to him in wonder. 'You know you wouldn't,' he went on; 'and you are ill-treating the name of One who is dearer and nearer to me than any mother--the best Friend I've got. I tell you, I won't allow you to do it while I am in the room!' I remember as I stood there and heard him, and saw the men utterly abashed before the boy, I felt he had a courage that none of us could equal." "Is that all?" asked Dudley, with disappointment in his tone. "Did the men stop swearing?" asked Roy. "As far as I can remember, they did. The corporal rebuked them, and lights were put out, but that boy was braver than many a hero on the battlefield." The boys' faces fell. "But that was not what we call a brave deed," said Roy, at length. "Of course it was splendid of him, but it wouldn't get him the Victoria Cross." "No, only a crown of everlasting life, and a word of commendation from the King of Kings," said the colonel, in a strangely quiet voice; but Roy's expressive little face kindled at once, and he said no more. They went into the dining-room to lunch soon, and the boys were too busy enjoying the good things before them to talk much to their elders. After it was over General Newton sent them out for a run in the garden. And then when they came in, he asked them if they would like to come upstairs to his old picture gallery. "I am going to take my friend up, and you can come, too." The boys were delighted; they had often heard of this gallery, but had never been in it as General Newton kept it locked up, and very rarely opened it. "I have some gems amongst the portraits," he said to Colonel Manning as he unlocked a door in the passage, and led them into a long dusky corridor; "I will pull up the blinds and then we shall see. They are mostly ancestors, but one or two are by master hands, and two or three royal personages are amongst them." The boys listened eagerly whilst their host pointed out one and another, with now and then an anecdote connected with them. "Look," said Roy, delightedly, "there's a fine soldier. He is quite young, and yet what a lot of medals! and oh, General Newton, isn't that the Victoria Cross on his coat?" "Yes, my boy, he served his country well for such a youngster, he fought in eight battles, and came home without a scratch, though he had many hair-breadth escapes. In one battle he had two horses shot under him, and he saved the colors on foot, though he was leading a cavalry charge." "He was a regular hero!" murmured the admiring boys. "I don't think he was," said the general, drily. "He had plenty of dash and go, but no moral courage. He came home after the wars were over, and broke his mother's heart by becoming a drunkard and a gambler; and he died an early death from drink and dissipation." Roy looked very puzzled. "I thought a brave man must be a good one, and brave and good to the end of his life." "A man can face the cannon's mouth better than a friend's ridicule," said General Newton; "the young soldier we were hearing about before dinner had a nobler courage than this poor fellow here." Roy said no more, but though he listened and looked, the rest of the time they were in the gallery, his thoughts were with the hero of the Victoria Cross. He ran back to have one more look at him before they went downstairs, and gazed up at the bold, frank bearing, and the laughing mouth of the soldier, with wistful pity in his brown eyes. "You served your Queen and country, but I expect you left out God," he said, in a whisper; then he ran on to overtake the others. After an early tea the boys were packed up in the trap to come home. "Drive home as quickly as you can," said the general to the groom, "for rain is not far off, and it will not do to let Master Fitz Roy get a soaking; he looks as if a breath of wind will blow him away." "I do hate people talking about me like that," Roy confided to Dudley as they set off at a brisk rate; "I might just as well be a girl. I often wonder I wasn't born one for all the good that I shall do in the world." "That's all stuff," said Dudley, indignantly; "you'll be an awfully strong man I expect when you grow up, you see if you aren't!" Roy shook his head, and was unusually silent for some time. They were driving through the outskirts of a village when down came the rain. The groom wrapped the boys up as well as he could, and was urging the horse on, when it suddenly shied and came to a standstill. Looking down, the groom saw a small child seated in the middle of the road, almost miraculously preserved from the horse's hoofs. "Well, here's a go," he muttered; "where on earth does it come from, we don't want no delay in such a storm as this!" The boys had sprung down at once from the trap, and were endeavoring to drag the child away when it burst into roars of fright and anger. "I want mummy--oh, mummy!" It was a little girl between three and four. She had been placidly nursing a doll in the middle of the road, and seemed perfectly oblivious of wind and rain. "Where do you live?" asked Roy, but the child only continued to wail for its mother. "Here, Master Roy, you'll be wet through. Come back, and let Master Dudley hoist her up to me. We can't stop all day trying to find out where she lives. We'll take her back with us for the time." But this did not please Roy. "No, we must find her mother; she must come from the village we have passed. You wait there with the horse, Sanders, and we'll take her back." "Let Master Dudley do it, then," said Sanders, crossly, "and you get into the trap again." This also Roy refused to do. "It's an opportunity, isn't it, Dudley? And look she has taken hold of my hand; you run on in front and ask about her at the first cottage you come to, and I'll bring her after you." Sanders grumbled and growled, but the boys did not heed him. Happily the mother of the child soon appeared, thanked them profusely, and Roy and Dudley clambered up into the trap again, both wet through. "You're a heedless, disobedient pair," said the wrathful Sanders, "and if I'm blamed for your taking to your beds and gettin' rheumaticky fever and inflammation of the lungs, it won't be my fault, and I shall tell the missus so!" XV AN UNWELCOME PROPOSAL Roy was not well for some time after this episode. He had a bad bronchial attack, and was in the hands of his old nurse again. "It do seem as if everything conspires to make you a delicate lad," she said one day; "it beats me how you come through it as well as you do! But 'tis mostly your thoughtless ways that leads you into trouble." "I'm sorry," Roy said, cheerfully; "but I expect I'm stronger than I look. I never shall be much of a fellow, I know; but even with my cork leg I can do a good deal, can't I?" "You're worth two of Master Dudley!" ejaculated the fond nurse, but this assertion was of course questioned. "I shall never be like Dudley, never! Not in looks, or strength, or goodness. He is better than I am all round!" Miss Bertram came into the room at this moment. "Ah, nurse," she said, in her bright, brisk way; "he is like a cat, isn't he? Has nine lives, I'm sure. There never was such a boy for getting into scrapes. I'm in fear whenever he is out of our sight now that he may never come back again." "Now, Aunt Judy, you wouldn't have liked me not to have got out to that baby?" "I should like some one else to have done it." "Yes, I suppose Dudley would have done it," and Roy's tone was a little sad; "but you see I wanted to help. As he was saying to me this morning, he will have many more chances than I when he gets bigger and goes out to India to do good to people. I shall have to stop at home now, for I shall never be able to ride, he will have all the big opportunities, and I must be content with the little ones." "You talk like a little old grandfather, sometimes," said Miss Bertram, laughing, as she sat down beside him. "You must make the most of David while he is with you, for I have heard from his stepfather this morning, and he wishes him sent to school at once." Roy's eyes opened wide. "But I shall go too, shan't I, Aunt Judy?" "I am afraid not just yet. You are not fit to rough it; besides we couldn't lose both our boys!" "But I must go if Dudley goes, I must!" and Roy's tone was passionate now. "I won't have him go away from me--I've lost Rob, and that is bad enough--You wouldn't take Dudley away from me, too, Aunt Judy!" "Hush, hush, we will not talk any more about it now. He will not go till after Easter, and that won't be here yet." Miss Bertram was sorry she had broached the subject, when she saw Roy's distress, and going downstairs sent Dudley up to play with him. Later on when she was sitting with her mother in the drawing-room a small head appeared. "May I come in, granny?" It was Dudley, and his round and rosy face was unusually solemn. Marching in he took up his position on the hearth-rug, his back to the fire, and with his hands deep in his pockets, he turned his face rather defiantly toward his grandmother. "Granny, I'm not going to school without Roy." "Hoighty-toity! What next, I wonder. Is that the way for little boys to speak to their elders. You will do what you are told as long as you are in my house, as your father did before you." "It is your stepfather's wish," put in Miss Bertram; "you ought to be willing to obey him." "Not if he tells me to do something wrong. And I'm sure it would be quite a wrong thing for me to go away from Roy. We have promised never to leave each other till we grow up, and we don't mean to break our promise. And, granny, I'm sure you don't like broken promises. Father doesn't know about Roy, and he can't understand like I do, and it would be very wrong of him if he took me away from Roy!" Mrs. Bertram put on her glasses and inspected her little grandson with searching eyes. "That is a most disrespectful speech, Dudley. I shall of course uphold your father's wishes." "But, granny, I can't leave Roy. It will break his heart. You don't know how he frets about his leg. He doesn't say much and is always so cheerful, but he misses me most awfully even if I'm away for a day. If he was well and strong, he could get on first-rate, but he wouldn't get about half so much if I didn't take him. I think he would mope and mope all by himself. And I don't think we could live without each other. You won't send me away, will you?" Tears were filling Dudley's blue eyes, but Mrs. Bertram looked displeased. "In my days, children never thought of arguing with their elders. I think your aunt and I are as capable of taking care of Roy as you are. Now leave the room, and do not refer to the matter again." Then Dudley astonished his grandmother by the first exhibition of temper that he had ever displayed before her. "I _won't_ be separated from Roy. If you send me to school, I shall run away, and I shall write and tell father the reason!" A stamp of the foot emphasized this passionate speech, and then Dudley fled from the room, banging the door violently behind him. As on a former occasion he now took himself and his grief to old Principle. It was early-closing day in the village, and he found the old man just locking up his door prepared for a ramble. "Come along up to the hills with me, laddie," he said, after hearing the trouble; "there's nothing like fresh air for blowing away a fit of the dumps. I am going to the cave again--will you come with me?" "Yes, I will. I've been in an awful temper in granny's room, and banged her door. I don't think she'll ever forgive me!" "'Tis like this, Master Dudley," said old Principle, presently, as they walked over the hills together; "if it's right for you to go, there's nothing to be said, and you must fall in with it whether you like it or no." "But it can't be right for me to leave Roy when he wants me." "It may be the best thing in the world for him and you, if it is to be. 'Tis a bad principle to determine whether a thing is right or wrong, according to our liking." "It's a cruel thing to part us!" said Dudley, doggedly. "But may be a way will be found out of the difficulty by Master Roy going with you." "They say he isn't strong enough. That wetting in the rain has made him bad again." "Well now I should ask the good Lord to make him strong enough. There's time between this and Easter." Dudley brightened up at once. "Do you think he might be strong enough? I should be able to take great care of him, and I would, too. And he's so plucky, that I'm sure the other boys would be good to him." The cave was reached, and in the interest of watching excavation going on Dudley was soon his bright self again. He came home radiant, with a match-box full of tiny shells for Roy who was waiting for him in the nursery. "You have been away a time," he said, wearily: "I'm sure I'm well enough to go out now. I can't bear the winter. It means so many colds and aches." "Well, you're going to get better very soon, and look here, old chap! If you try your very best, perhaps the old doctor will give you leave to come to school with me after Easter." Roy's eyes sparkled at the thought. "Nurse always makes such a molly-coddle of me, and so does granny; but I'll try as hard as I can to be better." "And now just look at these! Old Principle says these show that the sea must have washed up amongst the hills and into his cave hundreds of years ago, for these belong to salt water fish not river ones. Look at them! 'Fossils' he calls them, they're shells made out of stone. He told me I might give you these from him. I thought he would never go back to his cave again after last December, but he says he feels so much stronger now; and he is very careful how he digs; he won't let me come near him while he does it. And he told me he has been busy writing a paper which he is going to send to some society in London--I forget its name. He is what you call a discoverer, isn't he?" Roy nodded, then asked anxiously: "Dudley, were you rude to granny before you went out? Aunt Judy came to look for you here, and she said she hoped you were going to beg granny's pardon for something." "I'll go now, I had almost forgotten." And Dudley trotted off to his grandmother's room. She received him sternly, but he was so abjectly penitent that she soon forgave him, and he returned to Roy with a relieved mind. "It's a dreadful thing to have a temper," he remarked, as he sat upon the nursery table swinging his legs to and fro; "I've given granny an awful headache by the way I banged her door." "What was it about?" asked Roy, with interest. "About school," was the answer; "I told her I wasn't going away from you." "I've been thinking of it a lot," said Roy, with a sigh; "but you'll have to go, and I shall get on pretty well without you. You see a boy with one leg wouldn't be much good amongst a lot of other boys. They would only call him a cripple and push him aside. I shouldn't like them to laugh at me. The only thing for me is a cripple school. Nurse has a little grandson at one. I don't much care for cripples, those I've seen seem very poor creatures with no fun in them, but of course I'm one myself now; only I don't feel like it." "You're no more a cripple than I am," was Dudley's indignant rejoinder, "why no one would tell anything was the matter with you to look at you." "We won't talk any more about it," said Roy, "I'm hungry and I hear tea coming." But both the little hearts were very full of a possible separation, and for some days after it lay like a heavy nightmare on them. Then a letter arrived from Rob which turned the current of their thoughts. It was his first letter from India, and the boys looked at the foreign stamps and paper, as if it were the greatest rarity on earth. "MY DEAR MASTER ROY: "I write to tell you we are safely here and I am quite well as I hope you are. It is very hot, but we don't do much work in the middle of the day and I like the place. I wish you could see the flowers and the black men and the funny houses and the colored dresses of the people. I am getting on, I hope, and my sergeant told me the other day I might get the stripe soon if I liked. I will keep a lookout as you told me for Master Dudley's father, but they say India is a bigger place than England, which I don't believe, for we're the grandest nation in the world, and the biggest and the best, all of us in the barrack-room agree to that. I saw a scorpion to-day which pinches when it catches you and draws the blood awful. There is a mountain battery with us now, and they use mules instead of horses, the hills are higher than those at home and it's hard work going up. There is not any fighting yet, but I am ready for it when it comes, and will do my duty to the Queen and you. My chum has helped me write this letter and I hope it pleases you. I am trying to endure hardness. Good-bye, Master Roy, "Your faithful ROB. "God bless you." "That's a much nicer letter, isn't it?" said Roy, in great delight; "that is quite as long as the one I sent him. I hope he will get some fighting soon." "Supposing if he does, and gets killed?" suggested Dudley. But Roy put this thought away from him. "I've known such lots of soldiers in books that come home, that I think he will. Besides God will take care of him. Do you remember the picture gallery at the general's the other day, Dudley?" "Yes, what about it?" "I was thinking about that soldier there with all his medals who broke his mother's heart; and then about the soldier boy the general said was the bravest. I suppose I would rather Rob was properly brave like that, than do great things in battle; but I should think he might do both, don't you think so?" And Dudley nodded, adding, "Rob won't drink or gamble, I'm quite sure." XVI DAVID AND JONATHAN Easter came, and to the boys' great delight Roy was so much stronger that it was settled he might accompany Dudley to a private boarding school for one term. Thanks were due to Miss Bertram for this arrangement; and she had great difficulty in obtaining her mother's consent to it. "I am sure the boys will get on best together; Roy will have a better chance of growing strong if he is with Dudley than if he is to mope by himself here. If we find he does not keep well, we can have him home again; and from all we hear of the school, the boys are most carefully looked after." And certainly to judge from Roy's appearance and spirits, this plan seemed most successful. It was a bright morning in April. The air was cold but dry, and the old garden was sweet with the scent of hyacinths and narcissuses. Bright beds of tulips and polyanthuses bordered the green lawn, and old Hal was surveying the results of his work with pride and satisfaction. Miss Bertram, in her leather gloves and garden apron, was busy in and out of the hothouses; and the boys, after scampering round in every one's way, had at last scrambled up to their favorite seat on the garden wall. "This time next week we shall be at school," said Dudley; "how funny we shall feel!" "We shan't be able to climb walls there, I suppose." "On half-holidays, perhaps we shall. It isn't all lessons; old Selby told us the happiest time of his life was when he was at school." "I mean to be happy," said Roy, a smile hovering about his lips. "And so do I," maintained Dudley, stoutly; "but it will be awfully strange at first. It's like Rob going off to be a soldier. We're going out 'to see life' nurse says." "Old Principle wants us to come to tea with him before we go. I saw him this morning going past our gate. He'll give us some of his good advice like he did Rob, but I don't mind him, he's such a jolly old chap." There was silence between them for a few minutes. Dudley was eating a slice of cake which he had brought out of the house with him, and Roy was dreamily watching the figures of his aunt and the old gardener moving about amongst the bright colored flower beds. "Dudley, we'll always keep friends, won't we?" "Of course we will." "But I dare say you'll have a lot of fellows at school who can get about quicker with you than I can; and I don't want to keep you back. I only want you to like me still best in your heart." "Now look here, old chap! You know that I couldn't like any other fellow better than you. You're much more likely to have a lot of chums than I am, because you're so clever. Look at Rob; he used to think nothing of me at all, and I got to think you didn't want me with you, after he came." "That was awful rot then, because we two are quite different to any other people. Only it would be a good thing to have a fresh promise together; a kind of Bible covenant, you know, before we go to school." "All right, here goes, then! Let us have your fists--now then, hear me! I, Dudley Bertram, vow and declare that Fitz Roy Bertram shall continue to be my dearest and nearest chum from this time forth, forevermore. Amen." Roy grasped Dudley's hands eagerly and earnestly, and repeated his vow in the same words, perhaps with additional emphasis; then with a sigh of relief, he turned to chatter of other things. Shortly after Miss Bertram came up to them with a newspaper in her hand. "Granny has just sent out this paper to me, boys. She thought you would like to know that the troops in the place where Rob is, have all been sent out on some expedition against a rebel chief in the mountains, so he will have some fighting now." "Hurrah!" shouted Dudley, "don't I wish I was with him! Does the newspaper mention his name, Aunt Judy?" "When shall we have a letter from him?" "Not for some time yet, because this is telegraphed. It will be all over before we hear. We must hope and pray that Rob may be kept safely through it." Miss Bertram looked grave, and the boys sobered down at once. "But, Aunt Judy, of course fighting is dreadful, but it is a soldier's duty, isn't it?" "And Rob is sure to do his duty." "Yes, boys, we will hope he will serve his Queen as well as he served us whilst here. Rob was a good boy: I wish there were more like him." And Miss Bertram moved away, whilst her little nephews worked off their excitement at this news, by jumping down from the wall, and performing a mimic battle in the pine wood outside. Very eagerly and impatiently did they look for a letter before they went off to school, but none came; and the last word that Roy said as he was leaving the house was,-- "Mind, Aunt Judy, you send on my letter when it comes as quick as lightning!" It was rather an ordeal for both the boys when the last leave-takings of all at home came. The old nurse wept profusely, and was only comforted by the assurance that she should go to her charges on the very first intimation of illness. Mrs. Bertram gave them such warnings against choosing evil companions, and becoming depraved in principles, that the boys were quite awed and depressed; and the servants, one and all, expressed such pity and sympathy for their departure, that Dudley at last confided to Roy: "If we were going to prison they couldn't look more shocked and gloomy." General Newton insisted upon taking them himself to school. "It looks well," he said to Miss Bertram, a little pompously; "for the boys to have a man at their back, and I will have a few words with the principal myself about Roy's delicacy of constitution. It will come with more force from me than from you." So the general was allowed to have his way, and by the time the boys were in the train with a large packet of sandwiches and cakes to while away the time, their spirits rose, and they declared that going off to school was "the jolliest thing out." It was late in the evening when they reached their destination. The school was not far from the sea, and the clergyman who kept it would never have more than thirty boarders; his wife, a sweet-faced gentlewoman, received the boys most kindly, and General Newton came away satisfied that it would prove a happy home as well as a good training for the motherless boys. Dudley and Roy were not long in making themselves at home; their high spirits made them general favorites amongst the boys; and even Roy did not feel himself out of place in the playground, whilst in the schoolroom he proved a quick and intelligent pupil. "The boys are happy, mother," said Miss Bertram one morning going into her mother's room and handing her two letters; "and Mrs. Hawthorn has written most favorably of them both." "I should think so," said Mrs. Bertram, stiffly, who though sternness itself to her grandsons was most indignant if any one dared to say a word against them to her; "they would not be true Bertrams if they were not favorites with all." She opened the letters and read-- "DEAR AUNT JUDY: "It's our hour for home letters. We like it here awfully. Mrs. Hawthorn is a brick, she lets me come into the drawing-room with her whenever I am tired, but I've only been in once yet because I like to watch the boys play best. I can bowl at cricket and bat too, and I give a boy called 'Gnat' twopence a game to do my runs for me. I'm collecting birds' eggs. There's a boy here who has got 250 of them. I mean to find a sea gull's nest, and then he'll swap twenty of his with me for one gull's, because he has never got one yet. There is a boy called 'Simple Simon,' he thinks I am a wonder because I let him run pins into my cork leg and never cry out. He does not know it's a sham leg and I shan't tell him. We should like another hamper very soon, please. Cook's gingerbread was A1. Give my love to granny, and tell her I take my tonic when I go to bed every night. Give my love to nurse. Tell old Principle Mr. Hawthorn would like to know such a clever man and see his cave. Send me Rob's letter directly it comes, please. We do drill in the gymnasium. "Your loving nephew "FITZ ROY BERTRAM." DEAR AUNT JUDY: "This is an awfully jolly school. I'd like you to be one of the boys. We are going to have a paper chase next Thursday, and I bet I'll lick some of the chaps at running. Roy and I sleep in the next beds to each other. I look after him when he will let me, he is top of his class and Tom Hunter says he is a plucky chap. Hunter is captain of the eleven. We go to bathe every morning down by the sea, and Hunter says his father is going to give him a boat of his own in the summer. There is a jolly tuck shop in the town. We can go to it every Saturday. There is a boy here called 'Fishy,' he wants to be my chum but I like one called 'Cheshire Cat' better, but I have no chum but Roy. Old Hawthorn only canes for lies. A boy got caned last night, and blubbered like a baby before he went in. I send my love to granny, and all of you. Roy expects Rob's letter every day. "Your loving nephew "DUDLEY. "P.S. Hunter says our cake has made his mouth water for the next." XVII ROY'S BIG OPPORTUNITY "Roy, Mrs. Hawthorn wants you. She has got some letters for you." Dudley came up excitedly to Roy, directly after dinner was over one Saturday afternoon. "And I say," he continued; "bring them out and let us go down to the beach to read them together. The tide will be out till the evening." Roy hastened off, and wondered at Mrs. Hawthorn's grave look. "Your aunt has sent me some letters to give you, Roy. She has only just received them herself. They are about your friend in India." "From Rob?" said Roy, with sparkling eyes. "Oh, I thought he never would write. How jolly! And I see his writing, that's my letter." He held out his hand eagerly but Mrs. Hawthorn laid her hand on his shoulder gently. "Yes, that was a letter he wrote to you before the fighting. Your aunt has heard since--from a nurse who nursed him." Something in her tone frightened Roy. "Has he been wounded? He is well again, isn't he?" "He is quite well now," she said, in a hushed voice. For a minute Roy gazed at her, with horror and doubt dawning in his dark eyes, then snatching the letters out of her hand he rushed out of the room; and seizing hold of Dudley in the hall he exclaimed almost frantically: "Dudley, something awful has happened to Rob, let us get away from the house and read these letters." He held them tightly in his hand, and would not let Dudley take them from his grasp, till they reached the beach. Then sitting down and leaning against an old weather-beaten rock, Roy, with trembling fingers, first unfolded Rob's letter to himself. "MY DEAR MASTER ROY: "We are going up to the mountains to-morrow to fight. The men say it will be stiff work, driving an old chief from his stronghold. Some of them don't like it, but I am ready. I am a better writer now, I hope, so want to tell you what I never have yet. I do thank you with all my heart for being so kind to a homeless lad and taking him in and giving him a happy home. And I thank you much more for teaching him to read and write and giving up your playtime to get him on. But if I was to thank you for a hundred years, I couldn't thank you enough for telling me about my Saviour and showing me the way to heaven. Every word you ever said is sticking to me. I mind all our talks, and if I may have had some rough times in trying to serve God first, I have been as happy as a king. And I have found that the Lord has kept me through the worst times, and I love Him with all my heart. When I get to heaven I shall be able to thank you proper. I do feel thankful to you and Master Dudley. And now good-bye and God bless you. "Your faithful ROB forever." Roy read this through. "He's all right, Dudley. What did she mean? Why did she look so funny?" Dudley shook his head. "I don't know, read what Aunt Judy says." Roy spread out his aunt's letter, and read it in unfaltering tones to the end. "MY POOR DEAR LITTLE JONATHAN: "If granny were not really very unwell I should have come straight off to soften the blow to you, but I send the letters which I have just received, and I have asked Mrs. Hawthorn to explain them to you. You must be comforted by knowing that our dear Rob has proved himself a hero and died a hero's death. I know you would like to see the nurse's letter written from the hospital, and I also send you one from the major of his regiment who used to know me years ago. I know you will be a brave boy and bear this trouble like a man. Tell Dudley to write to me by the first post to tell me you have got the letters safely. "Your loving aunt, "JULIA BERTRAM." The letter dropped from Roy's grasp, and he flung himself down on the beach face foremost. Dudley sat staring out at the sea without speaking. The blow had fallen so heavily, and so unexpectedly, that speech was not forthcoming. At last Roy looked up. "You read the other letters to me, Dudley," he said, in a choked voice. And Dudley, with a good deal of hesitation and effort interrupted by tears, read out as follows: "DEAR MADAM: "I have been asked to write to you about Robert White who I am sorry to say was brought into the military hospital the other day dangerously wounded. He lingered three days and was perfectly conscious up to the last. I never saw a braver or more patient lad. He told me all about your goodness to him, and his devotion to a little nephew of yours was most touching. His name was always on his lips. He asked me to tell you the circumstances of his death, and added, 'She will tell Master Roy, I have tried to do my duty. And I will be waiting now in heaven to welcome him. I would have liked to be his servant, but God wants me, and God comes first.' I heard from his sergeant the details of the engagement. A small party of them--White among them--had been ordered to go and take a certain mountain pass, and their officer in command was shot just before they reached it. I wish I could give you the account in the sergeant's own words as he told it me. I will try. 'We were marching up in single file, for the pass was a very narrow one. Through the clefts round it, we saw projecting the enemy's bayonets and spears, and we knew it was certain death for the first one in our ranks. I led the men, and I tell you, Mum, it was a cold-blooded way of meeting one's death, worse than in the fiercest battle fighting shoulder to shoulder! I pulled myself together, tried to say a prayer and marched on, wondering where I should be the next minute, when suddenly before I knew where I was, Corporal White had placed himself in front of me. "You are not ready, sergeant," he said; "I am, let me take your place." It wasn't time to stand arguing, but I tell you I felt queer when I saw the lad stretched for dead under my feet. We had a sharp skirmish, but we drove the enemy back, and the first one I went to look for was White.' "The sergeant told me this with a sob in his voice; he added that for months he had ridiculed White for his religion and tried to drive it out of him. But he came every morning to the hospital, and I saw him on his knees by White's bedside, offering up a prayer that he might be made a different man. "And now I must try to give you more details about White himself. I asked him if I could do anything for him the last day he was alive and then he asked me to write to you. He kept the photo of your little nephew under his pillow, and more than once he murmured--'God first, the Queen next, and then Master Roy--I'll be a faithful servant if I can!' Toward evening I saw he was sinking. I said 'Are you comfortable, corporal?' and he looked up with such a radiant smile: 'Safe in the arms of Jesus,' he murmured, and those were his last words. From what I have heard from those who knew him out here, I gather that his life was a singularly pure and upright one, and that young as he was he had influenced more than one careless drinking man to turn over a new leaf, and be the same as he was. I am forwarding his Bible and small belongings by this mail. "Believe me, dear madam, "Yours faithfully, "ROSE SMITH--Sister in Charge." Roy listened to this with breathless interest, his eyes shining through his tears. "Oh, Dudley, how splendid! oh, Rob, you have been a brave soldier, but I shall never, never see you again!" Down went the little head and a torrent of tears burst forth; whilst Dudley laying his curly head against his cousin's joined him in his weeping. One more letter remained to be read and this was the major's-- "DEAR MISS BERTRAM: "Having heard from you that one of my men was a protégé of yours, I take the opportunity of saying a word for the poor young fellow. He has been an exemplary character since he came into the regiment, and has, I hear, been a general favorite from his extreme good nature, in spite of being a religious lad. His influence was felt by all his comrades who came in contact with him, and I feel we have lost a smart and promising soldier. The sister in the hospital tells me she is writing particulars of his death. My sergeant is very much cut up over it. "With kind regards, "Believe me, yours truly, "W.A. ALDRIDGE--Major." "And that's all," said Dudley, mournfully; "why, I can't believe Rob is dead--we never knew he was ill." Roy took up the letter, and read through Rob's again. Then he looked across the blue ocean in front of him. "Just read me that bit of the nurse's letter of the fight, Dudley. Can't you think of him marching up to the enemy?" Dudley read the desired bit, and then with a deep drawn breath Roy said: "He acted out the song of the drummer boys, didn't he? He marched on to meet his death like they did. I wonder how it felt. Could you have put yourself in front of the sergeant, Dudley?" "If you had been the sergeant, I could," was the prompt reply. "But the sergeant hadn't been kind to him. Oh, Rob, Rob." "Don't cry so, old chap, you'll make yourself ill. He's happy now. Don't you think we'd better be going in?" But Roy would not leave the beach till the tea bell sounded, and then he crept in with such a white, weary face that kind Mrs. Hawthorn put him straight to bed, and stayed with him listening to his trouble till tired out and exhausted he fell asleep. When Dudley came to bed he found him clutching the letters tight in one hand, and muttering in his sleep, "God first, the Queen next, and then Master Roy!" Once in the night he was roused by Roy's grasping hold of his bedclothes. "Dudley, are you asleep?" "No," was the sleepy answer, "aren't you well?" "Yes, but I can't sleep. Tell me, was it my fault? Did I send Rob to his death? I wanted him to go. Did I make him go?" "Of course you didn't," and Dudley now was wide-awake. "He wanted to go first, and you didn't like it, don't you remember?" "Yes, I think he liked going; but if he hadn't heard that song perhaps he would never have gone, he would never have wanted to be a soldier." "He did a lot of good out there. I don't think he will be sorry now." Roy settled down to sleep again comforted; but for the next few days he seemed quite unable to give his mind to his lessons, and after some correspondence with Miss Bertram, it was arranged that he and Dudley should go home from Saturday to Monday. It was a sad home-coming, and when Roy saw Rob's Bible his grief burst out afresh. The pages showed how much they had been studied, but no verse was more marked than the one Roy had given him. "Endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ." On Sunday evening the boys paid a visit to old Principle. They had been talking about Rob, when Roy said wistfully, "Rob used his opportunity when he got it, didn't he? I expect he didn't know what a hero he was. I wonder if I shall ever get one come to me. I should like to do something great for God, and great for my country. I shall never give up wishing for a great opportunity to come to me!" Then old Principle spoke, and his tone was very solemn: "'Tis not I that will make you proud and uplifted, laddie, but you have been given the grandest opportunity that ever a poor mortal could be given, and you've taken it and made use of it, thank the Lord!" Both boys gazed up at him with open eyes and mouths. Dudley said after a minute's thought: "We've both had some little opportunities, and Roy has had the biggest. He saved me from drowning, and he went into the cave to fetch you!" "Those weren't proper opportunities," muttered Roy in scorn, "they aren't worth remembering; not after what Rob has done." "Yes, the opportunity I'm talking of was a grander one than them, though old Principle can't forget he owes his life perhaps to both of you boys' thought of him. 'Tis what the Lord Himself left His throne in heaven for," the old man proceeded in the same solemn tones; "'tis the one thing, the only thing we're told brings joy to the happy ones above; nay to the Almighty Himself, and 'tis wonderful that He will let us have the part in it we do!" "What do you mean?" questioned Roy awed and puzzled by old Principle's manner. "I mean this, laddie, you had an opportunity of leading an ignorant soul to the feet of his Saviour; of enlisting a soldier not only in the Queen's service but in the service of the King of Kings; of being the means of filling an empty barren soul with a flood of light and gladness; and of sending out a missionary in the midst of ungodliness and vice, to turn many from the error of their ways. Is it not a greater honor to help to save a soul from destruction, than bring glory to yourself by some feat of physical strength or skill? Thank the Lord on your knees to-night, that He sent you the opportunity you were always hankering after; and thank Him He gave you the grace to seize hold of it, and make use of it for His Glory, not your own!" Old Principle's burst of eloquence almost startled the boys, and they received it in silence; but later on, as they were walking home in the cool of the evening Roy linked his arm in Dudley's and said softly-- "I see it all now. My broken leg and everything. It was when I was too weak to go out with you, that Rob and I used to talk over these things." And Dudley replied, with an emphatic nod, "Yes, though you didn't know it, Rob was your big opportunity." FINIS. 
33667	----	[Frontispiece: "_STRAIGHT AWAY THE BIRD FLEW_" _See p._ 63] Two Prisoners By Thomas Nelson Page Illustrated in Color by Virginia Keep New York R. H. Russell MCMIII _Copyright, 1898_ _By_ ROBERT HOWARD RUSSELL _Copyright, 1903_ _By_ HARPER & BROTHERS _To the memory of_ ALFRED B. STAREY _ACKNOWLEDGMENTS_ are made to Messrs. Harper & Brothers, in whose magazine, _Harper's Young People_, when under the management of the late Alfred B. Starey, some years ago, this story in a condensed form first appeared. The story has been rewritten and amplified.--_T.N.P._ Illustrations "Straight Away the Bird Flew" . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ "Could See a Little Girl Walking About with her Nurse" "Mildred Played Out-of-Doors all Day Long" "'Are You a Princess?' Asked Molly" "'Mother,' She Whispered" Two Prisoners Squeezed in between other old dingy houses down a dirty, narrow street paved with cobble-stones, and having, in place of sidewalks, gutters filled with gray slop-water, stood a house, older and dingier than the rest. It had a battered and knock-kneed look, and it leant on the houses on either side of it, as if it were unable to stand up alone. The door was just on a level with the street, and in rainy weather the water poured in and ran through the narrow little passage leaving a silt of mud in which the children played and made tracks. The windows were broken in many places, and were stuffed with old rags, or in some places had bits of oilcloth nailed over the holes. It looked black and disreputable even in that miserable quarter, and it was. Only the poorest and the most unfortunate would stay in such a rookery. It seemed to be in charge of or, at least, ruled over by a woman named Mrs. O'Meath, a short, red faced creature, who said she had once been "a wash lady," but who had long given up a profession which required such constant use of water, and who now, so far as could be seen, used no liquid in any way except whiskey or beer. The dingiest room in this house was, perhaps, the little hall-cupboard at the head of the second flight of rickety stairs. It was small and dim. Its single window looked out over the tops of wretched little shingled houses in the bottom below to the backs of some huge warehouses beyond. The only break in the view of squalor was the blue sky over the top of the great branching elm shading the white back-portico of a large house up in the high part of the town several squares off. In this miserable cupboard, hardly fit to be called a room, unfurnished except with a bed and a broken chair, lived a person--a little girl--if one could be said to live who lies in bed all the time. You could hardly tell her age, for the thin face looked much older than the little crooked body. There were lines around the mouth and about the white face which might have been worn by years or only by suffering. The bed-ridden body was that of a child of ten or twelve. The arms and long hands looked as the face did--older--and as she lay in her narrow bed she might have been any moderate age. Her sandy hair was straight and faded; her dark eyes were large and sad. She was known to Mrs. O'Meath and the few people who knew her at all as "Molly." If she had any other name, it was not known. She had no father or mother, and was supposed by the lodgers to be some relative, perhaps a niece, of Mrs. O'Meath. She had never known her father. Her mother she remembered dimly, or thought she did; she was not sure. It was a dim memory of a great brightness in the shape of a young woman who was good to her and who seemed very beautiful, and it was all connected with green trees and grass, and blue skies, and birds flying about. The only other memory was of a parting, the lady covering her with kisses, and then of a great loneliness, when she did not come back, and then of a woman dropping her down the stairs--and ever since then she had been lying in bed. At least, that was her belief; she was not sure that the memory was not a dream. At least, all but the bed, that was real. Ever since she knew anything she had been lying a prisoner in bed, in that room or some other. She did not know how she got there. She must belong in some way to Mrs. O'Meath, for Mrs. O'Meath looked after her and kept others away. It was not much "looking after," at best. Mrs. O'Meath used to bring her her food, such as it was--it was not very much--and attend to her wants, and bring her things to sew, and make her sew them. Molly suffered sometimes, for she could not walk; she had never walked--at least, unless that vague recollection was true. She had once or twice asked Mrs. O'Meath about her mother, but she had soon stopped it. It always made Mrs. O'Meath angry, and she generally got drunk after it and was cross with her. Sometimes when Mrs. O'Meath got drunk she did not come up-stairs at all during the day. She was always kinder to her next day, however, and explained, with much regret, that she had been sick--too sick to get a mouthful for herself even; but other people who lived in the house told Molly that she was "just drunk," and Molly soon got to know the signs. Mrs. O'Meath would be cross and ugly and made her sew hard. Sometimes she used to threaten her with the Poorhouse. Molly did not know what that was; she just knew it was something dreadful (like a prison, she thought). She could not complain, however, for she knew very well that what Mrs. O'Meath did was out of charity for her and because she had promised some one to look after her. The little sewing Molly was able to do for her was not anything, she knew. Mrs. O'Meath often told her so. And it made her back ache so to sit up. The rest of the people in the house were so busy they did not have time to trouble themselves about the child, and Mrs. O'Meath was cross with them if they came "poking about," as she called it. Molly's companions were two books, or parts of books--one a torn copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress," the other a copy of the "Arabian Night's Entertainment." Neither of them was complete, but what remained she knew by heart. She used to question the women in the house, when they would stop at the door, about things outside; but they knew only about their neighbors and their quarrels and misfortunes--who got drunk; who had a new sofa or frock; who had been arrested or threatened by the police, and who had been refused a drink at the bar. Molly's questions about the fairies and great ladies simply set her down with them as a half crazy thing. So Molly was left to her own thoughts. Her little bed was fortunately right by the window, and she could look out over the houses. The pigeons which circled about or walked upon the roofs, pluming themselves and coquetting, and the little brown sparrows which flew around and quarrelled and complained, were her chief companions, and she used to make up stories about them. She soon learned to know them individually, even at a distance, and knew where they belonged. She learned their habits and observed their life. She knew which of them were quiet, and which were blustering; which were shy, and which greedy--most of them were this--and she used to feed them with crumbs on the window-sill. She gave them names out of her books and made up stories about them to herself. They were fairies or genii, and lived under spells; they saw things hidden from the eyes of men, and heard strange music which the ears of men could not catch. One bird, however, interested her more than all the others. It was a bird in a cage, which used to hang outside of the back window of a house not far from hers, but on another street. This bird Molly watched more closely than all the rest, and had more feeling for it. Shut up within the wire bars, whilst all the other birds were flying so free and joyous, it reminded her of herself. It had not been there very long. It was a mocking-bird, and sometimes it used to sing so that she could hear its notes clear and ringing. She felt how miserable it must be, confined behind its bars, when there was the whole sky outside for it to spread its wings under. (It used to sing almost fiercely at times. Molly was sure that it was a prince or princess imprisoned in that form.) Shortly after it first came it sang a great deal, yet Molly knew it was not for joy, but only to the sky and the birds outside; for it used to flutter and look frightened and angry whenever the woman leaned out of the window; and sometimes the birds would go and look at it in a curious, half pitying way, and it would try to fly, and would strike against the cage and fall down, and then it would stop singing for awhile. Molly would have loved to pet it, and then have turned it loose and seen it flying away singing. She knew what joy would have filled its little heart to see again the woods and the green fields and pastures and streams, for she knew how she would have felt to see them. She had never seen them in all her life, unless she had not dreamed that dream. Maybe, if it were set free, it would come back sometimes and would sing for her and tell her about freedom and the green fields. Or, maybe, it might even go to Heaven and tell her mother about her. The bird had not always been in a cage; it had been born in a lilac bush in a great garden, with other lilac bushes and tall hollyhocks of every hue, and rose bushes all around it; and it had been brought up there, and had found its mate in an orchard near by, where there were apple trees white with bloom and a little stream bordered with willows, which sometimes looked almost white, too, when the wind blew fresh and lifted the leaves. It had often sung all night long in the moonlight to its mate; and one day, when it was getting a breakfast for the young in its nest in the lilacs, it had been caught in a trap with slats to it; and a man had come and had carried it somewhere in a close basket, and had put it into a thing with bars all around it like a jail, and with a dirty floor; and a woman had bought it and had kept it shut up ever since in a cage. It had come near starving to death for a while, for at first it could not eat the seed and stuff which covered the bottom of its cage, they were so stale; but at last it had to eat, it was so hungry. It grew sick, though, not being used to being shut up in such a close, hot place, with people always moving about. Though its owner was kind to it, and talked to it, and was gentle with it, it could not forget its garden and freedom, and it hoped it would die. The woman used to hang it outside of her window, and after she went away it used to sing, hoping that its mate might hear, and, even if it could not release it, at least might come near enough to sing to it and tell it of its love and loneliness, and of the garden and the lilacs and the orchard and the dew. Then, again, when she did not come, it would grow melancholy, and sometimes would try desperately to break out of its prison. Sometimes at night it would dream of the lilacs and would sing. How Molly watched it and listened to it, and how she pitied it and hoped it knew she was there, too! One other thing that interested Molly greatly was the great gray house over beyond the other houses. She supposed it was a palace. There she could see a little girl walking about in the long upper gallery--sometimes alone and sometimes with a colored woman, her nurse. Molly had very keen eyes and could see clearly a long distance; but she could not, of course, see the features of the little girl. She could only tell that she had long brown hair, and wore beautiful dresses, sometimes white, sometimes blue, sometimes pink. She knew she must be beautiful, and wondered if she were a princess. She always pictured her so, and she was always on the watch for her. At times she came out with something in her arms, which Molly knew was a doll, and Molly used to fancy how the doll looked; it must have golden ringlets, and blue eyes, and pink cheeks, and look like a princess. Molly felt sure that the little girl must be a princess. The doll would be dressed in silk and embroidery. She set to work, and with her scraps, left from the pieces Mrs. O'Meath brought her, made a dress and a whole suit of clothes for it, such as she thought it ought to have. The dress was nothing but a little piece of shiny cambric, trimmed with her silk bits, and the underclothes were only cotton; but she flounced the dress with ends of colored thread and embroidered it beautifully, and folded it up in a piece of paper and stuck it away under the mattress where she kept her treasures. [Illustration: "_COULD SEE A LITTLE GIRL WALKING ABOUT WITH HER NURSE_"] One day she saw the little girl on the gallery playing with something that was not a doll; it ran around after her and hung on to her skirt. At first Molly could not see it well; but presently the little girl lifted it up in her arms, and Molly saw that it was a little dog, a fat, grayish-yellow puppy. For several days it used to come out and play with its little mistress, or she would play with it, lifting it, carrying it, feeding it, hugging and kissing it. Molly sighed. Oh, how she would have liked to have a little dog like that! Her little room looked darker and gloomier than ever. She turned over and tried to sleep, but could not. She was so lonely. She had nothing; she had never had anything. She could not ever hope to have a doll, but, oh, if she had a puppy! Next day she thought of it more than ever, and every day afterwards she thought of it. She even dreamed about it at night: a beautiful, fat, yellow puppy came and got up by her on the bed and cuddled up against her and went to sleep. She felt its breathing. She actually saved some of her dinner, her bones, next day, and hid them, to feel that she had some food for it, though she was hungry herself. No puppy came, however, and she had to give it up and content herself with looking out for the puppy on the white gallery under the elm beyond the housetops. II. The big house, the back of which, with its double porticos and great white pillars, Molly could see away up on the hill across the intervening squares, was almost as different from the rickety tenement in which the little cripple lay as daylight is from darkness. It was on one of the highest points in the best part of the city, and was set back in grounds laid off with flower beds and surrounded by a high iron fence. In front it looked out on a handsome park, where fountains played, and at the back, while it looked over a very poor part of the town, filled with small, wretched looking houses, they were so far beneath it that they were almost as much separated from it as though they had been in another city. A high wall and a hedge quite shut off everything in that direction, and it was only from the upper veranda that one knew there was any part of the town on that side. Here, however, Mildred, the little girl that Molly saw with her doll and puppy, liked best to play. Mildred was the daughter of Mr. Glendale, one of the leading men in the city, and she lived in this house in the winter. In the summer she lived in the country, in another house, quite as large as this, but very different. The city house was taller than that in the country, and had finer rooms and handsomer things. But, somehow, Mildred liked the place in the country best. The house in the country was long and had many rooms and curious corners with rambling passages leading to them. It was in a great yard with trees and shrubbery and flowers in it, with gardens about it filled with lilacs and rosebushes, and an orchard beyond, full of fruit trees. Green fields stretched all about it, where lambs and colts and calves played. And when in the country Mildred played out of doors all day long. [Illustration: "_MILDRED PLAYED OUT-OF-DOORS ALL DAY LONG_"] The city Mildred did not like. She was a little lame and had to wear braces; but the doctors had always said she must be kept out of doors, and she would become strong and outgrow her lameness. Thus she had been brought up in the country, and knew every corner and cranny there. She knew where the robins and mocking-birds nested; the posts where the bluebirds made their homes and brought up their young, and the hollow locusts where the brown Jenny Wrens kept house, with doors so tiny that Mildred could not have gotten her hand in them. In town she felt constrained. There she had to be dressed up and taken to walk by her mammy. In the country she never thought of her lameness; but in town she could not help it. It was hard not to be able to run about and play games like the other children. Rough boys, too, would talk about the braces she had to wear, and sometimes would even laugh at her. So she was shy, and often thought herself very wretched. Her mother and her mammy used to tell her that she was better off than most little girls, but Mildred could not think so. At least, they did not have to wear braces, and could run about where they pleased and play games and slide down hills without any one scolding them for ruining their dresses or not being a lady. Mildred often wished she were not a lady, and, though efforts were made to satisfy her least whim, she was dissatisfied and unhappy. A large playroom was set apart for her in town; and it was fitted up with everything that could be thought of. After the first few days it ceased to give her pleasure. The trouble was that it was all "fixed," her playthings were all "made playthings." She had to play according to rule; she could not do as she pleased. In the country she was free; she could run about the yard or garden, and play with the young birds and chickens and "live" things. One "live" thing was, in Mildred's eyes, worth all the "made" ones in the world; and if it was sick or crippled, she just loved it. A lame chicken that could not keep up with the rest of the brood, or a bird that had broken its wing falling out of the nest, was her pet and care. Her playroom in town was filled with dolls and toys of every size and kind, and in every condition, for a doll's condition is different from that of people; it depends not on the house it lives in and the wealth it has, but on the state of its body and features. Mildred's playhouse in the country was a corner of a closet, under the roof. There she used to have war with her mammy, for Mammy was very strict, and had severe ideas. So whenever a sick chicken or lame duck was found crying and tucked up in some of the doll's best dresses there was a battle. "I don't want dolls," Mildred would say. "It don't hurt a doll to break it; they don't care; and it don't help them to mend them; they can't grow. I want something I can get well and feed." Indeed, this was what her heart hungered for. What she wanted was company. She felt it more in the city than in the country. In town she had nothing but dolls. She used to think, "Oh, if I just had a chicken or a bird to pet and to love--something young and sweet!" The only place in town where she could do as she pleased was the upper back veranda. Thus she came to like it better than any other spot, and was oftenest there. III. One day when Mildred had been dressed up by her mammy and taken out to walk, as she stopped on the edge of the park to rest, a fat, fawn colored puppy, as soft as a ball of wool and as awkward as a baby, came waddling up to her on the street; pulled at her dress; rolled over her feet, and would not let her alone. Mildred was delighted with it. It was quite lame in one of its legs. She played with it, and hugged it, and fed it with a biscuit; and it licked her hands and pinched her with its little white, tack-like teeth. After a while Mammy tried to drive it away, but it would not go, it had taken too great a fancy to its new found playmate to leave her, and, though Mammy slapped at it and scolded it, and took a switch and beat it, it just ran off a little way and then turned around when they moved on and followed them again, coming up to them in the most cajoling and enticing way. When they reached home Mammy shut it out of the gate; but it stayed there and cried, and finally squeezed through the fence, scraping its little fat sides against the pickets, and, running up to the porch after them, slipped into the house, and actually ran and hid itself from Mammy under some furniture in the drawing-room. Mildred begged her father to let her keep the dog. He said she might, until they could find the owner, but that it was a beautiful puppy and the owner would probably want him. Mildred took him to her veranda and played with him, and that night she actually smuggled him into her bed; but Mammy found him and turned him out of so snug a retreat, and Mildred was glad to compromise on having him safely shut up in a box in the kitchen. Her father put an advertisement in the papers and every effort was made to find the owner, but he never appeared, which was perhaps due to Mildred's fervent prayers that he might not be found. She prayed hard that he might not come after Roy, as she named him, even if he had to die not to do so. From that time Mildred found a new life in the city. The two were always together, playing and romping. Roy was the most adorable of puppies, and was always doing the most comical and unexpected things. At times he would act like a baby, and other times would be as full of mischief as a boy. The upper gallery was Mildred's favorite place. Her mother had given it up to her. There she could run about, without having Mammy scold her for letting Roy scratch up the floor. Roy made havoc in her playroom; he appeared to have a special fondness for doll babies, and would chew their feet off recklessly. He did not have a wholly easy time, however, for Mildred used to insist on dressing him up and making him sleep in her doll's carriage, and, as Roy had the bad taste not to appreciate these honors, he had to be trained. Mammy had been strict enough with Mildred to give her very sound ideas of discipline, so sometimes Mildred used to coerce Roy till he rebelled with whines. It was all due to affection, however, and Roy used to whine more over the huggings his little mistress gave him than anything else. "What you squeezin' dat dog so for? Stop dat! Don' you heah him crying?" Mammy used to say. "'Tain' any use havin' a dog if you carn't squeeze him," Mildred would reply. Whenever they went out Roy used to go along. Roy was a most inquisitive dog. Curiosity was his besetting sin. It got him into more trouble than anything else. He used to chew up lace curtains, and taste the silk of the chair covers in the parlors just to try them, though anything else would have done just as well; and once or twice he actually tried the bottom of Mammy's dress. This was a dreadful mistake for him to make, as he found out, for Mammy allowed no liberties to be taken with her. "Ain't you got no better sense'n to be chawing my frock, dog?" she used to say. "Ef you ain't, I gwine teach you better." And she did. When he went out to walk he carried his curiosity to great limits; indeed, as it proved, to a disastrous length. He had grown somewhat and could run about without tripping up over himself every few steps; and as he grew a little older he was always poking into strange yards or around new corners. Once or twice he had come near getting into serious trouble, for large dogs suddenly bounded up from door-mats and out of unnoticed corners and appeared very curious to know what business he, a little, fat puppy, had coming into their premises uninvited. In such cases Roy always took out as hard as his little fat legs could carry him; or, if they ran after him, he just curled over on his back, holding up his feet in the most supplicating way, till no dog would have had the heart to hurt him. At last one day he disappeared, and no efforts could find him. He was hunted for high and low; advertisements were put in the papers; a reward was offered, and every exertion was made to find him; but in vain. The last that had been seen of him he was playing out in the street in front of the house, and had gone down a side street. It was in the direction of the worst part of the town, and, after he did not turn up, there was no doubt that he was stolen, or maybe killed. Mildred was inconsolable. She cried herself almost sick. Her father offered to get her another puppy just like Roy; but it did no good; it would not be Roy, she said; it would not be lame. The sight of the dolls which Roy had so often chewed with so much pleasure made her cry afresh. She prayed that he might come back to her. IV. That very afternoon on which Roy disappeared Molly had just got her dinner--a little soup, with a knuckle-bone in it, and a piece of bread--and she was thinking what a pity the bone was so large, as she was hungry, when she heard something on the staircase outside. The door had been left slightly open by the woman who had brought the dinner, and the sound was quite distinct; it sounded like something dragging up the steps. She thought it was a rat, for there were a great many of them about, and she was wishing the door was shut, for she did not want it to come into her room, and, besides, it was cold. But as she could not reach the door, she was about to begin on her dinner. Just as she started, however, she heard a soft and low step at her door, and she looked up. There came a dear, fat, yellow-gray puppy, with a black nose, walking in just as straight and solemnly as if he were a doctor and had a visit to pay. She did not dare to move for fear he would be frightened and go out; but he did not trouble himself. Walking straight on, he took a glance around as if to assure himself that this was the place he wanted, and then, looking at her, he gave a queer little switch of his tail, which twisted half his body in the funniest way, and, quickening his pace, came trotting up to her bed and reared up to try and climb up on it. Molly put her hand over on it, and he began to lick it rapidly and whimper in his efforts to get up. She gave a little cry of delight and, catching him, pulled him up on the bed. He immediately began to walk over her and lick her face. It was the first time she had ever been kissed in her life that she remembered. The next thing he did was to poke his little head into her soup bucket, and begin to eat as if it belonged to him. He finished the soup and began at the bone. This gave him the greatest delight. He licked and nibbled and chewed it; got his fat paws in, and worked over it. Molly, too, got the greatest pleasure out of it. She forgot that she was hungry. Suddenly he lay down and went fast asleep snuggled up against her. Molly felt as if he were a little fat baby curled up in her arm. Her life seemed suddenly to have opened. The only trouble was the fear that Mrs. O'Meath might take him away and drive him out. To prevent this was her dream. She thought of hiding him, but this was difficult; besides, she wanted to tell Mrs. O'Meath about him. The puppy stayed with her that night, sleeping beside her, and snuggling up against her like a little child. Molly had never spent so happy a night. Next morning by light he was awake hunting for his knuckle-bone, and when he got it went to work at it. In the midst of Molly's reflections Mrs. O'Meath walked in. Her eye fell on Roy, and Molly's heart sank. "What's that dirty dog doin' in this room?" Roy answered for himself. The hair on his back rose and he began to bark. Molly tried to check him. "Where did ye git him?" "Oh, Mrs. O'Meath, please, madam, let me keep him. He came from heaven. I haven't anything, and I want him so. Hush! You must not bark at Mrs. O'Meath. Hush, sir!" But Roy just pulled loose, and, standing astride of Molly, barked worse than ever. "Not I, indeed. Out he goes. 'Ave I to be slavin' meself to death for the two of you? It isn't enough for the wan of you, and him barkin' at me like that." "Oh, Mrs. O'Meath, please, madam! I will sew for you all my life, and do everything you want me to do," cried Molly. "O God, don't let her take him away from me!" she prayed. Whether it was that Mrs. O'Meath was troubled by the great, anxious eyes of the little girl, and did not have the heart to tear the dog away from her, or whether she thought that perhaps Roy was a piece of property worth preserving, she did not take him away. She simply contented herself with abusing him for "a loud-mouthed little baste," and threatening to "teach him manners by choking the red, noisy tongue out his empty head." She actually brought him a new knuckle-bone at dinner time, which greatly modified his hostility. No puppy can resist a knuckle-bone. Roy had been with Molly four days, and they had been the sweetest days of the crippled girl's life. He had got so that he would play with his bones on the floor, rolling them as a child does a ball. He would come when Molly called him, and would play with her, and he slept on her bed beside her. One day he walked out of the room and went down the steps. Molly called and called, but to no purpose. He had disappeared; he was gone. Molly's heart was almost broken. Her room suddenly became a prison; her life was too dark to bear. Mildred had prayed and prayed in vain that Roy might come back to her, and had at length confided to Mammy that she did not believe he was coming, and she was not going to pray any more. She was sure now that she was the most wretched child in the world. She took no pleasure in anything, even in the finest new doll she had ever seen. However, she was playing with her doll on the front portico that morning when Roy came walking up the steps as deliberately as if he had just gone out. She gave a little shriek of delight, and ran forward. Seeing her, he came trotting up, twisting himself as he always did when he was pleased. She called her mother. There was a great welcoming, and Roy was petted like the returned prodigal. Mildred determined never again to let him get out of her sight. Looking out of her little window next day Molly saw her little girl on the white gallery romping with a dog, and her heart was bitter with envy. She glanced down at the cage below her, and the mocking-bird, which, whilst she had the puppy she had almost forgotten, was drooping on his perch. Mildred, however, though she watched Roy closely, did not have a wholly easy time. After this Roy had a wandering fever. One day he was playing in the yard with Mildred, who was about to give him a roll she had. Near where they were playing stood a rose-bush covered with great red roses. Mildred thought it would be great fun to take a rose and tease Roy with it. So she turned and broke off from the bush one of the finest. It took some little time, and when she turned back, Roy, whether offended at being neglected or struck by some recollection, had squeezed through the fence, and started down the street. Mildred called after him, but he paid no attention to her. She opened the gate and ran after him. "Roy, Roy!" she called. "Here, Roy, come here." But Roy took no heed of her; he just trotted on. When she ran faster he ran, too, just as if she were a stranger. He turned into another street and then another. She had to hurry after him for fear she might lose him. He reached a dirty little narrow street and turned in. She was not far behind him, and she saw the door he went into. She ran to it. He was going up the stairs, climbing steadily one after another. As she did not see anybody to catch him she went on up after him. She saw him enter a door that was slightly ajar, and when she reached it she started to follow him in, but at the sight that caught her eye she stopped on the threshold. There was Roy up on a bed licking the face of a little girl, and acting as if he were wild with joy. V. Molly's day had been very dark. It was dark without and within. She had suffered a great deal. She had seen the little girl on the gallery playing with her puppy and running about, and her own life had seemed very wretched. Mrs. O'Meath was drunk and had threatened her with the Poorhouse, and she had not got any breakfast; she was very unhappy. It seemed to her that she and the bird in the cage outside the window were the most wretched things in the world. She thought of her mother, and wondered if she should go to Heaven if she would know her. Perhaps, she would not want her. She lay back and looked around her little dark room, and then shut her eyes and began to pray very hard. It was not much of a prayer, just a fragment, beginning, "Our Father, who art in Heaven"--which had somehow stuck in her memory, and which she always used when she wanted anything. Just then she heard a noise outside on the steps. It came pulling up step by step, and Roy trotted in at the open door and came bouncing and twisting over toward the bed. In an instant she had him on the bed, and he was licking her face and walking over her. She heard a noise at the door and was aware that some one was there, and, looking up, she saw standing in the door the most beautiful creature she had ever beheld--a little girl with brown curls and big brown eyes. She was bareheaded and beautifully dressed, and her eyes were wide open with surprise. In her hand she held a small green bough, with a wonderful red thing on the end. Molly thought she must be a fairy or an angel. Mildred had stopped for a moment and was looking at Molly. In her sympathy for the poor little thing lying there she forgot all about Roy. Her eyes were full of pity. "How do you do?" she said, coming softly to the bedside. "Oh, very well, thank you," said Molly. "My dog has come back." "Why, is he your dog, too? He's my dog," said Mildred. The face of the crippled child fell. "Is he? I thought he was mine. I hoped he was. He came in one day, and I didn't know he belonged to anybody but me. I had been lying here so long I hoped he would always stay with me." The face looked so sad. The large eyes looked wistful, and Mildred was sorry that she had claimed the dog. She thought for a moment. "I will give him to you," she said, eagerly. Molly's eyes lit up. "Oh, will you? Thank you so much." "Have you got anything to feed him on?" asked Mildred. "Yes, some bones I put away for him." She pulled from under the side of the bed two bones wrapt in paper, and Roy at once seized them and began to gnaw at them. "I have a roll here I will give him," said Mildred. "I shall have my lunch when I get back." She held out her roll. Molly's eyes glistened. "Can I have a little piece of it?" she asked timidly; "I haven't had any breakfast." Mildred's eyes opened wide. "Haven't had any breakfast, and nearly lunch time! Are you going to wait till luncheon?" "'Luncheon?' What's that?" said Molly. "I get dinner generally; but I am afraid I mayn't get any to-day. Mrs. O'Meath is drunk." She spoke of it as if it were a matter of course. Mildred's face was a study. The idea of such a thing as not getting enough to eat had never crossed her mind. She could not take it in. "Here, take this; eat all of it. I will get my mother to send you some dinner right away, and every day." She took hold of Molly's thin hand and stroked it in a caressing, motherly sort of way. "What is your name?" She leaned over her and stroked her little dry brow, as her mother did hers when she had a headache. "Molly." "Molly what?" "I don't believe I've got any other name," said Molly. "My mother was named Mary." "Where is she?" asked Mildred. "She's dead." "And your father?" "Kilt!" said Molly. "'T least I reckon he was. Mrs. O'Meath says he was. I don't know whether he's dead or not." Mildred's eyes opened wide. The idea of any one not knowing whether or not her father was living! "Who is Mrs. O'Meath?" she asked. "She's the lady 't takes care of me." "Your nurse?" "N--I don't know. She ain't my mother." "Well, she don't take very good care of you, I think," said Mildred, looking around with an air of disapproval. "Oh! she's drunk to-day," explained Molly, busily eating her bread. "Drunk!" Mildred's eyes opened with horror. "Yes. She'll be all right to-morrow." Her eyes, over the fragment of roll yet left, were fastened on the rose which Mildred, in her chase after Roy, had forgotten all about and still held in her hand. "What is that?" she asked, presently. "What? This rose?" Mildred held it out to her. "A rose!" The girl's eyes opened wide with wonder, and she took it in her thin hands as carefully as if it had been of fragile glass. "Oh! I never saw one before." "Never saw a rose before! Why, our garden and yard are full of them. I break them all the time." "Are you a princess?" asked Molly, gazing at her. [Illustration: "_'ARE YOU A PRINCESS?' ASKED MOLLY_"] Mildred burst out into a clear, ringing laugh. "No. A princess!" Molly was perhaps a little disappointed, or perhaps she did not wholly believe her. She stroked the rose tenderly, and then held it out to Mildred, though her eyes were still fastened on it hungrily. "You can have it," said Mildred, "for your own." "Oh! For my own? My very own?" exclaimed the cripple, her whole face lit up. Mildred nodded. "Oh! I never thought I should have a rose for my own, for my very own," she declared, holding it against her cheek, looking at it, smelling it and caressing it all at once, whilst Mildred looked on with open-eyed wonder and enjoyment. Mildred asked a great many questions, and Molly told her all she knew about herself. She had been lying there in that little room for years without ever going out, and she had never seen the country. Mildred learned all about her life there; about the birds outside and the bird in the cage. Mildred could see it from the window when she climbed upon the bed. She thought of the roses in her garden and of the birds that sang around her home, flying about among the trees, and to think that Molly had never seen them! Her heart ached. It dawned upon her that maybe she could arrange to have her see it. She asked what she would rather have than anything in the world. "In the whole world?" asked Molly. "Yes, in the whole world." Molly thought profoundly. "I would rather have that bird out there in the cage," she said. Mildred was surprised and a little disappointed. "Would you?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "Well, I will ask my mamma to give me some money to buy it for you. I've got to go now." Roy, who had been asleep, suddenly opened his eyes and looked lazily at her. He crawled a little closer up to Molly and went asleep again. "Here," said Molly, "take this." She pulled out of her little store inside the bed where she kept her treasures concealed a little bundle. It was her doll's wardrobe. Mildred opened it. "Why, how beautiful! Where did you get it? It would just fit one of my new dolls." "I made it," said Molly. "You did? I wish I could make anything like that," said Mildred, admiring the beautiful work. "Would you mind something?" Molly asked, timidly. "Would you let me kiss you?" She looked at her pathetically. Mildred leaned over and kissed the poor little pale lips. "Thank you," said Molly, with a flush on her pale cheeks. "Good-bye. I will come again," said Mildred, gravely. The eyes of the crippled girl brightened. "Oh! will you! Thank you." Mildred leaned over and kissed her again. As she walked down the dark stairs and out of the narrow damp street into the sunlight she seemed to enter a new world. It came to her how different her lot was, not only from that of the poor little crippled girl lying in that dark prison up that rickety stair, but from many and many others who wanted nearly everything she had in such abundance. She almost trembled to think how ungrateful and complaining she had been, and a new feeling seemed to take possession of her. VI. During the hour of Mildred's absence there had been great excitement at her home. They thought she was lost, and they were all hunting for her everywhere when she walked in with her little bundle in her hand. She might ordinarily have been punished for going off without permission, but now they were all too glad to see her back, and she had such a good excuse. Even Mammy confined herself to grumbling just a little. Mildred rushed to her mother's room and told her everything about her visit--about Molly and everything connected with her. She drew so graphic a picture of the little cripple's condition that her mother at once had a basket of food prepared and ordered her carriage. Mildred begged to go with her, so they set out at once. She had taken notice of the house, and, after driving up one or two streets, they found the right one. She asked her mother to let her carry the basket. When they entered the room Mildred's mother found it even worse than Mildred had pictured it; but a half hour's vigorous work made a great change, and that night, for the first time in many years, Molly slept in a clean bed and in as much comfort as her poor little broken body would admit. That night Mildred could hardly sleep for happiness. She had the money to buy the mocking-bird. Inquiry was made next day on the street where Mildred described the bird as being. It was found that the only bird on the block belonged to a Mrs. Johnson, "a widow lady who took in sewing." She lived in the third story back room of a certain house and had not been there very long, so no one could tell anything about her except that she owned "a mocker." This, however, was all that was needed, and Mildred was promised that next morning the bird should be bought and she should be allowed to take it to Molly with her own hands. She planned just the way in which she would surprise her. Next morning a servant was sent around to buy the bird. When he returned Mildred's high hopes were all dashed to the ground. The owner did not wish to sell the bird. The money was doubled and the servant was sent back. The answer came back: "The bird was not for sale." Mildred was grievously disappointed. She could not help crying. "Send to the dealer's and buy two birds," said her father. "Perhaps the bird is a pet," suggested her mother gently. Mildred thought Molly did not want any bird--she wanted that one, though she herself did not understand just why, unless it was that she knew that one could sing. "Then Molly is unreasonable," said Mildred's father. Mildred was unreasonable, too. If Molly did not want any other bird she did not want it either. She persuaded her mammy to walk around through the street where the woman with the mocking-bird lived. She knew the house. Just as she passed it the door opened and a woman came down the steps with a bundle. She was dressed in black and looked very poor, but she also looked very kind, and Mildred, who was gazing at the door as she came out, asked her timidly:--"Do you know Mrs. Johnson?" "Why, I am one Mrs. Johnson," she said. "Whom do you mean?" "The lady that has the mocking-bird," said Mildred. "I have a mocking-bird." "Have you? I mean the lady that has a mocking-bird and won't sell it," said Mildred, sadly. The woman looked down at her kindly and for a moment did not answer. Then she said:--"What do you know about it?" "I wanted to buy it," said Mildred. "I am sorry I could not sell it to you," said Mrs. Johnson kindly. "The bird is all the company I have, and besides I don't think it is well. It has not been singing much lately." "Hasn't it?" asked Mildred. "I wanted it for Molly. She wants it." "Who is Molly?" "The little crippled girl that lives around that way." She pointed. "She lies at a window away, way up. You can almost see her out of your window where the cage hangs. She saw the bird from her window where she lies and that's the reason she wants it." The woman looked down at the little girl thoughtfully. The big eyes were gazing up at her with a look of deep trouble in them. "You can have the bird," she said suddenly. "Wait, I will get it." And before Mildred could take in her good fortune she had gone back into the house, and a second later she brought down the cage. Mildred had not just understood that it was to be brought her then, and a new difficulty presented itself. "But I haven't any money," she said. "I don't want any money," said the poor lady. "But I can send it to you." "I don't want any; I give it to you." Mildred was not sure that she ought to accept the bird this way. "Do you think mamma would mind it?" she asked earnestly. "Not if she ever had a crippled child," said the woman. "She had. But I'm well now," said Mildred. She took the cage and bore it down the street, talking to her mammy of the joy Molly would have when she took the bird to her. The poor woman suddenly turned and went back into the house and up the stairs, and a second later was leaning out of the window scanning one by one every window in sight. Mildred and her mammy soon found the rickety house where Molly lived, and as Mildred climbed the stairs to Molly's room, though she walked as softly as she could, her heart was beating so she was afraid Molly might hear it. Curious faces peeped at her as she went up, for the visit to Molly of the day before was known, but Mildred did not mind them. She thought only of Molly and her joy. She reached the door and opened it softly and peeped in. Molly was leaning back on her pillow very white and languid; but she was looking for her, and she smiled eagerly as she caught her eye. Mildred walked in and held up the cage. Molly gave a little scream of delight and reached out her hands. "Oh, Mildred, is it--?" She turned and looked out of the window at the place where it used to hang. Yes, it was the same. Mildred had a warm sensation about the heart, which was perfect joy. "Where shall I put it?" she asked. "He looks droopy, but Mrs. Johnson says he used to sing all the time. He is not hungry, because he has feed in the cage. I don't know what is the matter with him." "I do," said Molly, softly. She showed where she wanted the cage, and Mildred climbed up and put it in the open window. Then she propped Molly up. She had never seen Molly's eyes so bright, and her cheeks had two spots of rich color in them. She looked really pretty. She put her arm around the cage caressingly. The frightened bird fluttered and uttered a little cry of fear. "Never mind," murmured Molly, softly, as she pulled at the catch. "It is only a minute more, and there will be the fields and the sky." The peg was drawn out and she opened the door wide. The bird did not come out; it just fluttered backwards and forwards. Molly pushed the cage a little further out of the window. The bird got quiet. It turned its head and looked out of the door. Mildred had clasped her hands tightly, and was looking on with speechless surprise. She thought it might be some spell of Molly's. The bird hopped out of the cage on to the window-sill and stood for a second in a patch of sunlight. It craned its neck and gazed all around curiously; turned and looked at the cage, and then fastened its eye steadily on Molly, shook itself in the warm air, gave a little trill, almost a whimper, and suddenly tore away in the sunlight. Mildred gave a little gasp, "Oh!" But Molly did not move a muscle. Straight away the bird flew, at first up and then on over the black houses and the smoke toward the blue sky over Mildred's home, his wings beating the fresh spring air, on, on, growing smaller to the sight, flying straight for the open country--a mere speck--till at last he faded from sight. Molly lay motionless, with her gaze still on the fair blue sky where he had disappeared, as if she could still see him. Her lips had been moving, but now were stilled. "There!" she said, softly. "At last!" and sank back on the pillow, her eyes closed, her face full of deep content. Mildred sat and gazed at her, at first with a vague wonder and then almost with awe. A new idea seemed to enter her mind. Could Molly be sending the mocking-bird to heaven with a message to her mother? VII. The poor lady who had given Mildred the bird was still leaning out of her window studying the backs of the houses on the other street down below hers in the direction the little girl had gone, when at the top window of one of the oldest and most tumbled-down houses there was a movement, and a flash of sunlight on something caught her eye. Yes, that was the place. Looking hard, she could make out what was going on. She could see the cage set on the window sill and two little figures on the bed at the open window. It was a flash of sunshine on the cage which had reached her. She knew now where the bird would hang, and if it ever sang again she would be able to hear it faintly. In the distant past she had heard birds singing at least that far off. She was watching intently, when to her astonishment she saw the bird step out on the sill into the sunlight, and the next second it dashed away. It had escaped! With a gasp she watched it until it rose above the housetops and disappeared far away in the depths of the blue sky. When it had quite disappeared she looked back at the window. The two little figures were there as still as ever. There was no excitement. Could they have set the bird free on purpose? She gazed at them long and earnestly, then turned and looked back at the sky where the bird had faded from her view. It was deep and fathomless, without a speck. Her thoughts followed the lost bird--away over the housetops into the country, into the past, into the illimitable heavens. Her life was all spread out before her like a panorama. She saw a beautiful country of green fields, where lambs skipped and played; gardens filled with flowers, and orchards with clouds of bloom, where bees hummed all day long and birds sang in the leafy coverts. A little girl was playing there as free as the birds; as joyous as the lambs. In time the little girl grew to be a big girl. And one day a lad came up the country road and stopped at the gate and looked across at her. He was shy, but pleasant looking, and after a moment he opened the gate and came straight up to her and asked for lodging. He was unlike any one else she had ever known. He had come from a State far away. He looked into her eyes, and she felt a sudden fear lest her father would not take him in. He was, however, given lodging, and he stayed on and on, and helped her father on the farm. He knew more than any one she had ever seen, and he bought her books and taught her. The girl's whole life seemed to open up under his influence, and in his presence. She used to wander with him through the pleasant woods; among the blossoms; in the moonlight; reading with him the books he brought her; finding new realms of which she had never dreamed. Then one evening he had leaned over, and put his arm around her and begun to speak as he had never spoken before. Her happiness was almost a pain, and yet it was only such pain as the bud must feel when the warm sun unfolds its petals and with its deep eyes seeks its fragrant heart. The young girl's life suddenly opened as that rose opens; and for a time she seemed to walk in paradise. Then clouds had gathered; talk of war disturbed the peace of her quiet life. Her lover was on one side, her father on the other. One day the storm burst. War came. Her husband felt that he must go. Her father said that if she went with him she could never more come back. Her heart was torn asunder and yet she could not hesitate. Her place was with her husband. So she had parted from her father; she half fainting with sorrow, he white and broken, yet both sustained by the sense of duty. For a time there had been great happiness in a baby girl, who, though feeble, was the light of her eyes. The doctors said if she were taken care of she would outgrow her trouble. Then came a bitterer parting than the first; her husband went off to the war, leaving her a stranger in a strange land, with only her baby. Even this was not the worst. Shortly came the terrible tidings that her husband had been desperately wounded and left in the enemy's hands. She must go to him. She learned at the last moment that she could not take her child with her. Yet it was life or death. She must go. Then Providence had seemed to open the way. Unexpectedly she met an old friend; a woman who had been a servant of her mother's in the old days back at her old home. Though she had one weakness, one fault, she was good and kind, and she had always been devoted to her. She would take care of her child. So she left the little girl with her, together with the few pieces of jewelry she possessed. She herself set off to go through the lines to her husband. It was a long journey. In time she arrived at the place where he had been. But it was too late. He was gone. All that was left was an unmarked mound in a field of mounds. Since that time there had been for her nothing but graves. Just then the lines were closely drawn, and before she could get back through them she had heard from the woman that her child was dead of a pestilence that had broken out, and she herself dying. So she was left. In her loneliness she had turned to her father. She could go to him. He, too, was dead. The war had killed him. His property had melted away. The old home had passed from his hands and he himself had gone, one of the unnamed and unnumbered victims. When at length the war had closed the widowed and childless woman had gone back to where she had left her child, to find at least its grave. But even this was denied her. There had been a pestilence, and in war so many are falling that a child's death makes no difference except to those who love it. The mother could not find even the grave to put a flower on. Since that time she had lived alone--always alone except for the memories of the past. Her gift with her needle enabled her to make enough to keep body and soul together. But her heart hungered for that it had lost. Of late her memories had gone back much to her girlhood; when she had walked among the fruit trees with the lambs frisking and the birds singing about her. She had bought the mocking-bird to sing to her. It bore her back to the time when her lover had walked beside her; and there had been no thought of war, with its blood and its graves. She tried to blot out that dreadful time; to obliterate it from her memory; to bridge it over, except for the memory of her child--with its touch, its voice, its presence. Always that called her, and she prayed--if she only might find its grave. For this she had come back once more to the place where she had left it, and where she knew its grave was. She had not found it; but had put flowers on many unmarked little mounds; and had blessed with her tender eyes many unknown little crippled children. The mention of the crippled girl had opened her heart. And now when she lifted her head she was in some sort comforted. She rose and took up her bundle, and once more went down into the street. She determined to go and see the little crippled child who had let her bird go. She could not go, however, till next day, and when she went she learned that the child had been taken away by a rich lady and sent to a hospital. This was all the people she saw knew. She did not see Mrs. O'Meath. VIII. As soon as Molly could be moved she was taken from the hospital out to Mildred's country home. She had pined so to see the country that the doctors said it might start her towards recovery and would certainly do her good. So Mildred's mother had closed her town house earlier than usual and moved out before Easter. From the very beginning it seemed to do her good. The fresh air and sunshine; the trees just putting on their spring apparel; the tender green grass; the flowers, and the orchards filled with bloom, all entranced her and invigorated her. She loved to be out of doors, to lie and look at the blue sky, with the great white clouds sailing away up in it (she said they were great snow islands that floated about in the blue air), and to listen to the songs of the birds flitting about in the shrubbery and trees. She said she felt just as that mocking bird must have done that day when he stood in the warm sunshine and saw the blue sky above him when he got out of prison. Mildred used to take her playthings and stay with her, and read to her out of her story books, whilst Roy would lie around and look lazy and contented. There was no place where he loved to sleep so well as on Molly's couch, snuggled up against her. One afternoon she was lying on her couch out in the yard. Mildred was sitting by her, and Roy was asleep against her arm. It was Easter Sunday, and everything was unusually quiet and peaceful. There had been a good deal of talk about Easter. Molly did not know what Easter was, and she had been wondering all day. Mildred herself had mentioned it several times. She had a beautiful new dress, and Mrs. Johnson, the lady who had given her the mocking bird, and for whom her mother had gotten a place, had made it. Still to Molly's mind this was not all that Easter meant. Molly had heard something about somebody coming back from the dead. This had set her to thinking all day. She knew about Sunday, because that day people did not go to work as on other days; and could not go into the barroom by the front door, and some of them went to church. But Easter was different. Something strange was to happen. But nothing had happened. Mildred had been to church with her mother; but no one had come. Even the poor lady who had made Mildred's dress, and who had been invited to come out to the country and spend Easter, had not appeared; and had written that she could not come until the evening, if she could get off at all. So Molly was puzzled and a little disappointed. She had waited all day and no one had come. She must have misunderstood or else they had told her a lie. Now Mildred was sitting by her. "Mildred," she said. Mildred leaned over her. "Well, what is it?" "Do you think my mother will know me when I get to Heaven? I was so little when she went away." Mildred told her that a mother would know her child always. "Just so." This seemed to satisfy her. A mocking-bird on a lilac bush began to sing. It sang until the air seemed to be filled with music. "Molly," said Mildred, "I wonder if that is not your mocking-bird?" Molly's eyes turned slowly in that direction. "I think maybe he went to Heaven that day, to my mother," she said, softly. "And told your mother that you set him free?" Suddenly Molly spoke, slowly and softly. "Mildred, I am very happy," she said. "If I had all the money in the world, do you know what I would do with it?" "No. What?" Mildred took her hand and leaned over her. She did not answer immediately. She was looking at the far away horizon beyond the blue hills, where the softly fading light was turning the sunset sky into a land of purple and gold. Presently she said:-- "I would buy up all the birds in the world that are in cages--every one--and set them free." Mildred looked at her in vague wonder. "Mildred, what is Easter?" she asked suddenly. Mildred was astonished. The idea of any one not knowing what Easter was! "Why Easter was the time when----" She paused to find just the word she wanted, and as it did not come to her mind she began to think what Easter really was. It was harder to explain than she had thought. Of course, she knew; but she just could not remember exactly all about it. Oh! Yes---- "Why Easter is the time when you have nice things--a new dress and don't have to give up butter or candy, or any thing you want to eat--don't you know?" This was beyond Molly's experience. She did not know. Mildred was not satisfied with her explanation. She added to it. "Why, it's the day Christ rose from the dead--Don't you know?" "Is that a fairy tale?" asked Molly. "No, of course not; it's the truth." Mildred looked much shocked. Molly looked a little disappointed. "Oh! I was in hopes it was a fairy tale. Tell me about it." Mildred began, and told the story; at first in vague sentences merely to recall it to Molly's memory, and then as she saw the interest of her hearer, in full detail with the graphic force of her own absolute belief. She had herself never before felt the reality of the story as she did now, with Molly's eager eyes fastened on her face; her white face filled with wonder and earnestness, her thin hand holding hers, and at times clutching it until it almost hurt her. She began with the birth in the manger and ended with the rising in the garden. "And did he sure 'nough come back--what you call rise again?" said Molly presently. Mildred nodded. She was still under the spell of Molly's vivid realization of it. "And where is He now?" "He went back up to Heaven." Mildred looked up in the sky. Molly too looked up and scanned the pale blue cloudless depths. "Can He send back anybody he wants?" Mildred thought so. "Then I'm going to ask Him to send back my mother to me," she said. "I did not know about Him. I always asked God; but I never thought He would do it. I always thought He had too much to do to think about a poor little thing like me--except once. I asked Him not to let Mrs. O'Meath take Roy and He didn't. But I never asked that other one. Maybe that's the reason He never did it before. He'll know about it and maybe He'll do it, because He was a little child too once, and he must know how bad I want her." She ducked her head down, squeezed her eyes tightly, and remained so about two minutes. This was a little too complicated for Mildred's simple theology. She was puzzled; but she watched Molly with a vague, curious interest. Molly opened her eyes and gazed up to the skies with an air of deep relief, not unmingled with curiosity. "Now, I'm going to see if He'll do it," she said. "I've asked Him real hard three times, and if He won't do it for that I ain't ever goin' to ask Him no more." Mildred felt shocked, but somehow Molly's eagerness impressed her, and she too followed Molly's gaze up into the deep ether, and sat in silence. Roy moved his head a little and licked Molly's hand gently. The mocking-bird sang sweetly in the softening light. The only other sound was that of footsteps coming softly across the grass. Mildred, half turning, could see from where she sat. Her mother and another person, who, as she came near, Mildred saw was Mrs. Johnson, the poor woman who had given her the mocking-bird, were coming together. As they came nearer Mildred's mother was just saying:-- "This is the little girl who turned the bird loose." Molly was still watching the far off skies, too earnest to hear the new comers. Mrs. Johnson's eyes fell on her. She stopped; started on again; stopped again, and drew her hand across her forehead, as if she were dreaming and trying to awake. The next second with a cry she was down on her knees beside Molly's lounge, her arms around her. "My baby----!" The cripple lay quite still, gazing into her eyes with vague wonder. Then a sudden light seemed to fall across her face. "Mother?" she whispered, with an awed inquiry in her tone. Then as she caught the look in the eyes fastened on hers the inquiry passed away and a deeper light seemed to illumine her face. [Illustration: "_'MOTHER,' SHE WHISPERED_"] "Mother!" she cried. THE END 
35966	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 35966-h.htm or 35966-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/35966/35966-h/35966-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/35966/35966-h.zip) [Illustration: LOVELINESS] LOVELINESS A Story by ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS "Be my benediction said, With my hand upon thy head, Gentle fellow-creature!" E. B. BROWNING. Boston and New York Houghton, Mifflin and Company The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1900 The Illustrations Are by Sarah S. Stilwell Copyright, 1899, by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward and Houghton, Mifflin and Co. All Rights Reserved _For the smoke of their torment ascendeth._ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE LOVELINESS _Frontispiece_ THE MAID STOOD LOOKING IDLY ABOUT 14 "TILL LOVELINESS COMES HOME" 20 THROUGH THE BENDING SHRUBBERY 40 LOVELINESS. Loveliness sat on an eider-down cushion embroidered with cherry-colored puppies on a pearl satin cover. The puppies had gold eyes. They were drinking a saucer of green milk. Loveliness wore a new necktie, of cherry, a shade or two brighter than the puppies, and a pearl-gray, or one might call it a silver-gray jacket. He was sitting in the broad window sill, with his head tipped a little, thoughtfully, towards the left side, as the heads of nervous people are said to incline. He was dreamily watching the street, looking for any one of a few friends of his who might pass by, and for the letter-carrier, who was somewhat late. Loveliness had dark, brilliant eyes, remarkably alert, but reflective when in repose. Part of their charm lay in the fact that one must watch for their best expression; for Loveliness wore bangs. He had a small and delicate nose, not guiltless of an aristocratic tip, with a suspicion of a sniff at the inferior orders of society. In truth, Loveliness was an aristocrat to the end of his tongue, which curled daintily against his opalescent teeth. At this moment it lay between his teeth, and hung forward as if he held a roseleaf in his lips; and this was the final evidence of his birth and breeding. For Loveliness was a little dog; a silver Yorkshire, blue of blood and delicately reared,--a tiny creature, the essence of tenderness; set, soul and body, to one only tune. To love and to be beloved,--that was his life. He knew no other, nor up to this time could he conceive of any other; for he was as devotedly beloved as he was passionately loving. His brain was in his heart. In saying this one does not question the quality of the brain, any more than one does in saying a similar thing of a woman. Indeed, considered as an intellect, his was of the highest order known to his race. Loveliness would have been interesting as a psychological study, had he not been absorbing as an affectional occupation. His family and friends often said, "How clever!" but not until after they had said, "How dear he is!" The order of precedence in this summary of character is the most enviable that can be experienced by human beings. But the dog took it as a matter of course. This little creature loved a number of people on a sliding scale of intimacy, carefully guarded, as the intimacies of the high-born usually are; but one he loved first, most, best of all, and profoundly. I have called him Loveliness because it was the pet name, the "little name," given to him by this person. In point of fact, he answered to a variety of appellations, more or less recognized by society; of these the most lawful and the least agreeable to himself was Mop. It was a disputed point whether this were an ancestral name, or whether he had received it from the dog store, whence he had emerged at the beginning of history,--the shaggiest, scrubbiest, raggedest, wildest little terrier that ever boasted of a high descent. People of a low type, those whose imagination was bounded by menial similes, or persons of that too ready inclination to the humorous which fails to consider the possible injustice or unkindness that it may involve, had in Mop's infancy found a base pleasure in attaching to him such epithets as window-washer, scrubbing-brush, feather-duster, and footmuff. But these had not adhered. Loveliness had. It bade fair, at the time of our story, to outlive every other name. The little dog had both friends and acquaintances on the street where the professor lived; and he watched for them from his cushion in the window, hours at a time. There was the cabman, the academic-looking cabman, who was the favorite of the faculty, and who hurrahed and snapped his whip at the Yorkshire as he passed by; there was the newsboy who brought the Sunday papers, and who whistled at Loveliness, and made faces, and called him Mop. To-day there was a dark-faced man, a stranger, standing across the street, and regarding the professor's house with the unpleasant look of the foreign and ill-natured. This man had eyebrows that met in a straight, black line upon his forehead, and he wore a yellow jersey. The dog threw back his supercilious little head and barked at the yellow jersey severely. But at that moment he saw the carrier, who ran up the steps laughing, and brought a gumdrop in a sealed envelope addressed to Loveliness. There was a large mail that afternoon, including a pile of pamphlets and circulars of the varied description that haunts professors' houses. Kathleen, the parlor maid,--another particular friend of the terrier's--took the mail up to the study, but dropped one of the pamphlets on the stairs. The dog rebuked her carelessness (after he had given his attention to the carrier's gumdrop) by picking the pamphlet up and bringing it back to the window seat, where he opened and dog-eared it with a literary manner for a while, until suddenly he forgot it altogether, and dropped it on the floor, and sprang, bounding. For the dearest person in the world had called him in a whisper,--"Love-li-ness!" And the dearest face in the world appeared above him and melted into laughing tenderness. "Loveliness! Where's my _Love_-li-ness?" A little girl had come into the room, a girl of between five and six years, but so small that one would scarcely have guessed her to be four,--a beautiful child, but transparent of coloring, and bearing in her delicate face the pathetic patience which only sick children, of all human creatures, ever show. She was exquisitely formed, but one little foot halted and stepped weakly on the thick carpet. Her organs of speech were perfect in mechanism, but often she did not speak quite aloud. Sometimes, on her weaker days, she carried a small crutch. They called her Adah. She came in without her crutch that afternoon; she was feeling quite strong and happy. The little dog sprang to her heart, and she crooned over him, sitting beside him on the window seat and whispering in her plaintive voice: "Love-li-ness! I can't live wivout you anover _min_ute, Loveliness! I can't _live_ wivout you!" She put her head down on the pearl-gray satin pillow with the cherry puppies, and the dog put his face beside hers. He was kept as sweet and clean as his little mistress, and he had no playfellow except herself, and never went away from home unless at the end of a gray satin ribbon leash. At all events, the two _would_ occupy the same pillow, and all idle effort to struggle with this fact had ceased in the household. Loveliness sighed one of the long sighs of perfect content recognized by all owners and lovers of dogs as one of the happiest sounds in this sad world, and laid his cheek to hers quietly. He asked nothing more of life. He had forgotten the world and all that was therein. He looked no longer for the cabman, the newsboy, or the carrier, and the man with the eyebrows had gone away. The universe did not exist; he and she were together. Heaven had happened. The dog glanced through half-closed, blissful eyes at the yellow hair--"eighteen carats fine"--that fell against his silver bangs. His short ecstatic breath mingled with the gentle breathing of the child. She talked to him in broken rhapsodies. She called him quaint, pet names of her own,--"Dearness" and "Daintiness," "Mopsiness" and "Preciousness," and "Dearest-in-the-World," and who knew what besides? Only the angels who are admitted to the souls of children and the hearts of little dogs could have understood that interview. No member of the professor's household ever interfered with the attachment between the child and the dog, which was set apart as one of the higher facts in the family life. Indeed, it had its own page of sacred history, which read on this wise:-- When Adah was a walking baby, two and a half years before the time of which we tell, the terrier was in the first proud flush of enthusiasm which an intelligent dog feels in the mastery of little feats and tricks. Of these he had a varied and interesting repertoire. His vocabulary, too, was large. At the date of our story it had reached one hundred and thirty words. It was juvenile and more limited at the time when the sacred page was written, but still beyond the average canine proficiency. Loveliness had always shown a genius for the English language. He could not speak it, but he tried harder than any other dog I ever knew to do so; and he grew to understand with ease an incredibly large part of the usual conversation of the family. It could never be proved that he followed--or did not follow--the professor of psychology in a discussion on the Critique of Pure Reason; but his mental grasp of ordinary topics was alert and logical. He sneezed when he was cold and wanted a window shut, and barked twice when his delicate china water-cup was empty. When the fire department rang by, or a stove in the house was left on draught too long, and he wished to call attention to the circumstance, he barked four times. Besides the commonplace accomplishments of turning somersaults, being a dead dog, sitting up to beg for things, and shaking hands, Loveliness had some attainments peculiar to himself. One of these was in itself scientifically interesting. This luxurious, daintily fed little creature, who had never known an hour's want nor any deprivation that he could remember, led by the blind instinct of starving, savage ancestors skulking in forests where the claw and tooth of every living thing were against every other, conscientiously sought to bury, against future exigencies, any kind of food for which he had no appetite. The remnants of his dog biscuit, his saucer of weak tea, an unpalatable dinner, alike received the treatment given to the bare bone of his forefathers when it was driven into the ground. Anything served the purpose of the earth,--the rough, wild earth of whose real nature the house pet knew so little. A newspaper, a glove, a handkerchief, a sheet of the professor's manuscript, a hearth brush, or a rug would answer. Drag these laboriously, and push them perseveringly to their places! Cover the saucer or the plate from sight with a solemn persistence that the starving, howling ancestor would have respected! Thus Loveliness recognized the laws of heredity. But the corners of rugs were, and remained, the favorite burying sod. On that black day when the baby girl had used her white apron by way of blowers before the reluctant nursery fire, the little dog was alone in the room with her. It had so happened. Suddenly, through the busy house resounded four shrill, staccato barks. In the vocabulary of Loveliness this meant, "Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!" Borne with them came the terrible cries of the child. When the mother and the nursemaid got to the spot, the baby was ablaze from her white apron to her yellow hair. She was writhing on the floor. The terrier, his own silver locks scorching, and his paws in the flame, was trying to cover his young mistress with the big Persian rug, in itself a load for a collie. He had so far succeeded that the progress of the flames had been checked. For years the professor speculated on the problems raised by this tremendous incident. Whether the Yorkshire regarded the fire as a superfluity, like a dinner one does not want,--but that was far-fetched. Whether he knew that wool puts out fire,--but that was incredible. Whether this, that, or the other, no man could say, or ever has. Perhaps the intellect of the dog, roused to its utmost by the demand upon his heart, blindly leaped to its most difficult exertion. It was always hard to cover things with rugs. In this extremity one must do the hardest. Or did sheer love teach him to choose, in a moment that might have made a fool or a lunatic of a man, the only one or two of several processes which could by any means reach the emergency? At all events, the dog saved the child. And she became henceforth the saint and idol of the family, and he its totem and its hero. The two stood together in one niche above the household altar. It was impossible to separate them. But after that terrible hour little Adah was as she was: frail, uncertain of step, scarred on the pearl of her neck and the rose of her cheek; not with full command of her voice; more nervously deficient than organically defective,--but a perfect being marred. Her father said, "She goeth lame and lovely." On the afternoon when our story began, the child and the Yorkshire sat cuddled together in the broad window seat for a long time. Blessedness sat with them. Adah talked in low love tones, using a language as incomprehensible to other people as the tongue in which the dog replied to her. They carried on long conversations, broken only by caresses, and by barks of bliss or jets of laughter. The child tired herself with laughing and loving, and the dog watched her; he did not sleep; he silently lapped the fingers of her little hand that lay like a cameo upon the silken cushion. Some one came in and said in a low voice: "She is tired out. She must have her supper and be put to bed." Afterwards it was remembered that she clung to Loveliness and cried a little, foolishly; fretting that she did not want her supper, and demanding that the dog should go up to bed with her and be put at once into his basket by her side. This was gently refused. "You shall see him in the morning," they told her. Kathleen put the little dog down forcibly from the arms of the child, who wailed at the separation. She called back over the balusters: "_Love_-li-ness! Good-by, Loveliness! When we're grown up, we'll _al_ways be togever, Loveliness!" The dog barked rebelliously for a few minutes; then sighed, and accepted the situation. He ran back and picked up the pamphlet which Kathleen had dropped, and carried it upstairs to the professor's study, where he laid it on the lowest shelf of the revolving bookcase. The professor glanced at the dog-eared pages and smiled. The pamphlet was one of the innumerable throng issued by some philanthropic society devoted to improving the condition of animals. When Kathleen came downstairs she found the dog standing at the front door, patiently asking that it might be opened for him. She went down the steps; for it was the rule of the house never to allow the most helpless member of the family at liberty unguarded. The evening was soft, and the maid stood looking idly about. A man in a yellow jersey, and with straight, black eyebrows, was on the other side of the street; but he did not look over. The suburban town was still and pleasant; advancing spring was in the air; no one was passing; only a negro boy lolled on the old-fashioned fence, and shouted: "Hi! Yi! Yi! Look a' dem crows carryin' off a b'iled pertater 'n' a piecer squushed pie!" [Illustration: THE MAID STOOD LOOKING IDLY ABOUT] Kathleen, for very vacuity of mind, turned to look. Neither potatoes nor squash pie were to be seen careering through the skies; nor, in fact, were there any crows. "I'll have yez arrested for sarse and slander!" cried Kathleen vigorously. But the negro boy had disappeared. So had the man in the yellow jersey. "Where's me dog?" muttered Kathleen. It was dipping dusk; it was deepening to dark. She called. Loveliness was an obedient little fellow always; but he did not reply. The maid called again; she examined the front yard and the premises,--slowly, for she was afraid to go in and tell. With the imbecility of the timid and the erring, she took too much time in a fruitless and unintelligent search before she went, trembling, into the house. Kathleen felt that this was the greatest emergency that had occurred since the baby was burned. She went straight to the master's door. "God have mercy on me, but I've lost the little dog, sir!" The professor wheeled around in his study chair. "There was a nigger and a squashed crow--but indeed I never left the little dog, as you bid me, sir--I never left him for the space of me breath between me lips--and when I draws it in the little dog warn't nowhere.... Oh, whatever'll _she_ say? Whatever'll _she_ do? Mother of God, forgive me soul! Who'll tell _her_?" Who indeed? The professor of psychology turned as pale as the paper on which he was about to write his next famous and inexplicable lecture. He pushed by Kathleen and sprang for his hat. But the child's mother had already run out, bareheaded, into the street, calling the dog as she ran. Nora, the cook, left the dinner to burn, and followed. Kathleen softly shut the nursery door, "So _she_ won't hear," and, sobbing, crept downstairs. The family gathered as if under the black wing of an unspeakable tragedy. They scoured the premises and the street, while the professor rang in the police call. But Loveliness was not to be found. The carrier came by, on his way home after his day's work was over. "Great Scott!" he cried. "I'd rather have lost a month's pay. Does _she_ know?" The newsboy trotted up, and stopped whistling. "Hully gee!" he said. "What'll the little _gell_ dew?" The popular cabman came by; he was driving the president, who let down the window and asked what had happened. The driver uttered a mild and academic oath. "Me 'n' my horse, we're at your disposal as soon as me and the president have got to faculty meeting." But the president of the University of St. George put his long legs out of the carriage, and bowed the professor into it. "The cab is at your service now," he said anxiously, "and so am I. They can get along without us for a while, to-night. Anything that I can do to help you, Professor Premice, in this--real calamity--How does the child bear it?" "Poor little kid!" muttered the cabman. "And to think how I used to snap my whip at 'em in the window!" "An' how I used to bring him candy, contrary to the postal laws!" sighed the carrier. The cab driver and the postman spoke as if the dog and the child were both already dead. The group broke slowly and sadly at last. The mother and the maids crept tearfully into the house. The professor, the carrier, the newsboy, and the president threw themselves into the matter as if they had been hunting for a lost child. The president deferred his engagement at the faculty meeting for two hours,--which gave about time for a faculty meeting to get under way. The professor and the cab driver and the police ransacked the town till nearly dawn. It began to rain, and the night grew chilly. The carrier went home, looking like a man in the shade of a public calamity. The newsboy ran around in the storm, shadowing all the negro boys he met, and whistling for Loveliness in dark places where low-bred curs answered him, and yellow mongrels snarled at his soaked heels. But the professor had the worst of it; for when he came in, drenched and tired, in the early morning, a little figure in a lace-trimmed nightgown stood at the head of the stairs, waiting for him. The professor gave one glance at the child's face, and instinctively covered his own. He could not bear to look at her. "Papa," said Adah, limping down the stairs, "where is Loveliness? I can't find him! Oh, I _can_not find him! And nobody will tell me where he's gone to. Papa? I arxpect _you_ to tell me 'e trufe. WHERE is my Loveliness?" * * * * * Her mother could not comfort or control her. She clung to her father's heart the remainder of the night; moaning at intervals, then unnaturally and piteously still. The rain dashed on the windows, for the storm increased; the child shrank and shivered. "He's _never_ been out in 'e rain, Papa! He will be wet--and frightened. Papa, who will give him his little baxet, and cover him up warm? Papa! Papa! who will be _kind_ to Loveliness?" In the broad daylight Adah fell into a short sleep. She woke with a start and a cry, and asked for the dog. "He'll come home to breakfust," she said, with quivering lip. "Tell Nora to have some sugar on his mush when he comes home." But Loveliness did not come home to breakfast. The child refused to eat her own. She hurried down and crept to the broad window seat, to watch the street. When she saw the empty gray satin cushion, she flung herself face down with a heart-rending cry. "Papa! Papa! Papa! I never had a 'fliction before. Oh, Papa, my heart will break itself apart. Papa, can't you know enough to comfort you little girl? I can't _live_ wivout my Loveliness. Oh, Papa! Papa!" * * * * * This was in the decline of March. The winds went down, and the rains came on. The snow slid from the streets of the university town, and withdrew into dingy patches about the roots of trees and fences, and in the shady sides of cold back yards. The mud yawned ankle-deep, and dried, and was not, and was dust beneath the foot. Crocuses blazed in the gardens of the faculty,--royal purple, gold, and wax-white lamps set in the young and vivid grass. The sun let down his mask and looked abroad, and it was April. The newsboy, the carrier and the cab-driver laughed for very joy of living. But when they passed the professor's house they did not laugh. It came on to be the heart and glory of the spring, and the warm days melted into May. But the little dog had not been found. The professor had exhausted hope and ingenuity in the dreary quest. The State, one might say without exaggeration, had been dragged for that tiny dumb thing,--seven pounds' weight of life and tenderness. Money had been poured like love upon the vain endeavor. Rewards of reckless proportion appealed from public places and from public columns to the blank eyes that could not or did not read. The great detective force, whose name is familiar from sea to sea, had supplemented the useless search of the local police and of the city press. And all had equally failed. The "dog banditti" had done their work too well. Loveliness had sunk out of sight like forgotten suffering in a scene of joy. In the window seat, propped with white pillows, "lame and lovely," Adah sat. The empty embroidered gray cushion lay beside her. Sometimes she patted the red puppies softly with one thin little hand; she allowed no one else to touch the cushion. "Till Loveliness comes home," she said. In the window, silent, pale, and seeing everything, she watched. But Loveliness did not come home. [Illustration: "TILL LOVELINESS COMES HOME"] The pitiful thing was that the child herself was so changed. She had wasted to a little wraith. For some time she had not walked without her crutch. Now she scarcely walked at all. At the first she had sobbed a good deal, in downright childish fashion; then she wept silently; but now she did not cry any more,--she did but watch. Her sight had grown unnaturally keen, like that of pilots; she gazed out of great eyes, bright, and dry, and solemn. Already she had taken on the look of children whose span of time is to be short. She weakened visibly. At first, her father took her out with him in the cab, so she should feel that she was conducting the search herself. But she had grown too feeble for this exertion. Sometimes, on such drives, she saw cruel sights,--animals suffering at the black tempers of men or the diabolic jests of boys; and she was hurried home, shivering and sobbing. When night came she would ask for the Yorkshire's bed to be put beside her own, and with trembling fingers would draw up the crimson blankets over the crimson mattress, as if the dog had been between them. Then she would ask the question that haunted her most:-- "Mamma, who will put Loveliness into a little baxet to sleep, and cover him up? Papa, Papa, will they be _kind_ to Loveliness?" Stormy nights and days were always the hardest. "Will Loveliness be out and get wet? Will he shiver like 'e black dog I saw to-day? Will he have warm milk for his supper? Is there anybody to rub him dry and cuddle my Loveliness?" To divert the child from her grief proved impossible. They took her somewhere, in the old, idle effort to change the place and help the pain; but she mourned so, "because he might come home, and nobody see him but me," that they brought her back. The president of the university, who was a dogless and childless man, presented the bereaved household with a mongrel white puppy, purchased under the amiable impression that it was of a rare, Parisian breed. The distinguished man cherished the ignorant hope of bestowing consolation. But the invalid child, with the sensitiveness of invalid children, refused to look at the puppy, who was returned to his donor, and constituted himself henceforth the tyrant and terror of that scholastic household. As the weather grew warmer, little Adah failed and sank. It came on to be the bloom of the year, and she no longer left the house. The carrier and the cab driver lifted their hats in silence now, when they passed the window where the little girl sat, and the newsboy looked up with a sober face, like that of a man. The faculty and the neighbors did not ask, "How is the child?" but always, "Have you heard from the dog?" The doctor began to call daily. He did not shake his head,--no doctor does outside of an old-fashioned story,--and he smiled cheerfully enough inside the house; but when he came out of it, to his carriage, he did not smile. So the spring mellowed, and it was the first of June. One night, the poor professor sat trying to put into shape an impossible thesis on an incomprehensible subject (it was called The Identity of Identity and Non-Identity), for Commencement delivery in his department. Pulling aside some books of reference that he needed, he dragged to view a pamphlet from the lowest shelf of the revolving bookcase. Then he saw the marks of the Yorkshire's teeth and claws on the pamphlet corners, and, sadly smiling, he opened and read. The Commencement thesis on The Identity of Identity and Non-Identity was not corrected that night. The professor of psychology sat moulded into his study chair, rigid, with iron lips and clenched hands, and read the pamphlet through, every word, from beginning to end. For the first time in his life, this eminent man, wise in the wisdom of the world of mind, and half educated in the practical affairs of the world of matter, studied for himself the authenticated records of the torments imposed upon dumb animals in the name of science. As an instructed man, of course this subject was not wholly unfamiliar to him, but it was wholly foreign. Hitherto he had given it polite and indifferent attention, and had gone his ways. Now he read like a man himself bound, without anæsthesia, beneath the knife. Now he read for the child's sake, with the child's mind, with the child's nerves, and with those of the little helpless thing for whom her life was wasting. He tore from his shelves every volume, every pamphlet that he owned upon the direful subject which that June night opened to his consciousness; and he read until the birds sang. With brain on fire, he crept, in the brightness of coming day, to his wife's side. "Tired out, dear?" she asked gently. Then he saw that she too had not slept. "Adah has such dreams," she explained; "cruel things,--all the same kind." "About the dog?" "Always about the dog. I have been sitting up with her. She is--not as strong as--not quite"-- The professor set his teeth when he heard the mother's moan. When she had sunk into broken rest he stole back to his study, and locked out of sight the pamphlet which Loveliness had chewed. So, with the profound and scientific treatises on the subject, arguing and illustrating this way and that (some of these had cuts and photogravures which would haunt the imagination for years), he crowded the whole out of reach. His own brain was reeling with horrors which it would have driven the woman or the child mad to read. Scenes too ghastly for a strong mind to dwell upon, incidents too fearful for a weak one to conceive, flitted before the sleepless father. Now the professor began to do strange and secretive things. Unknown to his wife, unsuspected by his fading child, he began to cause the laboratories of the city and its environs to be searched. In the process, curious trades developed themselves to his astonished ignorance: the tricks of boys who supply the material of anguish; the trade of the janitor who sells it to the demonstrator; the trade of the brute who allures his superior, the dog, to the lairs of medical students. Dark arts started to the foreground, like imps around Mephistopheles concealed. From such repellent education the professor came home and took his little girl into his arms, and did not speak, but laid his cheek to hers, and heard the piteous, familiar question, "Papa, did you promise me they'd be kind to Loveliness?" It was always a whispered question now; for Adah had entirely lost command of her voice, partly from weakness, partly from the old injury to the vocal organs; and this seemed, somehow, to make it the harder to answer her. So there fell a day when the child in the window, propped by more than the usual pillows, sat watching longer than usual, or more sadly, or more eagerly,--who can say what it was? Or did she look so much more translucent, more pathetic, than on another day? She leaned her cheek on one little wasted hand. Her great eyes commanded the street. She had her pilot's look. Now and then, if a little dog passed, and if he were gray, she started and leaned forward, then sank back faintly. The sight of her would have touched a savage; and one beheld it. A man in a yellow jersey passed by upon the other side of the street, and glanced over. His straight, black brows contracted, and he looked at the child steadily. As he walked on, it might have been noticed that his brutal head hung to his breast. But he passed, and that cultivated street was clean of him. The carrier met him around the corner, and glanced at him with coldness. "What's de matter of de kid yonder, in de winder?" asked the foreigner. "Dyin'," said the carrier shortly. "Looks she had--what you call him?--gallopin' consum'tion," observed the man with the eyebrows. "Gallopin' heartbreak," replied the carrier, pushing by. "There's a devil layin' round loose outside of hell that stole her dog,--and she a little sickly thing to start with, ---- him! There's fifty men in this town would lynch him inside of ten minutes, if they got a clue to him, ---- him to ----!" That afternoon, when the professor left the house, the newsboy ran up eagerly. "There's a little nigger wants yez, perfesser, downstreet. He's in wid the dog robbers, that nigger is. Jes' you arsk him when he see Mop las' time. Take him by the scruff the neck, an' wallop like hell till he tells. Be spry, now, perfesser!" The professor hurried down the street, fully prepared to obey these directions, and found the negro boy, as he had been told. "Come along furder," said the boy, looking around uneasily. He spoke a few words in a hoarse whisper. The blood leaped to the professor's wan cheeks, and back again. "I'll show ye for a V," suggested the boy cunningly. "But I won't take no noter hand. Make it cash, an' I'll show yer. Ye ain't no time to be foolin'," added the gamin. "It's sot for termorrer 'leven o'clock. He's down for the biggest show of the term, _he_ is. The students is all gwineter go, an' the doctors along of 'em." * * * * * His own university! His own university! The professor repeated the three words, as he dashed into the city with the academic cabman's fastest horse. For weeks his detectives had watched every laboratory within fifty miles. But--his own college! With the density which sometimes submerges a superior intellect, it had never occurred to him that he might find his own dog in the medical school of his own institution. Stupidly he sat gazing at the back of the gamin who slunk beside the aversion of the driver on the box. The professor seemed to himself to be driving through the terms of a false syllogism. The cabman drew up in a filthy and savage neighborhood, in whose grim purlieus the St. George professors did not take their walks abroad. The negro boy tumbled off the box. The professor sat, trembling like a woman. The boy went into the tenement, whistling. When he came out he did not whistle. His evil little face had fallen. His arms were empty. "The critter's dum gone," he said. "_Gone?_" "He's dum goneter de college. Dey'se tuk him, sah. Dum dog to go so yairly." The countenance of the professor blazed with the mingling fires of horror and of hope. The excited driver lashed the St. George horse to foam; in six minutes the cab drew up at the medical school. The passenger ran up the walk like a boy, and dashed into the building. He had never entered it before. He was obliged to inquire his way, like a rustic on a first trip to town. After some delay and difficulty he found the janitor, and, with the assurance of position, stated his case. But the janitor smiled. "I will go now--at once--and remove the dog," announced the professor. "In which direction is it? My little girl--There is no time to lose. Which door did you say?" But now the janitor did not smile. "Excuse me, sir," he said frigidly, "I have no orders to admit strangers." He backed up against a closed door, and stood there stolidly. The professor, burning with human rage, leaned over and shook the door. It was locked. "Man of darkness!" cried the professor. "You who perpetrate"--Then he collected himself. "Pardon me," he said, with his natural dignity; "I forget that you obey the orders of your chiefs, and that you do not recognize me. I am not accustomed to be refused admittance to the departments of my own university. I am Professor Premice, of the Chair of Mental Philosophy,--Professor Theophrastus Premice." He felt for his cards, but he had used the last one in his wallet. "You might be, and you mightn't," replied the janitor grimly. "I never heard tell of you that I know of. My orders are not to admit, and I do not admit." "You are unlawfully detaining and torturing my dog!" gasped the professor. "I demand my property at once!" "We have such a lot of these cases," answered the janitor wearily. "We hain't got your dog. We don't take gentlemen's dogs, nor ladies' pets. And we always etherize. We operate very tenderly. You hain't produced any evidence or authority, and I can't let you in without." "Be so good," urged the professor, restraining himself by a violent effort, "as to bear my name to some of the faculty. Say that I am without, and wish to see one of my colleagues on an urgent matter." "None of 'em's in just now but the assistant demonstrator," retorted the janitor, without budging. "_He_'s experimenting on a--well, he's engaged in a very pretty operation just now, and cannot be disturbed. No, sir. You had better not touch the door. I tell you, I do not admit nor permit. Stand back, sir!" The professor stood back. He might have entered the lecture room by other doors, but he did not know it; and they were not visible from the spot where he stood. He had happened on the laboratory door, and that refused him. He staggered out to his cab, and sank down weakly. "Drive me to my lawyer!" he cried. "Do not lose a moment--if you love her!" * * * * * It was eleven o'clock of the following morning; a dreamy June day, afloat with color, scent, and warmth, as gentle as the depths of tenderness in the human heart, and as vigorous as its noblest aspirations. The students of the famous medical school of the University of St. George were crowding up the flagged walk and the old granite steps of the college; the lecture room was filling; the students chatted and joked profusely, as medical students do, on occasions least productive of amusement to the non-professional observer. There chanced to be some sprays of lily of the valley in a tumbler set upon the window sill of the adjoining physiological laboratory, and the flower seemed to stare at something which it saw within the room. Now and then, through the door connecting with the lecture room, a faint sound penetrated the laughter and conversation of the students,--a sound to hear and never to forget while remembrance rang through the brain, but not to tell of. The room filled; the demonstrator appeared suddenly, in his fresh, white blouse; the students began to grow quiet. Some one had already locked the door leading from the laboratory to the hallway. The lily in the window looked, and seemed, in the low June wind, to turn its face away. "Gentlemen," began the operator, "we have before us to-day a demonstration of unusual beauty and interest. It is our intention to study"--here he minutely described the nature of the operation. "There will be also some collateral demonstrations of more than ordinary value. The material has been carefully selected. It is young and healthy," observed the surgeon. "We have not put the subject under the usual anæsthesia,"--he motioned to his assistant, who at this point went into the laboratory,--"because of the importance of some preliminary experiments which were instituted yesterday, and to the perfection of which consciousness is conditional. Gentlemen, you see before you"-- The assistant entered through the laboratory door at this moment, bearing something which he held straight out before him. The students, on tiered and curving benches, looked down from their amphitheatre, lightly, as they had been trained to look. "It is needless to say," proceeded the lecturer, "that the subject will be mercifully disposed of as soon as the demonstration is completed. And we shall operate with the greatest tenderness, as we always do. Gentlemen, I am reminded of a story"-- The demonstrator indulged in a little persiflage at this point, raising a laugh among the class; he smiled himself; he gestured with the scalpel, which he had selected while he was talking; he made three or four sinister cuts with it in the air, preparatory cuts,--an awful rehearsal. He held the instrument suspended, thoughtfully. "The first incision"--he began. "Follow me closely, now. You see--Gentlemen? Gentlemen! Really, I cannot proceed in such a disturbance--What _is_ that noise?" With the suspended scalpel in his hand, the demonstrator turned impatiently. "It's a row in the corridor," said one of the students. "We hope you won't delay for that, doctor. It's nothing of any consequence. Please go ahead." But the locked door of the laboratory shook violently, and rattled in unseen hands. Voices clashed from the outside. The disturbance increased. "Open! Open the door!" Heavy blows fell upon the panels. "In the name of humanity, in the name of mercy, open this door!" "It must be some of those fanatics," said the operator, laying down his instrument. "Where is the janitor? Call him to put a stop to this." He took up the instrument with an impetuous motion; then laid it irritably down again. The attention of his audience was now concentrated upon the laboratory door, for the confusion had redoubled. At the same time feet were heard approaching the students' entrance to the lecture room. One of the young men took it upon himself to lock that door also, which was not the custom of the place; but he found no key, and two or three of his classmates joined him in standing against the door, which they barricaded. Their blood was up,--they knew not why; the fighting animal in them leaped at the mysterious intrusion. There was every prospect of a scene unprecedented in the history of the lecture room. The expected did not happen. It appeared that some unsuccessful effort was made to force this door, but it was not prolonged; then the footsteps retreated down the stairs, and the demand at the laboratory entrance set in again,--this time in a new voice:-- "It is an officer of the court! There is a search-warrant for stolen property! Open in the name of the Law! _Open this door in the name of the Commonwealth!_" Now the door sank open, was burst open, or was unlocked,--in the excitement, no one knew which or how,--and the professor and the lawyer, the officer and the search-warrant, fell in. The professor pushed ahead, and strode to the operating table. There lay the tiny creature, so daintily reared, so passionately beloved; he who had been sheltered in the heart of luxury, like the little daughter of the house herself; he who used never to know a pang that love or luxury could prevent or cure; he who had been the soul of tenderness, and had known only the soul of tenderness. There, stretched, bound, gagged, gasping, doomed to a doom which the readers of this page would forbid this pen to describe, lay the silver Yorkshire, kissing his vivisector's hand. In the past few months Loveliness had known to the uttermost the matchless misery of the lost dog (for he had been sold and restolen more than once); he had known the miseries of cold, of hunger, of neglect, of homelessness, and other torments of which it is as well not to think; the sufferings which ignorance imposes upon animals. He was about to endure the worst torture of them all,--that reserved by wisdom and power for the dumb, the undefended, and the small. The officer seized the scalpel which the demonstrator had laid aside, and slashed through the straps that bound the victim down. When the gag was removed, and the little creature, shorn, sunken, changed, almost unrecognizable, looked up into his master's face, those cruel walls rang to such a cry of more than human anguish and ecstasy as they had never heard before, and never may again. The operator turned away; he stood in his butcher's blouse and stared through out of the laboratory window, over the head of the lily, which regarded him fixedly. The students grew rapidly quiet. When the professor took Loveliness into his arms, and the Yorkshire, still crying like a human child that had been lost and saved, put up his weak paws around his master's neck and tried to kiss the tears that fell, unashamed, down the cheeks of that eminent man, the lecture room burst into a storm of applause; then fell suddenly still again, as if it felt embarrassed both by its expression and by its silence, and knew not what to do. "Has the knife touched him--anywhere?" asked the professor, choking. "No, thank God!" replied the demonstrator, turning around timidly; "and I assure you--our regrets--such a mistake"-- "That will do, doctor," said the professor. "Gentlemen, let me pass, if you please. I have no time to lose. There is one waiting for this little creature who"-- He did not finish his sentence, but went out from among them. As he passed with the shorn and quivering dog in his arms, the students rose to their feet. * * * * * He stopped the cab a hundred feet away, went across a neighbor's lot, and got into the house by the back door, with the Yorkshire hidden under his coat. The doctor's buggy stood at the curbstone in front. The little girl was so weak that morning--what might not have happened? The father felt, with a sudden sickness of heart, that time had hardly converged more closely with fate in the operating room than it was narrowing in his own home. The cook shrieked when she saw him come into the kitchen with the half-hidden burden in his arms; and Kathleen ran in, panting. "Call the doctor," he commanded hoarsely, "and ask him what we shall do." All the stories that he had ever read about joy that killed blazed through his brain. He dared neither advance nor retreat, but stood in the middle of the kitchen, stupidly. Then he saw that the quick wit of Kathleen had got ahead of him; for she was on her knees arranging the crimson blankets in the empty basket. Between the three, they gently laid the emaciated and disfigured dog into his own bed. Nora cried into the milk she was warming for the little thing. And the doctor came in while Loveliness feebly drank. "Wait a minute," he said, turning on his heel. He went back to the room where the child lay among the white pillows, with her hand upon the empty gray satin cushion. Absently she stroked one of the red puppies whose gold eyes gazed forever at the saucer of green milk. She lay with her lashes on her cheeks. It was the first day that she had not watched the street. Her mother, sitting back at the door, was fanning her. "Adah!" said the doctor cheerily. "We've got something good to tell you. Your father has found--there, there, my child!--yes, your father has found him. He looks a little queer and homesick--guess he's missed you some--and you mustn't mind how he looks, for--you see, Adah, we think he has lived with a--with a barber, and got shaved for nothing!" added the doctor stoutly. The doctor had told his share of professional fibs in his day, like the most of his race; but I hope he was forgiven all the others for this one's merciful and beautiful sake. "Come, professor!" he called, courageously enough. But his own heart beat as hard as the father's and the mother's, when the professor slowly mounted the stairs with the basket bed and the exhausted dog within it. "LOVE-_li-ness_!" cried the child. It was the first loud word that she had spoken for months. Then they lifted the dog and put him in her arms; and they turned away their faces, for the sight of that reunion was all the nerve could bear. * * * * * So it was as it has been, and ever will be, since the beginning to the end of time. Joy, the Angel of Delight and Danger, the most precious and the most perilous of messengers to the heart that loves, came to our two little friends, and might have destroyed, but saved instead. The child was strong before the dog was; but both convalesced rapidly and sweetly enough. In a week Adah threw away her little crutch. Her lost voice returned, to stay. The pearl and the rose of her soft, invalid skin browned with the summer sun. Peals of laughter and ecstatic barks resounded through the happy house. Little feet and little paws trotted together across the dew-touched lawn. Wonderful neck ribbons,--a new color every day,--tied by eager, small fingers upon the silver-gray throat of the Yorkshire, flashed through the bending shrubbery in pursuit of a little glancing white figure in lawn dresses, with shade hat hanging down her back. The satin cushion with the embroidered puppies was carried out among the blushing weigelia bushes; and the twain lived and loved and played, from day-start to twilight, in the live, midsummer air. [Illustration: THROUGH THE BENDING SHRUBBERY] Sometimes she was overheard conversing with the terrier,--long, confidential talks, with which no third person intermeddled. "Dearness! Daintiness! Loveliness! Did you have a little baxet with blankets while you were away? Preciousness! Did they cut you meat and warm you soup for you, and comfort you? Did they ever let you out to shi-shiver in 'e wet and cold? Tell me, Dearest-in-'e-World! Tell me, Love-li-ness! Tell me all about it. Tell me about 'e barber who shaved you hair so close,--was he _kind_ to you?" When Commencement was over, and the town quiet and a little dull, something of a festive nature was thought good for Adah; and the doctor, who came only as a matter of occasional ceremony now, to see his patient running away from him, proposed a party; for he was not an imaginative man, and could only suggest the conventional. "Something to take her mind off the dog for a little," he said. "We must avoid anything resembling a fixed idea." "Love is always a fixed idea," replied the professor of psychology, smiling. "But you may try, doctor." "I will arx Loveliness," said the child quietly. She ran away with the Yorkshire, and they sat among the reddening weigelia bushes for some time, conversing in low tones. Then they trotted back, laughing and barking. "Yes, Papa, we'll have a party. But it must be a _Love_liness party, Mamma. And we've decided who to arx, and all about it. If you would like to know, I'll whisper you, for it's a secret to Loveliness and me, until we think it over." Merrily she whispered in her mother's bending ear a list of chosen guests. It ran on this wise:-- The family. The carrier. Kathleen and Nora. The newsboy. The cabman. The doctor. Some of the neighbors' little dogs and girls. Not boys, because they say "Sister boy!" and "Sickum!" The president's white puppy. The president. Nobody else. Not the barber. "Here's 'e invitation," she added with dignity, "and we'll have a picture of him printed on his puppy cushion at 'e top, Papa." She put into her father's hand a slip of paper, on which she had laboriously and irregularly printed in pencil the following legend:-- +-----------------------------+ | ON SATTERDAY, AFTER NUNE. | | IF NOT STORMY. | | AT 2 O CLUK. | | LOVELINESS | | _At Home._ | +-----------------------------+ ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO. The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE, MASS., U. S. A. _FICTION AND BIOGRAPHY_ By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps (MRS. WARD) THE GATES AJAR. 16mo, $1.50. BEYOND THE GATES. 16mo, $1.25. THE GATES BETWEEN. 16mo, $1.25. MEN, WOMEN, AND GHOSTS. Stories. 16mo, $1.50. HEDGED IN. 16mo, $1.50. THE SILENT PARTNER. 16mo, $1.50. THE STORY OF AVIS. 16mo, $1.50. SEALED ORDERS, and Other Stories. 16mo, $1.50. FRIENDS: A Duet. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. DOCTOR ZAY. 16mo, $1.25. AN OLD MAID'S PARADISE, and BURGLARS IN PARADISE. 16mo, $1.25. THE MASTER OF THE MAGICIANS. Collaborated with HERBERT D. WARD. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. COME FORTH! Collaborated with HERBERT D. WARD. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. FOURTEEN TO ONE. Short Stories. 16mo, $1.25. DONALD MARCY. 16mo, $1.25. A SINGULAR LIFE. 16mo, $1.25. THE SUPPLY AT SAINT AGATHA'S. Illustrated. Square 12mo, $1.00. THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. Illustrated. Square 12mo, boards, 75 cents. JACK THE FISHERMAN. Illustrated. Square 12mo, boards, 50 cents. LOVELINESS: A Story. Illustrated. Square 12mo, $1.00. CHAPTERS FROM A LIFE. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50. THE STORY OF JESUS CHRIST: An Interpretation. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, $2.00. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. BOSTON AND NEW YORK. * * * * * Transcriber's note: The list of the author's other titles (which originally appeared before the title page) has been moved to the end. Page 19, comma added ("The newsboy, the carrier"). Both "cab driver" and "cab-driver" were used in this text.] 
46159	----	TWO IN A ZOO [Illustration: He saw the Princess coming, dragging after her a large man.] TWO IN A ZOO _By_ CURTIS DUNHAM _and_ OLIVER HERFORD WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY OLIVER HERFORD INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT 1904 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY SEPTEMBER PRESS OF BRAUNWORTH & CO. BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS BROOKLYN, N. Y. TWO IN A ZOO FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE He saw the Princess coming, dragging after her a large man--_Frontispiece_ "Toots, tell me as you did yesterday, what the elephants are saying" 7 The soft brown eyes of Dozel were fixed on the face of the little Limping Boy 29 The coffee-colored little image of its mother lay sprawling across her broad nose 63 Suddenly the Princess exclaimed: "Oh, here comes Reginald!" 95 The rabbit stuck one of its ears straight up 139 TWO IN A ZOO I _The Roar of the Jungle_ Oh, the sweet, fresh breath of the morning breeze, And the trumpet call of my mate! Oh, the fierce, wild wind that bends the trees Where the great hills sit in state! Oh, the tender twigs in the Jungle deeps! Oh, the soft, moist earth where the long grass sweeps! _Song of the Captive Elephant._ Mahmoud, swinging his wrinkled old trunk to and fro dejectedly, ignored the stack of fresh timothy which the Keeper had dumped on the floor of the Elephant House. There was a band of iron clasped tightly just above one of his great forefeet. Mahmoud had surged back in his discontent till the chain, attached to the iron and to a ring in the floor, creaked with the strain upon it. His broad ears flapped forward listlessly, but not far enough to conceal the moisture in his dim old eyes which gathered now and then into glistening drops that rolled down his cheeks and were lost in the huge wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. Duchess, his faithful mate, who stood at his side twisting up bunches of hay and tucking them into her mouth, understood and was sad. At intervals in her repast she would pause to stroke Mahmoud's furrowed cheek with the tip of her trunk. But her sorrowful mate was not to be wooed from his melancholy. Presently, from a little distance up the Park walk leading to the door of the Elephant House, came a familiar tinkling sound that caused Mahmoud to turn his head in that direction with a show of interest. A boy was approaching, and at every step some straps of iron on his little crooked leg clanked together. The sound was not unlike that made by the iron on Mahmoud's leg. The boy's face was pale, but his eyes were blue and very bright. A little girl skipped along at his side. The boy's clothes were shabby, but the little girl's plumage was rich and as gay as that of some tropical bird. Perhaps it was this that caused the boy to call her "Princess," when he made slow and deferential response to her eager chatter. It was plain that she was accustomed to rule, for whenever she was admonished by the young woman in dark clothes who followed a few steps behind with a book under her arm, she would merely shrug her pretty shoulders. Her manner toward the boy was a trifle condescending, but it was also affectionate, for she called him "Toots." The entire front of the Elephant House was open, for it was summer. When Toots and the Princess had reached the iron railing within a yard of Mahmoud's swaying trunk, they stopped. The young woman in dark clothes seemed to understand that this was their destination, for she seated herself on a bench at the side of the walk, and was soon deep in the pages of her book. Mahmoud shuffled forward as far as the chain on his leg would let him, thrust forth his trunk and felt gently the iron on the boy's crippled leg. "Oh, Toots, he knows you!" exclaimed the Princess. "That is what he did yesterday." Though the Princess shrank back, Toots showed no fear. Appearing satisfied as to the boy's identity, Mahmoud turned to his mate, and they stood cheek by cheek, swaying their trunks in unison. "They are talking again," said the Princess, with a little shriek of delight. "Toots, you must tell me what they are saying to each other." Toots did not stir. A flush of pink had stolen into his pale cheeks. There was a far-away look in his eyes, yet they were sparkling. His lips were moving, but no sound came from them at first. Strange mumblings were coming from the cavernous mouths of the elephants. The Princess stamped her foot with authority and commanded: "Toots, tell me, as you did yesterday, what the elephants are saying." But already, in a low, monotonous voice, as though in a dream, the boy was interpreting the talk of Mahmoud and his mate. "Behold, it is the little Limping Boy," said Mahmoud, with his lips close to the ear of Duchess. "My old eyes are dim, but with my two fingers have I felt the iron on his leg, and I know it is he." "Verily, it is he, my Lord," answered Duchess, caressingly. "And with him again is the strange little bird without wings--or, mayhap the gaudy creature is of his own people." "It is well. Do you recall, O Light of my Life, how the little Limping Boy stood at our door and talked softly to himself? I remember such a boy long, long ago in the Jungle, before the days of my captivity, only he was naked and had brown skin--as brown as that of my baby sister." "I, too, saw and heard him, my Lord. I thought he talked of us and pitied us in our captivity." [Illustration: "Toots, tell me as you did yesterday, what the elephants are saying."] Now Mahmoud ceased his talk and for a moment reflected deeply. At length he said: "Lo, there are two worlds, O Light of my Life, the Master World and the Menial World; and few there be that stand between. I know not how it happens that we, thou and I, my beloved, are of the Menial World, but it is so. We be Menial People, and the little Limping Boy is of the Master People; yet it clings in my mind that he is nearer." Again Mahmoud paused to reflect; but Duchess broke in with conviction, saying: "My Lord, may it not be that the little Limping Boy is one that stands between?" "That is a matter upon which I have pondered deeply," sighed Mahmoud. "It is evident that he understands our talk. He has the iron upon his leg, yet his talk is not the talk of the Menial People. Alas, I can not be sure on this point. These Master People have strange ways and a strange tongue. When their skins are dark, as they are in the jungle, their talk is not so difficult; but when their skins are white and covered with strange raiment, their words convey no meaning to my ears." Mahmoud's head drooped again. He was very old, and, like all those who are burdened with years, he was wont to ponder sadly on the joys of his past. But presently he raised his head and seemed to be listening. "Look, Friend of my Youth," he said, after a moment, "is it the chirp of our merry little gossip, the sparrow, that I hear?" "No, my Lord," answered Duchess, soothingly, "Pwit-Pwit is late this morning. I tremble when I recall his boastful tale of yesterday; how he entered the cage of the lioness' treacherous young cubs." "Be calm, beloved," said Mahmoud, "the cubs are not too young to know the Law of the Menial People." It appeared that Duchess, being of the weaker sex, and devoted to her domestic duties, had but a vague notion of the Law. So Mahmoud, with much dignity, enlightened her in these words: "It is the Law of the Menial People, O Joy of my Heart, that Pwit-Pwit, the sparrow, shall go and come at his pleasure throughout the Menial World, enjoying the hospitality and protection of all. And of a truth this is meet, for is not the sparrow official news-gatherer and gossip for all the Menial People? Verily, is not he the only one of our world that is not locked fast in a yard or in an iron cage by the Master People? Lo, when we of the Menial World were brought by our masters from the forests and plains and jungles to the place of our captivity, Pwit-Pwit was already here to give us welcome. Therefore, it is the Law of the Menial World that no claw nor tooth shall be raised against him." When Mahmoud had finished his discourse the sparrow suddenly dropped out of the sky at his feet with a chirp and a cheerful toss of his head. "You are late to breakfast this morning, little one," said Mahmoud; "but I waited for you, O Messenger of Cheer, though my beloved mate has eaten a few mouthfuls, being hungrier than I." "I would have been here sooner," answered the sparrow, "but I found it necessary to give one of those young lions a lesson. He forgot about the Law, and tried to catch me in his mouth. But I was too quick for him. You should have seen me then. I flew at his eyes and gave them a good pecking. Then I had to go and tell his mother. Didn't you hear her roaring at the little upstart to behave himself? Oh, you can trust me to educate those young lions in the Law." "Verily, I heard the mother lion roar, and feared for you," said Mahmoud. "But come, there are some choice grass seeds in the deep wrinkles of my neck, and I will scatter more there for you. If you are tired, you can step on the end of my trunk and I will lift you up to your breakfast." But Pwit-Pwit said that he was not at all tired. He flew up to Mahmoud's shoulders and was soon pecking greedily at the seeds which he found in the wrinkles between the great flapping ears. Duchess had resumed her repast, and Mahmoud began attacking the stack of timothy with manifest appetite. As the two friends, one so huge and the other so tiny, took their breakfast together, the sparrow chirped a constant torrent of gossip, which Toots, never hesitating, interpreted for the Princess. At length only some scattering wisps were left of the stack that the Keeper had brought for the old elephant. Mahmoud gathered them up, sweeping his trunk over the floor daintily, then rolled them into a little bundle, which he thrust half-way into the side of his mouth. Then, rolling his trunk about the ends of the wisps containing the dried grass seeds, he tore them off, and holding them back over his head, said to Pwit-Pwit: "Are you there, little one?" [Illustration] "Here I am, right between your ears," chirped the sparrow. "Look then for the large round seeds," said Mahmoud. "But first brace yourself well behind my ear, little one, for I am going to blow the dust out of your breakfast. Dust is not good for the stomach." With these words Mahmoud blew a little puff of wind through his trunk into the handful of grass seed about which it was curled, and then dropped the seeds in a little shower right at Pwit-Pwit's feet. "Thank you," said the sparrow. "You have found me a delicious breakfast." And he pecked away at the seeds until he could hold no more. Then Pwit-Pwit noticed that Mahmoud had stopped eating and was swinging his trunk about in a mournful manner. "What's the matter, old chap?" chirped the sparrow. "Have you lost your appetite?" "Alas!" sighed the old elephant, "I pine for the roar of my native Jungle, little one. I long to plunge through the great, wild forest and feel the swish of the branches at my sides. Even the chatter of idle and foolish monkeys would be music in my ears." The sparrow hopped up on the rim of Mahmoud's ear, and said cheerily: "Why don't you go home for a visit?" "Alas, little one, I am too old, even if the Master People would release me. Never again shall I breathe the fresh breath of the hills; never again hear the roar of the Jungle." Mahmoud's head drooped lower than before. Pwit-Pwit pecked at his ear to get his attention, and chirped: "Cheer up, old chap, I can't bring the Jungle to you, 'tis true; but I think I can manage the roar all right." "Pride of my Heart," said Mahmoud, turning eagerly to his faithful mate and stroking her cheek, "do you hear? Pwit-Pwit, the all-wise, says he can gladden our ears once more with the roar of the Jungle." "Pwit-Pwit, if you can do that," said Duchess, trembling with joy, "we will be your slaves." "Oh, it is nothing, nothing at all," chirped the sparrow with affected modesty. "I will go and prepare all the Menial People for the signal, and when I return I will tell you what to do." Having chirped this promise into Mahmoud's grateful ear, the sparrow flew down from the old elephant's back, and hopped past the little Limping Boy and entered the adjoining house of the two-horned rhinoceros. Toots and the Princess could see all that occurred from where they stood. The great beast was lazily sharpening his horns on the hardwood planks of his house. Pwit-Pwit flew at his eyes, at which he pecked saucily, saying: "Attention, pig! Be ready for the signal. When you hear it, if you have any voice left in your fat old carcass, use it, or never hope to hear the roar of the Jungle again." Hearing these words, the dull-witted beast began lifting up first one foot and then another, in a sort of clumsy dance. The sparrow, perceiving that he was eager for the roar of the Jungle, wasted no more words on him, but flew straight up in the air and then darted off toward the house of the lions, tigers and leopards. Toots and the Princess saw him fly in through the open door, then, after a moment of silence, heard muffled roars from the lions, followed by the excited chatter of monkeys in the adjoining house, and soon beheld him emerge and dart toward the dens of the bears. "The sparrow is keeping his word," said the Princess, clapping her hands. "He is warning all the Menial People to be ready for the signal." "Hush," said the little Limping Boy, in a low voice. "Look at Mahmoud and the Duchess." The Princess looked, and beheld a most astonishing sight. The old elephants had twined their trunks together above their heads and were waving them as though in time to music. "They are singing," said Toots. "They are singing about the happy times they had long, long ago in the great forest where they were born." The Princess could not hear the song, but she beheld the waving trunks and felt certain that Toots could hear it. As they sang, the old elephants grew each moment more excited. So engrossed were they with the memories that inspired them that they forgot the sparrow utterly. When Pwit-Pwit returned, he had to fly up and peck at their eyes to get their attention. "Do stop your singing and pay attention," chirped the sparrow, petulantly. "You can sing at any time. Listen. I have prepared all the Menial People for the signal. They are waiting. You can hear the chatter of those idiotic monkeys at this moment. A monkey can never keep a secret." "The lions," said Mahmoud, eagerly, "are the lions ready?" "The lions were delighted," answered Pwit-Pwit; "they can hardly wait for the signal." "And Caliph and Fatimah, the old hippopotami--" "They, too, are ready," interrupted the sparrow, impatiently. "I told you I could manage it, and I have. The signal! The signal!" As he gave this order, Pwit-Pwit flew up to his favorite perch on Mahmoud's ear. The elephants, trembling with excitement, turned their faces toward the Lion House and wagged their trunks aloft. Mahmoud's eyes opened to twice their usual size, and the little Limping Boy thought that they shone red, as though from anger. He was half afraid, and wondered what was going to happen. The Princess clasped his hand tightly in one of hers, and he could feel that she was trembling. "It must be all right," said Toots, "or the sparrow would fly away. See, he still sits on the rim of the old elephant's ear, as calm as you please." Suddenly Mahmoud straightened out his trunk to its full length toward the Lion House, and blew through it a blast that rang in the ears of the two children for many a day after. Duchess followed with another, shriller and more ear-splitting. Then the two elephants paused to listen. Almost immediately they were answered from the Lion House. First, Sultan replied with a deep, terrible roar that caused Mahmoud's eyes to sparkle with delight. Then Caliph, the patriarch of all the hippopotami, joined his voice to that of the old lion. It was a voice like the sound of a mighty waterfall. Between the roars of Sultan and Caliph could be heard those of Fatimah and Cyrus, the younger hippopotami, whose voices were less deep and steady, because not so well trained. From all directions came answers to Mahmoud's signal. There was the snarling scream of the tigers, leopards and pumas; the wolves and hyenas barked in their wild and dreadful way; the bears growled; eagles screamed; the shrieking chatter of the monkeys was ear-splitting. The two-horned rhinoceros grunted terribly. The solitary elephant next door, who was in disgrace for attacking the Keeper, put his four feet close together, humped up his back and trumpeted so loudly that Mahmoud and Duchess held their breath and listened, overcome with joy. At length, having recognized the voices of all the Menial People, Mahmoud and Duchess again stretched forth their trunks and trumpeted with all their might. At this the efforts of all the animals were redoubled. This was indeed the roar of the Jungle. The ground seemed to tremble, so terrible was the din. The Keeper, who often went fearlessly into the cage of Sultan, even putting his hand in the great brute's mouth, could be seen running from the Lion House, pale, and with his hair on end. And through it all the sparrow never moved from his perch on the rim of Mahmoud's ear. But after a while the roar gradually died out, leaving all the Menial People breathless and covered with perspiration. "Aha," said Pwit-Pwit, into the ear of old Mahmoud, "didn't I tell you I could manage the roar of the Jungle?" "Little one," answered the grateful beast, gasping for breath, "we are your slaves from this day on." "Nonsense," chirped back the sparrow; "it was fun for me, too. Never before was heard such a roar. The Master People were terrified. Did you not observe them flying in all directions?" "Ay, little one, I saw them, and it gladdened my old heart. Even the Keeper, he that is so proud and stout of heart, fled as I have seen his brown-skinned brothers flee before my onslaught in the Jungle. Verily, all the Master People fled--" Mahmoud stopped, with his eye fixed in astonishment on the little Limping Boy, who stood as before, with his arms on the iron railing, calm and unmoved. As though doubting the evidence of his eyes, Mahmoud put forth his trunk, and with the two fingers at its end felt of the iron on the boy's leg. Then he turned to Duchess and said: "Behold, O Light of my Life, of all the Master People only the little Limping Boy remained, his soul unterrified by the roar of the Jungle. With my two fingers have I again felt the iron on his leg. No longer do I doubt." Then turning to the sparrow, Mahmoud, Lord of all the Menial People, gave this command: "Go forth, little one, to all my people; to the lions, to the tigers, to the hippopotami, to the old dromedary who stands all day blinking in the sun, yea, even to the chattering monkeys, and say: Lo, this is the command of Mahmoud, that no harm shall befall the little Limping Boy, for verily, he doth stand between. I have spoken." The sparrow flew away to do his master's bidding, and from that day on Toots was able to interpret for the Princess even the sign language spoken by the blinking old dromedary, who to all but him was the sphinx of the Zoo, deep of thought, but generally uncommunicative. CHAPTER II _Despised Relations_ Oh, behold us, and dispute us if you can! Only look upon our faces, On our more than human graces, And observe the many traces Of our kinship with our noble brother, Man! --_Song of the Ambitious Monkeys._ The great round, soft, brown eyes of Dozel, most slender-limbed and graceful of the herd of Indian deer, were fixed on the face of the little Limping Boy. There seemed to be a look of pity in their depths. She licked Toots' fingers, and the Princess tried in vain to attract her attention. "Do you suppose the sparrow has already told her of Mahmoud's command?" asked the Princess. "I don't know," answered Toots; "I think so, but I haven't quite made up my mind yet." "Dozel seems more affectionate toward you than ever," argued the Princess. "Yesterday she licked my hand, but to-day she has eyes only for you, Toots." "It must be so, then," said the little Limping Boy. "You remember that when the elephant ordered Pwit-Pwit to go and tell all the Menial People that I stood between the two worlds, and that no harm should befall me, the sparrow flew away immediately. But, look! here comes Pwit-Pwit now. He and Dozel are going to have their morning chat. Keep quite still, and I'll tell you what they say." [Illustration: The soft, brown eyes of Dozel were fixed on the face of the little Limping Boy.] The Princess put her finger on her lip and looked significantly at Toots, as the sparrow perched herself on the top rail of the yard, within a foot of Dozel's ear, and began to chirp. The Princess saw the familiar, dreamy look come into Toots' eyes, as he began to translate the gossip of the sparrow and the deer. "Why are you so sad this morning?" asked Pwit-Pwit. "The weather is simply perfect." But Dozel merely sighed, and turned her gaze wistfully in the direction of the Elephant House. Nothing so delighted her as the loud trumpetings of Mahmoud and his mate, and she always let her eyes roam in their direction when anything unusual was on her mind. "You ought to be happy," continued the sparrow; "you certainly never looked handsomer, with your brown skin so soft and velvety that the little white spots scattered over it look like snowflakes, and your eyes so clear and tender--tut, tut, now Dozel, my dear. The idea of your crying on a morning like this!" "I can't help it," whimpered the beautiful creature. "It's enough to make any one weep." Pwit-Pwit hopped on to Dozel's back and together they took a turn about the yard. "And I'm blest if you're not limping, you, of all people in the world!" said the sparrow, in astonishment. "It's out of sympathy," sighed Dozel. "When I think of my own legs, so straight and slender and swift, I can't help thinking of the little Limping Boy and his poor, crooked leg, with the iron on it. There he stands now. Isn't it pitiful? Oh, dear, oh, dear!" "True, it is very sad," said Pwit-Pwit, soberly; "but what can't be cured must be endured, you know." "The worst part of it," said the deer, "is that there is something about the little Limping Boy's walk that reminds me of those chattering, screaming monkeys I remember so well in the jungle. There are some of them over in a corner of the Lion House. I can't bear them." "Hello!" chirped the sparrow, jubilantly. "So that's your opinion of 'em, too, is it, Dozel, my dear? Well, that's too good to keep. I'll go straight to the monkeys with that, and when they know that it comes from you direct, they'll have a bad half-hour, I can tell you. They won't be any happier than you are then, my dear. Do you know, the impudent creatures actually claim to be related to the birds! As a general thing, I pay no attention to 'em, but this is different. They feel so sure of your good opinion, you're so sweet and sedate with everybody. My, oh, my, but won't it make 'em wild! I'll go straight to that idiot, Mr. Kelly. Just listen, and you'll hear him jabber himself blue in the face." With this, the malicious little bird flew straight into the Lion House, and to Mr. Kelly's corner, Toots and the Princess following as fast as their legs could carry them, the iron on the little Limping Boy's leg clanking all the way. Now, Mr. Kelly is a very learned monkey, having enjoyed the society of men for quite a number of years. He had had breakfast, and was leisurely picking his teeth. Pwit-Pwit perched himself on the rail just out of reach of his nimble fingers. Truth to tell, the sparrow was so startled at Mr. Kelly's resemblance to the man who carried the plaster when the bear's den was being repaired, that he was quite civil at first. "Good morning, Mr. Kelly," he said politely, "are you feeling quite well?" [Illustration] "So-so," answered the monkey, eying the sparrow with much deliberation. "Except for my neuralgia and a touch of the gout I'm in my usual health, thank you. You don't happen to have a cigar about you, I suppose?" "Bless me!" said Pwit-Pwit, astounded and quite off his guard, "you don't mean to say you smoke?" "Had my cigar after breakfast every morning when I was acting in a theater over in the Bowery," said Mr. Kelly. "Seems that smoking isn't allowed here. These blue laws are beastly, aren't they?" "Do you find it hard going without?" asked Pwit-Pwit, unable yet to assume his accustomed air of superiority. "If they would let me taper off I wouldn't mind so much," answered the monkey, with a yawn; "but this stopping all at once is rather trying on the nerves." Toots shifted his position in front of the monkey's cage, which caused the iron on his leg to jingle. This attracted the attention of Mr. Kelly, who threw away the straw he had been using as a toothpick and came close to the wire netting that surrounded him. "You heard the command of Mahmoud to all the Menial People touching the little Limping Boy," said the sparrow. "Well, here he is." Instead of replying, Mr. Kelly began twisting his features into the drollest shapes imaginable. "Mahmoud's command has made a great stir everywhere," continued Pwit-Pwit. "It has affected Dozel to tears. I left her just now weeping over the misfortunes of the little Limping Boy." At this Mr. Kelly began to snivel and moan, while two tears rolled down his hairy nose. [Illustration] "Hello, there! What's the matter with you?" demanded Pwit-Pwit. The monkey made no reply, but began limping around his cage, moaning and shedding tears, as though heart-broken. "Oh, I see," said the sparrow, "you're sorry for the little Limping Boy, too." "I have a fellow-feeling for him," answered Mr. Kelly, and went on with his moaning. "Why, you--you miserable upstart!" exclaimed Pwit-Pwit, ruffling up his feathers in indignation. The sparrow would have said more but for the sudden change in Mr. Kelly's manner. The monkey had come back to the front of his cage, and was touching the side of his head with the forefinger of his right hand. "What are you up to now?" he demanded. "Saluting my unfortunate distant relation," said Mr. Kelly, who then went on moaning and weeping worse than before. For a moment the sparrow's indignation was such that he seemed to be deprived of speech. He looked at Mr. Kelly, and then at the little Limping Boy, and then at the monkey again. Then he ruffled up the feathers of his neck angrily, and said: "Do you mean to say that you believe yourself to be related to this boy, who will grow into a man some day?" [Illustration] "That's the tradition in our family," said Mr. Kelly, "and you doubtless know that tradition is the basis of all history. Besides, that's what a very celebrated man once said in a lecture at the theater where I acted, and he had me on the stage with him for an illustration--so he said. Any one can see that there isn't much difference between a monkey and a man, except the clothes. Look for yourself." And Mr. Kelly placed his right elbow in his left hand, and rested his chin on his right hand, just as the little Limping Boy was doing. Pwit-Pwit looked from one to the other, and the resemblance was so startling that for a moment he was at a loss what answer to make. Then he caught sight of the monkey's tail, which Mr. Kelly was trying hard to conceal behind him. "Aha!" chirped the sparrow, exultantly; "what about the tail?" "None of your business, you meddlesome, gossiping little wretch!" screamed Mr. Kelly, in a passion. And he made a grab for Pwit-Pwit through the wires of his cage, but could not quite reach him. "Be careful," warned the sparrow. "Remember the Law." "Know this once for all, you insignificant bearer of tales," snarled Mr. Kelly. "Mahmoud himself has said that he was in doubt whether I was of the Menial People, or whether I stood between the two worlds. Ere long I shall compel him to proclaim that I am neither the one nor the other, but that I am of the Master People. So beware!" But Pwit-Pwit nearly burst his sides with laughter. "Do you know what Dozel says about you?" he said finally; "the beautiful young Indian doe at whom you have been making eyes through the wires of your cage ever since she arrived?" [Illustration] Mr. Kelly suddenly turned very pale. Noticing this, the sparrow went on relentlessly: "She says that you and all your tribe are chattering, screaming nobodies." For a moment the blow seemed almost more than Mr. Kelly could endure. "Aha, Mr. Kelly," said the sparrow, insolently, "chattering, screaming nobodies! What do you say to that?" At this taunt Mr. Kelly nearly exploded with passion. He clenched his hand and shook it at the sparrow, and screamed at the top of his voice: "Jocko! Jocko! Do you hear? This meddlesome wretch of a sparrow says we are chattering nobodies." [Illustration] Jocko, the tottering old baboon in his cage on the other side of the Lion House, turned blue in the face with anger. "Catch him and pull out his tail feathers!" he screamed. "Never mind the Law." But Pwit-Pwit kept well out of Mr. Kelly's reach. By this time, the little, long-tailed monkeys with black caps and high-pitched voices, living next door to Jocko, were chattering and shrieking at a fearful rate. The sparrow flew about from one cage to another, hurling taunts at the enraged creatures, enjoying himself immensely. When, at length, the monkeys had chattered and shrieked themselves hoarse, Mr. Kelly commanded them to be silent while he arranged for a final settlement of the dispute. He walked in a dignified manner about his cage until he had recovered his breath, and then said sternly to Pwit-Pwit: "You are only a foolish little bird, with a great deal to learn. While we care very little for your opinion, it is well that this matter should be settled. Is there any one among all the Menial People whose word you will accept as the eternal truth?" "Yes," answered the sparrow, promptly. "There is Caliph, the old hippopotamus. He is very old and very wise, and he always tells the truth--which is more than can be said of monkeys." "Very well," said Mr. Kelly, calmly, "go and ask Caliph if it is not true that the first man and the first monkey were made out of the same lump of clay long, long ago on the banks of the river Nile. Tell him to lift up his voice when he answers, so that all can hear." "Agreed," said Pwit-Pwit; "and when you hear old Caliph's answer prepare to hang crape on your door-knob, for it will mean the death of your absurd ambition." Then, while Mr. Kelly continued to walk about his cage in a dignified manner, the sparrow, followed by Toots and the Princess, flew quickly to the Hippopotamus House. Straight up to the edge of the deep pool in which Caliph lay, with only an island of black back and his two bulging nostrils showing above the surface of the water, hopped Pwit-Pwit. "What, ho! Caliph!" chirped the sparrow, "come forth from thy meditations and give ear to a matter of consequence concerning all the Menial People." At first Caliph only blinked his small eyes. Pwit-Pwit bobbed his head at the monster with evidence of vast respect, and said in a louder voice: "Greeting, O master of the deep! It is concerning the general welfare that I come to disturb thy reflections on the glorious past. The pretensions of the monkeys have grown past all bounds, so that there is menace to the general peace. The trouble happened in this wise: Mr. Kelly, who is only a poor sort of monkey, at best, claims kinship with the Master World, whereat there is much discontent and not a little jealousy. He avers that the first monkey and the first man were made out of the same lump of clay on the banks of the Nile. Is this the truth? Speak, I pray you, in tones that may be heard by all, that the trouble which threatens us may be averted." While the sparrow thus spoke, Caliph raised his head slowly out of the water. Seven times did he open and close his enormous mouth. At length, in a voice that rang throughout the Menial World, he spoke as follows: "Harken unto me, all ye Menial People. As to the first monkey, it was in this wise: When the first man had been made, his shadow fell upon some very poor clay that had been thrown away. And it came to pass that when the first man walked, and his shadow walked after him, the poor clay upon which the shadow rested rose and ran shrieking into the forest. And, lo! it was a monkey. Behold, I have spoken." When Caliph had sunk beneath the water again, Pwit-Pwit, with his head on one side, listened eagerly for the comments of the other Menial People, and Toots, with his hand placed warningly on the Princess, listened, too. First, Mahmoud trumpeted his acquiescence: "It is true. I heard it from my father in the Jungle one day when these insolent chatterers were particularly annoying. The monkeys are but as chips that fall from the hewn log." "Behold, Caliph's words are the words of wisdom," said Sultan, patriarch of the lions, in his deepest roar. "I, who was born in the shadow of the great pyramids, had it from my father, who had it from the father of Caliph when he went down to the Nile to drink. Lo! the monkeys are as the chaff when the wheat is winnowed." "I am not of that country," said the old dromedary from the plains of Arabia; "but my cousins, the camels, known to all the world as ships of the desert, brought the news to my people. By the fat in my hump, I swear that Caliph speaks the truth." "My grandmother had it from an aged crocodile who crawled up on the bank of the Nile to sun herself, just as she was laying in the hot sand the egg that hatched my mother," screamed the old cock ostrich. "The monkeys are of no more consequence than straws blown by the wind." And no voice among the Menial People was silent. Those who had no testimony to add to that of Caliph, roared and screeched and howled their approval of it. But the monkeys did not remain long abashed at the verdict against them. When Pwit-Pwit, followed by Toots and the Princess, returned to observe its effect upon them, they found Mr. Kelly sitting cross-legged on his overturned water bucket, with his chin in his hand, meditating deeply. [Illustration] "Well," chirped Pwit-Pwit, "did you hear the verdict of old Caliph?" "Eh?" said Mr. Kelly, raising his head abstractedly. "Hum, ah, oh, yes, I heard it." "And the corroboration of all the other Menial People?" "All my expectations were verified," said Mr. Kelly, complacently. "Malice and prejudice were so apparent that every logical mind will at once class the statements of Caliph and his satellites as perjured testimony. My contention, therefore, is sustained." Too perplexed and astonished to make any reply, Pwit-Pwit flew away to his favorite perch on the rim of Mahmoud's ear, where he sat, crestfallen, for fully three and a quarter minutes. CHAPTER III Close thine eyes, my beauty bright, Dream, dream of the flowing Nile, Where thy mother first saw light-- (Ah, sweet is thine infant smile!) Close thy pretty baby mouth, Close, close thy blinking eye; Dream of the joyous, sunny South-- Lullaby, lullaby. --_Hippopotamus Cradle Song._ All the morning there had been an excited running to and fro among the Keepers of the Menial World. Evidences of a stupendous mystery were apparent on every hand. It seemed to center in the Hippopotamus House, the doors of which were locked and barred, as well as those of the Lion House adjoining it. The Princess, devoured by curiosity, deluged Toots with questions. While awaiting developments, they were feeding peanuts to Zuelma, the vain young mother ostrich. For quite a while the little Limping Boy was unable to get any light on the mystery. "If the sparrow were only here," said the Princess, "there would be a lot of gossip about it; wouldn't there, Toots?" "Yes," answered the boy; "but we won't have to wait long. Listen, Mahmoud is beginning to rumble through his trunk. Twice old Sultan has roared under his breath, and a moment ago the tigers were snarling. The secret will soon be out--" At that instant, Sultan, patriarch of the lions, delivered himself of a mighty roar. Even the Princess could tell by the sound of it that it was not a roar of anger. "Good!" said Toots, "that is old Sultan's call for rejoicing. Now listen." [Illustration] Mahmoud was first to reply. The old elephant trumpeted a hearty response, in which the other elephants joined. After that there were growls from the bears, snarls from the tigers and pumas, and an extraordinary chattering among the monkeys. Throughout all the Menial World there was only one note of discord, one failure to respond heartily to the call for rejoicing. When the other voices had subsided, up spoke the aged striped hyena in his evil-tempered voice, demanding: "Wherefore rejoice? What has befallen in the Lion House that gives cause for rejoicing?" The roar with which Sultan prefaced his reply was so terrible that the ill-favored beast cowered back into the farthest corner of his den. Said Sultan: "Not for this suspicious, thieving, ill-conditioned creature, but for all the loyal inhabitants of the Menial World shall the answer be given. Harken to the voice of Caliph, the Wise." For a moment there was deep silence. Then spoke Caliph, patriarch of the hippopotami, in his rumbling roar, resembling that of the cataracts of the Upper Nile, within the sound of which his youth had been spent: "Lo, Fatimah, my beloved mate, hath an infant daughter. Mother and child are doing well; therefore, rejoice." Whereat there was such general and hearty rejoicing that all the houses of the Menial People rocked on their foundations. But when the sound of it had died away, the aged hyena could be heard snarling: "Pooh! only one? Though my mate brought me four daughters and a son one morning as I was gnawing the leg bone of a sheep, yet I made no uproar about it." "That is because you are a selfish, thieving, carrion-eating old hypocrite," thundered back Caliph. [Illustration] Zuelma, with her bill wide open, as is her custom while listening, stood with her long neck craned over the head of the little Limping Boy, in whose hand that of the Princess--somewhat frightened by the uproar among the animals--was tightly clasped. Suddenly, Pwit-Pwit, the Sparrow gossip and news-gatherer for all the Menial People, fluttered down at her feet. "I have been expecting you for an hour," said the ostrich. "Now, thank goodness, we shall know the truth, after all this roaring and trumpeting. How is it, Pwit-Pwit, that so much fuss is made over a single baby? Were the other eggs eaten by the crocodiles?" [Illustration] "As soon as I heard the call for rejoicing," said the sparrow, "I flew at once to the Hippopotamus House; but the door was shut and no one came to let me in. But it sticks in my mind, Zuelma, that the young of the Hippopotamus are not hatched from eggs." At this, Zuelma, who was a mother herself, laughed scornfully. "If you were not a giddy, gadding sparrow," she said, "with neither mate nor nest of your own, you would know that without eggs and hot sand to hatch them in, there would be no young in the world. Come, go and try again. By this time the door should be open." The sparrow was no quicker than were Toots and the Princess to profit by this hint. They found the outer door of the Hippopotamus House still closed; but that of the Lion House was open, and also one connecting the two. As Pwit-Pwit hopped past the cage of the frolicsome lion cubs, they tumbled over each other in their eagerness to greet him. "Ho, Pwit-Pwit," they roared in their babyish voices, "stop and tell us the news." [Illustration] "Wait till I come back," chirped the sparrow; "I'm busy now." And he hurried on into the Hippopotamus House and to the big tank where old Caliph was cooling himself after the excitement of the morning. Toots and the Princess stopped within a yard of him, eager to hear what was said between them. "Is it indeed true?" demanded Pwit-Pwit. "Are you for the second time a father?" Caliph blinked at the sparrow, and seemed to be turning something over in his mind. Presently he opened his mouth at least a yard and snorted so loudly that the sparrow's feathers were drenched with the spray from his nostrils. "Such manners!" exclaimed Pwit-Pwit, shaking himself vigorously. "What on earth are you laughing at?" "Father for the second time," repeated Caliph, with a broad smile. "Why, little one, my age is at least three-quarters of a century, and all of our family wedded young. At least a score of the young with which Fatimah has presented me are to-day rolling about the broad earth in gaudily painted wheeled tanks for the amusement of the Master World. Therefore, excuse me if I smile decorously at your inquiry if it be true that I am indeed a father for the second time." "Where are Fatimah and the new baby?" demanded the sparrow, shortly, for Pwit-Pwit never approved of laughter at his own expense. "You'll find them over in the next tank," answered the father hippopotamus. "Never yet was there such a baby for the water. He has been to the surface to breathe only twice since he was born. He will be a great hippopotamus when he grows up." "Do you mean to say," said Pwit-Pwit, in surprise, "that Fatimah found the baby in the water to begin with?" "Why, certainly," answered Caliph, "where would you expect to find a new baby hippopotamus?" [Illustration] "Well, I wonder what Zuelma will say to that," chirped the sparrow, as he hopped along to the margin of Fatimah's tank. All that could be seen of the mother hippopotamus was a glistening yard or so of her black back. This was floating about the tank in a manner that indicated no little agitation below the surface. The cause was apparent when Fatimah lifted her head out of the water, and said to Caliph: "Alas! our new-born daughter is lost again. I have searched every corner of the tank in vain. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" "Do not agitate yourself, my beloved," answered Caliph. "The little one is mischievous. Thus it was, I remember, with our first-born. Verily, it is a good sign." Suddenly, while Caliph was speaking, Fatimah plunged her nose into the water, made a scooping motion, and rose quickly to the surface, bringing the missing baby with her. The Princess shrieked with delight at sight of the coffee-colored little image of its mother which lay sprawling across her broad nose, blinking its eyes and blowing spray from its nostrils. [Illustration: The coffee-colored little image of its mother lay sprawling across her broad nose.] "A fine child, Fatimah," said Pwit-Pwit. "Many happy returns of the day." "Thank you very much, I'm sure," said Fatimah, while the new baby shook its small ears in imitation of its mother. "But what a care these babies are," she added with a sigh, "nobody but a mother knows." Toots would have sworn that at this moment Caliph winked slyly at his new daughter, and that the baby gave her father an answering wink. At any rate, as Fatimah finished speaking, the baby slid from her nose into the water with a splash, and sank out of sight. "Drat the child!" said Fatimah. "There's no use," she added with a snort that sent a ripple of waves over the surface of the water; "she will do it. I shall simply leave her there, young as she is, till she is obliged to come up for air. By the way, Pwit-Pwit, little one, how are Cleopatra and her monkey baby this morning?" "Quite well, thank you," answered the sparrow, "and Cleopatra sends congratulations." "Caliph, my love," said Fatimah, "I really think that in honor of the occasion, we should send a polite message to Cleopatra. To be sure, I don't approve of monkeys at all, but babies are babies, you know." "Very well," said Caliph, gruffly, "send the chattering young creature any message you like, only keep me out of it." "My experience certainly is greater than Cleopatra's," said Fatimah, addressing the sparrow, "and I would warn her against allowing her baby to lie overlong in the sun. It is apt to crack the skin. I remember when my first child was born--" "Why, bless my eyes!" interrupted Pwit-Pwit, with a giggle, "Cleopatra asked me to warn you against letting your baby get its feet wet." "Well, I never!" gasped Fatimah in astonishment, while Caliph opened his mouth till the Princess told Toots in a whisper that she could see clear into his stomach, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. "Well, I must be going," said the sparrow. "Everybody is dying for the news. Have you named the baby yet, Fatimah?" "She shall be called Delilah, for her beauty," said the proud mother, as her baby came gasping and sputtering to the surface. As Fatimah put down her nose for her child to clamber upon, she said in a tone of loving triumph: "So-so, my child, it seems you still have some use for mother. Now will you be good?" Again the lion cubs roared at Pwit-Pwit as he was passing, demanding the news: "Where did the hippopotamus baby come from? Did somebody leave the door open?" "Fatimah found it at the bottom of her swimming tank," answered the sparrow, and he passed on, leaving the cubs staring at each other in wonderment. When Pwit-Pwit had made the rounds with his gossip about the new baby, all the Menial People who felt that their experience entitled them to give advice touching the bringing up of children, addressed themselves, one at a time, to Fatimah and Caliph. "As to the new babe," said the dromedary, speaking first, "I would give a bit of advice. Many a babe has suffered in its early days from lack of water. So it was with my brother. His tongue became so parched that he was never able to converse above a whisper. I pray you, madam, to see that your babe has water to drink at least once a week." "Ho-ho, ha-ha!" laughed Caliph. "Water once a week, and only to drink--" "Hush, my dear," said Fatimah, "the dromedary means well, but, being of the desert, he knows no better." "If you would have his legs grow slim and straight," said Dozel, the Indian doe, "you must let him run over the hills as much as possible while yet young. But I would warn you to beware of the dogs and wolves." "For exercise to strengthen the body there is nothing like leaping," roared Sultan, the lion. "Before I was a year old I could leap full twenty feet to the shoulders of an antelope, and never miss." "Ho-ho, ha-ha!" roared Caliph again, till reproved by Fatimah. But the picture of any hippopotamus, young or old, running over the hills, or leaping on to the shoulders of an antelope, was irresistibly funny, and Caliph continued to chuckle till Duchess, Mahmoud's faithful mate, concluded the chapter on how to bring up a young hippopotamus with the following sensible advice: "Behold, O Fatimah," she said, "one or two matters which may have slipped your memory, upon which I would give you counsel. If the mother be sound, and the new-born babe be without blot or blemish, there is little to be feared. Yet, in my time, have I seen the young over-eager for their food, so that they grow to be unnaturally ravenous, in time ruining their digestion and destroying their moral sense. Such a disposition noticed early in infancy is easily corrected, as you well know. If your babe displays an inclination to turn her head more to one side than to the other when sleeping, I would remind you that this is frequently the cause of an ill-balanced skull, destructive of that beautiful symmetry characteristic of the normal adult members of both our species. Moreover, let not thy offspring accustom herself to chewing her food on one side of her mouth--a common affectation among infants. The danger from this source is teeth short on one side and long on the other, and a jaw awry. In these days, as you well know, Fatimah, it is difficult to obtain for a daughter a desirable mate if she be not well favored." "Thank you, my dear," said Fatimah, when Duchess had ceased speaking. "You'll excuse me now, I'm sure; my baby hasn't had a nap since it was born." Presently, all through the Menial World was heard the plaintive melody of the Hippopotamus Cradle Song, and for an hour after it had ceased, even Pwit-Pwit and the Monkeys were silent. CHAPTER IV In the absence of the Princess, it was the little Limping Boy's habit, when visiting his friends of the Menial World, to interpret for his own entertainment the conversations he overheard. He believed that he did this only in his mind, but on several occasions he had translated the language of Caliph or Mahmoud in such loud tones, influenced by the exciting character of their discourse, that other visitors had looked at each other significantly, tapping their foreheads and smiling. Of all this, however, the little Limping Boy, fortunately, was oblivious. One morning he stood alone before the door of Mahmoud and the Duchess. It was the day after the Keeper and several helpers had thrown Mahmoud's mate on her side, tied her fast with ropes, and, with hammer and chisel, had pared her toe-nails, which had grown so long as to lame her. The elephants stood with their heads together, swaying their trunks. The boy at once perceived that they were discussing the nail-paring incident. "Of a truth," said Mahmoud, "when the men came with ropes I was as apprehensive as thou, O Light of my Life. Thou wert aged and lame, and I trembled at the thought that they were about to put thee out of thy misery. Happily, it was not so. And thy lameness this morning, my beloved, hath it disappeared?" "My Lord," said Duchess, "my four feet are now as firm on the ground as when, years ago, I ran free and thoughtless in the Jungle. I feel no pain, and my heart is filled with gratitude to the men with the knives who looked so cruel and were yet so kind." For a moment the two great beasts were silent, gently caressing each other with their trunks. Then Mahmoud spoke: "Had I reflected, O Joy of my Heart, I could have saved thee all thy apprehensions. But it was not until they had released thee that I remembered. Look thou, Duchess, at the under side of my trunk and tell me what thou seest there." Mahmoud raised his trunk in the air, and his mate inspected it carefully, feeling its under side from lip to tip. Presently she said, with surprise and some reproach in her tones: "Why hast thou concealed thy wounds from me, thy faithful mate, my Lord? Almost from lip to tip thou art scarred as though by lion's claws. Surely this is since we came from the Jungle? Then, when I was young and my eyes keen, thou couldst not have concealed from me these dreadful wounds." "Calm thyself, O Light of my Life," said Mahmoud, soothingly. "Canst thou remember the time long before we came to this pleasant place, when, for many weary months, we were separated, my beloved?" "Aye, well, my Lord. It was the time when, day after day, I marched at the head of a long train of gaudily painted wagons in which were Menial People of every sort, stopping now and then at towns and villages for the pleasure of the Master People, who came by thousands to see us. And where wert thou, my Lord, during that dreary time of our separation?" "In the summer," said Mahmoud, "I roamed the country at the head of a train of Menial People, as didst thou. But in the winter I was housed with many others where iron boxes contained fire wherewith to warm us. It is to this same fire that I owe these wounds." [Illustration] "I, too, have seen this red danger," said Duchess, with a shudder. "Once, in the Jungle, it roared and pursued me among the dried reeds till my sides were scorched and I was near dying of fatigue. Didst thou say, my Lord, that the Master People imprison those scorching red tongues in iron boxes?" [Illustration] "Aye, thus it warms, but pursueth not," answered Mahmoud. "Yet is there sometimes danger, as I am about to relate. It happened one night in the middle of winter, when the cold was so severe that the man who watched stretched himself out on the floor at the very side of the iron box, which was as red without as it was within, that old Sultan, the lion, escaped from his cage, and walked abroad within the large house. In passing the red box, he lashed his tail thereon and was stung by the fire so that he howled. But ere the watcher could rise, Sultan, roaring with anger, leaped on the red box, overturning it, so that it fell and held fast the foot of the man that watched. Instantly did the man set up a great outcry, for the fire stung him also, and the weight of the red box held him so that he could not rise. "Now it happened," continued Mahmoud, "that the man who watched had shown me many kindnesses, and I was loath to see him suffer pain. Therefore, breaking the chain that held me in my stall, I ran to the iron box, wrapped my trunk about it and quickly set it on its legs, as, many times in the Jungle, I have carried the hewn logs for the Master People. It was not until the watcher was released and arose, limping, to his feet in safety, that I felt the sting of the fire--" "Remarkable! Most remarkable!" [Illustration] This interruption, uttered in a gruff, unfamiliar voice, caused the little Limping Boy to turn and look to see who was the speaker. But he saw only the swaying branches of some shrubbery near by, and so went on interpreting Mahmoud's tale. "The pain grew each moment more severe, so that I groaned with the agony of it," continued the elephant. "The man who watched returned me to my stall and put oil on my wounds. The oil availed little. For days my agony continued. The Keeper and his helpers could give me no relief. Great patches of skin fell from my trunk, leaving my wounds raw and bleeding. Thus I suffered in the full belief that my wounds were mortal, and that I should never see thee again, my beloved, when one day the Keeper brought to my stall a large man with yellow hair and beard, who carried in his hand a black bag, and who, as he examined my wounded trunk, kept saying 'hum' and 'ha' in a gruff voice. Yet I felt in my heart that he desired to afford me relief--" "Remarkable! Most remarkable!" It was the same gruff voice; but again the little Limping Boy was unable to discover whence it came, and so gave his attention once more to the elephant. [Illustration] "Therefore, when men came with ropes," said Mahmoud, "I made no resistance, but lay down of my own accord and suffered them to bind me. Thereupon the gruff man opened his black bag and took therefrom sundry bright knives and needles; also some bottles and strips of gauze. Though his voice was gruff, I found his touch most soft and gentle. First, he bathed my wounds with some sweet-smelling stuff, and then, with a keen knife--so keen was it that I knew not when it touched me, though it brought streams of blood--the man pared away the diseased skin. I confess that the gruff man's next act puzzled me somewhat at first. While his helpers held my trunk out straight, ever and anon bathing it with a soothing liquid, he washed with great care the thin, tender skin under my forelegs. A sharp pain, at which I made no outcry, however, in the same region, caused me to turn my eyes in that direction. The gruff man, with another very sharp knife, was taking from my legs narrow strips of the living skin and laying them, one after another, on the raw flesh of my trunk. Ere long the wounds were all covered, and when strips of cloth had been bound about them, holding them fast, the ropes were taken from me, and I was permitted to rise. From that day all my pain ceased, and soon only the scars which thou hast seen, O Light of my Life, remained as a witness of the merciful deed of the gruff man with the yellow hair and beard." "Remarkable! Most remarkable!" This time when the little Limping Boy turned at the interruption, he saw the Princess coming from the shrubbery, eagerly dragging after her by the hand a large man in whose yellow hair and beard there were some streaks of gray. "Oh, Toots!" called out the Princess, as they approached the door of the Elephant House, "here's papa. We heard your translation of Mahmoud's story, and it's wonderful. I told papa you could do it, but he wouldn't believe it till his own ears convinced him." "And so you're Toots," said the Princess' father. "My little daughter says that you translate the talk of the animals. Hum, ha, where did you get that story about the elephant skin-grafting you've just been telling?" "Why, papa," said the Princess, reproachfully, "he got it from Mahmoud." "Hum, ha," grunted the large man to himself, "the boy got it from the Keeper--probably the same one that took me out to Bridgeport for that case in Barnum's menagerie. Hum, ha, let's see, that was six years ago last winter. Hum, ha." And the large man looked sharply at Toots. "My little daughter calls you 'Toots'; what's your real name?" "Edward Vine, sir." "Hum, ha, poetical; goes well with his powerful imagination. What does your father do?" "My father is dead, sir." "Poor boy! Hum, ha. What does your mother do?" "Makes embroidery, sir." "Any brothers or sisters?" "No, sir." "How old are you?" "Eleven last June, sir." "Hum, ha," said the gruff man. Toots now saw that when the Princess' father said "hum, ha," he was talking to himself. He stood with his back against the rail in front of Mahmoud's stall. The old elephant was acting strangely. At every exclamation of "hum, ha," he would flap his ears and move a step nearer the large man. "Hum, ha," mused the large man gruffly, again, as he took off his hat to wipe the perspiration from his brow, over which swept the grayish yellow locks. Instantly Mahmoud gave one of his little squeals of delight and began fondling the large man with the tip of his trunk. "Why, he remembers you, sir," said Toots. "Or else he mistakes you for the surgeon who mended his trunk." "Hum, ha, he doesn't mistake me, boy. I am the surgeon who mended his trunk. I flatter myself that it was the first case of elephant skin-grafting ever attempted. Hum, ha." And having closely inspected the scars on the old elephant's proboscis, the large man said "hum, ha," several more times, evidently with great satisfaction, then said to Toots: "What's the matter with your leg?" "It's too short, sir." "Born so?" "Oh, no, sir. It was broken below the knee when I was six years old, and my mother was too poor to get a good surgeon." "Hum, ha; let's have a look at it." The surgeon, whose hands were large, white and soft, and as gentle as his voice was gruff, unfastened the straps of iron and felt of Toots' poor, crippled leg, saying "hum, ha," a great many times as he did so. At length he replaced the irons, looked the boy sharply in the face, and asked: "How would you like to wear it like the other one, for a change?" "Oh, would that be possible, sir?" asked Toots, turning pale. "Easy as"--the gruff man looked around to see if he could find anything so easy as making Toots' leg an inch and a half longer, and noticed Mahmoud--"easy as growing new skin on an elephant's trunk. Hum, ha, easier." "Would it hurt?" "Not a bit. Do it while you're asleep. Then you lie on your back a couple of weeks, after which you go out on my farm with my little daughter and stay till you can jump up and crack your heels together twice. Hum, ha. Tell your mother to bring you to the hospital at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon." [Illustration] "Oh, thank you! Thank you!" was all Toots could say. "Hum, ha, any friend of Mahmoud is a friend of mine," said the Princess' father. It all happened exactly according to the promise of the gruff man with the gentle hands--a little dream of pain in his leg, then two weeks on his back in the hospital bed, where the Princess visited him daily with all sorts of dainties, and then, when he could walk about a bit, a long journey into the country. There, in the bright sunshine, with the birds and butterflies glancing all about him, and the woods and fields calling to him to explore them, he grew strong once more, until, little by little, he learned to get along so gloriously that he could hardly make himself believe that he was the same boy at all. And for this great blessing, which in all his life he had never dared hope for, Toots felt from the very bottom of his heart that he was indebted to the friendship and intimacy which he had come to have with old Mahmoud. CHAPTER V Said the fat white grub to the new spoon hook, With a cynical smile and a scornful look: "Pray accept my very best wishes. It is true you dazzle their eyes, I suppose, But the fact remains, as every one knows, That I am the food for fishes." --_Lay of the Minstrel Pike._ Toots sat on the smooth top of a boulder on the river bank, gazing deep down into the pool at his feet. The pool was shaded by the overhanging branches of a cottonwood tree. The warm air was filled with the fragrance of the country. It had painted the boy's cheeks a healthy brown, and caused him to thrill with a sense of strength that was new and delightful. The good surgeon's promise was fulfilled; Toots' leg was now as straight as that of any boy, and no longer was it burdened by the weight of iron straps. Concerning the iron straps he had just one regret; when he returned to his friends, the Menial People, would Mahmoud be able to recognize him, thus bereft of those symbols of their affinity? He would soon know, for he and the Princess--whose guest Toots was at her father's country home during the period of his convalescence--were to return in a few days. Near where Toots sat, the Princess played beside a little brook that gurgled over its bed of cobble-stones. She was amusing herself poking the end of a stick under the stones in the bed of the brook. Occasionally a crawfish would dart out backward, glare at her savagely with its beady eyes and snap its clumsy claws at the stick, whereupon the Princess would utter a ladylike little shriek and retire to another part of the brook. Suddenly she clapped her hands and exclaimed: "Oh, here comes Reginald!" [Illustration] The Princess ran to meet a trim, precise looking young man in a linen helmet, canvas coat and trousers and a pair of high boots, who was coming down the steep bank with a beautiful new rod and reel on his shoulder. Slung across the other shoulder was a large bag. This was to put his fish in--when he had caught them. Toots never moved from his seat on the boulder. "Now, if you children will keep quiet," said Reginald, as he fastened a brilliant contrivance of scarlet feathers and glittering silver on the end of his slender silken line, "we shall have fried pike for supper." "I'd rather have pickerel, if you please," said Toots. [Illustration: Suddenly the Princess exclaimed: "Oh, here comes Reginald!"] "Pickerel never bite at this time of day," answered Reginald, with authority. He stepped to the water's edge, where the brook entered the river, and raised his rod. Swish! went the delicate bit of bamboo through the air, the reel whizzed and the silken line shot far down the stream. When the glittering bauble at its end struck the water, Reginald wound up the reel slowly, anxiously watching the tip of the rod. Toots and the Princess looked on in silence, the Princess because of her admiration for the natty figure, and Toots out of politeness. But the boy had small respect for Reginald's abilities as a fisherman. Farmer John, with his crooked old pole and grubs for bait, was Toots' ideal in the fishing line. Besides, John had told him about the Pickerel Family whose home was in this same pool. [Illustration] Yes, John's story must be quite true, for now as he turned his gaze from the unprofitable fisherman back to the pool, Toots was sure he could see shadowy figures floating in and out among the rocks. Certainly there was Grandfather Pickerel, the patriarch of the family. Toots could see him now quite plainly. He was having a domestic discussion with two other pickerel who bore a strong family resemblance to him. "They must be Father and Mother Pickerel," thought Toots. [Illustration] Darting about near by, Toots could see the whole brood of young pickerels. They were of all sizes, from Big Brother Pickerel, who was nearly as large as his father, down to Baby Pickerel, who was hardly larger than a minnow. Suddenly Toots realized that something of unusual importance was going on at the bottom of the pool, for as his eyes grew more accustomed to the wavering lights and shadows in the water, he could see, swimming about in the near neighborhood of the Pickerel Family, a whole troop of collateral relations. He recognized Uncle Pike by his fierce look and by the way he ordered the other relations about. Toots knew Aunt Bass by her plump figure and the bright silver suit she wore. She was swimming here and there, conversing amiably with everybody. Miss Catfish, a distant and poor relation, was lingering modestly in the background. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to her except Big Brother Pickerel, who kept edging over in her direction, only to be pursued, reprimanded and driven back to the inner family circle by Mother Pickerel. Toots felt that revelations of the utmost significance were impending. He hardly dared to breathe. Just then his observations were interrupted by the shrill voice of the Princess: "Toots! Toots! John's coming!" This was different. Toots scrambled down from the boulder and ran to meet the big man with the tattered straw hat who was approaching with his crooked fish-pole on his shoulder. In one hand John carried a rusty oyster can which appeared to be full of dirt. Toots stuck his fingers into the dirt and brought something white to the surface. "They're grubs," he exclaimed delightedly. "Now we _shall_ have fried pickerel for supper." Reginald was reeling in his line. His face wore a look of discontent. "Don't seem to have much appetite for red feathers to-day, do they?" said John, as he stuck a grub on his hook and dropped it into the pool. Reginald muttered something between his teeth, and walked toward the rock where the Princess was standing. She gave him a look of consolation. Toots was clambering up beside her. It was a good place from which to watch John. "Go away," said the Princess, drawing her short skirts about her. "Go away; you smell of grubs." But she held out her hand to Reginald and smiled on him in her most fascinating manner. Toots went and stood by the side of John. At that moment the big man gave a sharp tug at the crooked pole, and a shining pickerel over a foot long lay flopping on the stones. Toots viewed the fish at close range with bulging eyes, and said: "Why, I know him. It's the father of the little pickerels." "That so?" said John, sticking another grub on his hook and dropping it into the pool again. "Well, we'll eat him fried for supper just the same." Toots' lip quivered. "Where will the little pickerels get another father?" he asked. "They don't need any," said John. "Grandfather Pickerel will look after them. He's a wise old chap. Nobody's going to get a chance to fry him in a hurry. I've hooked him half a dozen times, but I've never had a chance to fry him yet." "Did he get away?" asked Toots. "Well, I should say he did. You never see more than the tip of the old sinner's nose. When he's given you a glimpse of that, he bites off the line and flops back into his hole." Toots reflected for several moments, and then inquired: "What becomes of the hook, John?" "Oh, he swallows the hook," answered the big man, testily. "His stomach must be half full of old iron by this time." This was an interesting situation. Toots turned it over in his mind slowly. Presently his attention was diverted by an exclamation from John. "Durn his skin!" the big man was saying. "Blest if I don't believe I've got him again!" John's line was being dragged frantically about in the pool. The pole bent and splashed in the water. The big man's hat came off. Reginald and the Princess interrupted their flirtation to join Toots beside the pool. "Out of the way, you folks!" shouted John. "Give me room. I'm going to land the old sinner this time, or know the reason why." All at once the crooked pole snapped in two, and John fell backward with his heels in the air. The next instant he had dashed into the pool up to his shoulders, and seized the small end of the pole, to which the line was attached. "Reel him in, why don't you?" sang out Reginald, laughing. "Reel nothing," said John, wrathfully, from the middle of the pool. "The only way to get this fish out is to jump on his back and ride him out." [Illustration] John concluded to compromise by leading him out. He had wound several yards of the line about his arm, and was wading toward the shore. The fish was suspiciously quiet. The big man stepped out of the water and drew in the line, hand over hand. Toots could see the dim outlines of the fish as he allowed himself to be drawn toward the water's edge. Suddenly he clapped his hands and cried out gleefully: "I know him! I know him! It's Grandfather Pickerel." "So do I know him," said John. "Just you wait till I get my hands on him." At length Grandfather Pickerel's long, sharp nose appeared above the water. The big man stepped back ready for one long, strong pull at the right instant. The wary old fish opened his lean jaws to their full width, and brought them together with a vicious snap. It was at exactly the right moment. Once more John lay on his back with his heels in the air, while Grandfather Pickerel glided with much dignity into the depths of the pool. "Now, if you had had my rod and reel," said Reginald, "you could have--" "Your rod and reel be durned," said John, as he picked up the fish lying on the stones, and started up the bank with it. "If ever that old sinner gets hold of your rod and reel, he'll make toothpicks of 'em." CHAPTER VI Food never drops out of a clear sky. When the sky is dark with clouds, it sometimes rains toads; that is different. I have yet to hear of a barbed iron hook being concealed in the flesh of a toad. Insects and other morsels that float down the brook into the pool come to us in the regular course of nature, and may be swallowed without question. --_Maxims of Grandfather Pickerel._ Toots went back to the boulder by the river's margin that same afternoon, and resumed his observation of the Pickerel Family at home. Reginald was taking a nap on the grassy slope of the river bank, and the Princess was tenderly waving her handkerchief over his face to keep off the flies. On a rainy day not long afterward Toots gave her the following account of his observations: [Illustration] Mother Pickerel was worried. She expected company, and everything was at sixes and sevens. The little pickerels were quarrelsome, and were constantly getting in her way. She cuffed them with her fins, and asked them what they supposed their Aunt Bass would think of their conduct. The little Pickerels loved their Aunt Bass, she was so amiable and entertaining. They chattered about her with their noses close together under the rocks where the brook entered the pool. Aunt Bass was not fierce and greedy like Uncle Pike. Sometimes she came over to the pool at sundown, and amused them by leaping far out of the water to catch fireflies. And she would tell them such lovely stories of all she saw in the strange upper world, where there was nothing to swim in. She was delightful. The little pickerels disputed angrily about which of them should go to meet her. They chased each other about and blundered rudely into the corner where Grandfather Pickerel was trying to have a quiet nap. The old fellow grumbled so loudly at this interruption that Mother Pickerel had to leave her work again. She cuffed them right and left, saying: [Illustration] "How often have I told you not to disturb your grandfather when he is taking his nap? And his stomach troubling him so! Don't you know it rained last night? Oh, you bad children, to worry your grandfather after a rain when his stomach hurts him so." Just then Father Pickerel came home. Hearing what had happened, he went at once and apologized to Grandfather Pickerel. Presently Mother Pickerel joined them. Baby Pickerel sneaked up near enough to hear what they were saying. After a little she rejoined her brothers and sisters, looking very important. "What are they talking about?" demanded the other little pickerels, in a chorus. "About Big Brother," said Baby Pickerel. "I just knew that was what was the matter. He's been gallivanting again after that ill-bred Miss Catfish. He can't be found anywhere. Uncle Pike's gone after him, and pretty soon there's going to be a regular picnic, I can tell you. All the relations are coming. I expect Big Brother's going to catch it this time." [Illustration] Miss Pickerel turned up her nose disdainfully. "The idea of Brother running after that Catfish girl. What shocking bad taste! Did you notice what a horrid big mouth she has?" "And she hasn't got a decent suit of scales to her back," chimed in the next to the youngest Pickerel. "She actually eats mud," said Baby Pickerel. "I saw her do it only the other day. When she noticed that I saw her, she looked ashamed and sneaked away." "I am very glad to hear that she is not lost to all sense of shame," said Miss Pickerel, with a toss of her head. "For my part," said one of the little Pickerels who had not yet spoken, "I'd about as lief be a low-bred catfish as a greedy, quarrelsome pike." "S-s-s-h!" said Miss Pickerel, warningly, "the Pikes are our relations." "I don't care if they are. Uncle Pike is perfectly disgraceful. He snatches the fattest tadpoles and gulps them down at a single mouthful before any one else has a chance at them. He has the most enormous appetite. It's unnatural, too, I'm sure. Yesterday I saw him sneaking about after Baby. Do you know, I have an idea he could tell what became of little Cousin Bass last summer. It made me shudder to see him watching Baby with his big, greedy eyes. I went and told Grandfather, and they had some warm words about it." [Illustration] As they listened to this gruesome tale, the other little pickerels turned pale and were silent. They did not recover their accustomed spirits until Aunt Bass bustled in among them, giving each a pat with her gentle fin. She was closely followed by Uncle Pike, who was driving before him Big Brother Pickerel and Miss Catfish. Big Brother Pickerel kept a protecting fin spread above Miss Catfish, and his bold features bore an expression of defiance. Miss Catfish was pale and trembling. [Illustration] "If I were in her place," whispered Miss Pickerel to her brothers and sisters, "I should want the earth to open and swallow me up!" The Pickerel Family and all the relations drew up in line and looked with severity at Big Brother Pickerel, who continued his protecting attitude toward Miss Catfish. At length Grandfather Pickerel spoke. "Grandson," said he, "it is more in sorrow than in anger that we are gathered here. Speak. Do you insist on bringing that young person into this respectable family?" "I do," answered Big Brother Pickerel, firmly; "and as for the respectability of the family, I don't--" "That will do, sir!" thundered Grandfather Pickerel, in a terrible voice. "So be it. Miss Catfish, consider yourself raised to our level. Your apartment is under the seventeenth cobble-stone to the left of where the brook enters the pool. Spare your protestations of gratitude, I beg of you. _Our_ feelings are too deep for words." At this instant the proceedings were interrupted by a dazzling object that dropped into the water a short distance down the stream, and came glinting and whirling through the pool. Big Brother Pickerel made a dash for it, but Grandfather Pickerel hit him such a slap with the flat of his tail that he fell back, dazed, to the bottom of the pool. [Illustration] "Idiot! Look up and see what you were jumping at." When the others looked in the direction indicated by Grandfather Pickerel, they saw a most amusing thing. A dapper young man was actually trying to deceive them with some scarlet feathers and a silver bangle at the end of a line. Even Baby Pickerel knew better. Big Brother Pickerel looked very much ashamed. He tried to explain that his nervousness over domestic matters had temporarily warped his judgment. [Illustration] Grandfather Pickerel rose cautiously toward the surface of the pool to see whether any more formidable enemy was in sight. He saw Toots sitting on the boulder, but there was nothing to cause alarm in that. On the contrary, Grandfather Pickerel regarded Toots in the light of a friend and sympathizer. He had only one reason to be at all doubtful concerning him. He sometimes came down to the pool with the terribly fascinating big man in the tattered straw hat. Grandfather Pickerel felt a dyspeptic twinge in the pit of his stomach as he recalled his experiences with the big man. As he sank back into the pool, the other pickerels noticed that he appeared grave and preoccupied. This meant that the head of the family was turning something over in his mind that he would shortly communicate to them. So they approached in a respectful semicircle, and waited expectantly. Grandfather Pickerel cast his eye over his audience, and asked: "Where is my son?" "Father has gone to see Aunt Bass home," answered Mother Pickerel; "he will return in a few minutes." Grandfather Pickerel cleared his throat, and looking severely at Big Brother Pickerel, said: "I must again warn you of the necessity of using care and judgment in the selection of your food. I will pass over the humiliating scene we have just witnessed, simply reminding you that dazzling objects which seem to drop out of the sky should never be construed as food. My youngest grandchild would be ashamed to act as you have done, sir!" Big Brother Pickerel hung his head, while Baby Pickerel swelled with pride to twice her natural size. At this instant the brilliant combination of scarlet and silver again came whirling through the water above their heads. The whole Pickerel family gazed at it without the slightest evidence of emotion, whereat Grandfather Pickerel gave them a benignant smile, and continued: "As a general rule, everything that drops into the pool is to be regarded with suspicion. Food never drops out of a clear sky. When the sky is dark with clouds it sometimes rains toads; that is different. I have yet to hear of a barbed iron hook being found concealed in the flesh of a toad. Insects and other morsels that float down the brook into the pool come to us in the regular course of nature, and may be swallowed without question." Here Grandfather Pickerel stopped and reflected for a moment. Presently he added: "Regarding objects that seem to drop out of the sky, I think of one exception--grasshoppers"--the little pickerels smacked their lips at mention of this delectable morsel--"which may either fly into the pool from a distance or leap in from the bank. "I now come," said the patriarch, "to the most deadly danger with which we have to deal. I refer to the powerful fascination which seems to be exercised over us by those big two-legged creatures in tattered straw hats, carrying long, crooked poles over their shoulders, who come down to the pool and lure us to destruction with grubs impaled on sharp iron hooks. I don't know how to account for it," said Grandfather Pickerel, shaking his head and turning pale about the gills, "except on the theory of hypnotism--" "Oh, here comes papa!" interrupted Baby Pickerel. But the others were gazing in consternation at the patriarch, who was now white clear to the tip of his tail and shaking with terror. He was staring upward with wild, distended eyes. The others looked also and understood. The big man was there with his crooked pole. They felt themselves drawn toward him. He was throwing something into the pool. "Back! Back!" shouted Grandfather Pickerel. "Back for your lives!" But the warning was too late. Father Pickerel, approaching from the middle of the river, jumped at the white grub, and all was over. The bereaved Pickerel family saw him dangling helplessly at the end of the big man's line, then disappearing into the unknown world where there is nothing to swim in. "Back under the rocks, all of you!" thundered Grandfather Pickerel. "There is only one thing to be done. I must have that hook, or soon there'll be none left to tell the tale. Thank heaven, I have two sound teeth in my head yet." [Illustration] With bated breath and quivering fins the other pickerels peered out from under the rocks at the desperate struggle which immediately ensued. It was short, but decisive. The waters of the pool were lashed into foam. The little pickerels were half-mad with terror. All at once they gave a loud cheer. The victorious patriarch was returning. There was bloody foam on his jaws, but several inches of fish-line hung from between them. The aged hero paid no attention to the cheering, but swam dejectedly into the farthest corner of his den. Mother Pickerel followed him in silence. When she returned, her eyes were red. "Didn't Grandfather get the hook after all?" asked Baby Pickerel. "Hush, dear," said Mother Pickerel, wiping her eyes with the tip of her tail. "Yes, your grandfather has the hook safe in the pit of his stomach along with all the others, and it is paining him dreadfully." The Princess was still fanning the flies away from the face of Reginald. John was cultivating corn on the high bank of the river. Every five or six minutes he turned his team near by from one row into the next one. Toots remembered John's extra pole and line concealed behind the old cottonwood. He went and got it. But how about bait? Then Toots had a second inspiration. He recalled Grandfather Pickerel's remark about grasshoppers. There were plenty of them all about. At that instant a fat one dropped out of the tree and lay with its long legs on the rocks at Toots' feet. The boy, as tenderly as possible, stuck it on the hook and went back to the boulder. First, he would see what was going on in the bosom of the Pickerel Family. Mother Pickerel was asking Grandfather Pickerel if he didn't think he'd better take a bite of something to stay his stomach till dinner-time. "There's some nice tender tadpoles over in the mouth of the brook," she said. "Do try half a dozen raw, dearie, won't you?" It was at that very instant that Toots' grasshopper, with the hook through the small of his back, jumped out of his hands into the pool. Before the boy had time to realize what had happened, the line and then the pole began moving of their own accord toward the water's edge. Toots grabbed the pole and was nearly dragged into the pool. He looked around and saw John turning his team on the high bank. "I've got him, John! Come here quick!" yelled Toots. Reginald awoke barely in time to seize the end of the pole before it and Toots had been dragged into the water. John came tearing down the bank, shouting at the top of his voice: "Don't fight him yet. Give him the line! Give him the line!" "He's got the line," said Reginald, "and he seems to want the pole, too. Now is the time when fifty yards of silk and a good reel--" "Here, give me the pole," said John; "we'll see who's master this time." Then followed a most exciting scene. When at last Grandfather Pickerel's nose appeared above the surface of the pool, John hadn't a dry rag to his back. The big man was amazed to see that the old pickerel made no attempt to bite off the line. When he had him safely landed, the first thing he did was to look in his mouth. "Well, I'm durned," said John. "The old sinner hasn't a tooth left in his head." As Toots gazed on the form of the vanquished patriarch, all his pride of conquest was swallowed up in a great wave of pity. "He'll never swallow any more fish-hooks, will he, John?" "Well, I guess not," said the big man; "the frying pan will stop all that nonsense." "It seems a pity to fry the old chap," said Toots. "He's lost all his teeth and can't do any more damage." "That's so," answered John, good naturedly; "maybe you'd rather put him in the spring, and keep him for a pet?" But Toots was thinking of the grief of the Pickerel Family. How would Mother Pickerel be able to get along with both Father and Grandfather Pickerel no more, especially considering the doubtful character of Big Brother Pickerel, with his tendency to overturn the established order of society? When he had thought it all over, he said: "No, John, I'd rather put him back in the pool, where he can continue to care for the little Pickerels." And thus the patriarch of the Pickerel Family, wiser than any of his race, before or since, was restored to those who had such grave need of his guidance. CHAPTER VII The country of the Menial People lay white and frozen under its blanket of snow when Toots and the Princess next visited it. They stood before the cage of the lion cubs on the morning of the first snowfall of the year. "By my claws and teeth, all the earth is white!" exclaimed the largest of the cubs, as he looked through his barred window. "The world must be coming to an end," said a shivering puma, curling up in the farthest corner of his cage. "Ho, there, Sultan!" cried out one of the young tigers; "you are old and full of wisdom, tell us why all the land is white, and why our teeth chatter so." Old Sultan rose thereupon, and having walked majestically to the front of his dwelling, lifted up his voice and said: [Illustration] "It is well that you children should know that we are no longer in the Jungle of our fathers. For some reason, I know not what, we have been brought captive into the far North, where, ever and anon, the earth is white, and our hair stands out stiff and harsh. However, I would counsel you to be patient and calm. The food is wholesome and plenty, and is laid each day conveniently at our very feet." "That is indeed so," assented the mother lioness. "It is a great burden off my mind to know that though my claws grow dull with age, and my limbs too stiff to leap, you children are still unpursued by the phantom of hunger unappeased. Therefore, let us be thankful." And she stretched herself out on the floor of her house, and was soon snoring comfortably. The wise counsel of the older lions calmed the cubs somewhat, but filled them with so much curiosity about the jungle home of their people that throughout the day they kept those who had been born in freedom busy answering their questions. Thus it happened that neither Pwit-Pwit, the sparrow, nor the little Limping Boy--who no longer limped--could get the attention of Mahmoud or Duchess, mate of the aged elephant, till toward evening. In the deepest snow of his yard stood Wapiti, the red deer, with his head aloft, his great branching antlers thrown back and his nostrils quivering. Pwit-Pwit flew up and alighted on one of the prongs and chirped merrily into the deer's ear: "Glorious fun, this snow, isn't it, old fellow?" But Wapiti stood sniffing the frosty air and was silent. "I know what is the matter with you," said the sparrow, "you are trying to remember something that happened when it was winter in the great woods where you ran free." Pwit-Pwit picked at the shreds of skin hanging from Wapiti's antlers, and at length the deer lowered his head and spoke: "Go away now," he said, "but come back again. I smell something in the air that makes me feel like leaping and running with all my speed. The memory of other days is struggling to return. Just now I thought it was here. Come back after a little, Pwit-Pwit. Give me time to collect my thoughts." With this the sparrow hopped down from the deer's antlers at Toots' feet, and began fluttering his wings and scolding at him. "He is talking to you now," said the Princess. "What does he say?" "He wants us to come with him. Lead the way," said Toots to the sparrow, "and we will follow wherever you go." Toots took the Princess' hand and started a few steps, whereat Pwit-Pwit, with a chirp of satisfaction, flew straight to the den of the bears. When Toots and the Princess arrived, they found the sparrow exhibiting signs of disappointment and indignation. The great beasts were curled up fast asleep and snoring. "Well, what do you think of that?" demanded the sparrow. "A nice way to receive visitors, that is. They know that I always come when the sun shines full in their doorway." "The snow and the cold have made them sleepy," said Toots. "Perhaps that is so," answered the sparrow--Toots was translating their talk for the Princess--"but it is stupid of them, and impolite, and I won't have it." With these words the sparrow flew at the eyes of the oldest bear, pecking away with all his might, and chirping: "Come, now, will you wake up? You have company for breakfast. Shame upon you!" But the old bear simply put his great paws over his eyes and was presently snoring louder than ever. It was the same with the younger bears. They had eaten their breakfast, and were determined to sleep. Pwit-Pwit fluttered out of the bears' den, and fixing his sparkling eyes on Toots' face, said: [Illustration] "I know what we'll do. We'll call on the racoons. They're horrible little chatterboxes, but they are inclined to be sociable. Besides, I have been neglecting them of late." So they went a little farther up the hill to the Racoon House, with its door looking toward the sun, which is always closed at night. No sound came from within. "It is a little late to catch them at breakfast," said the sparrow; "but they are such greedy people that some of them are sure to be quarreling over the last morsel." But, to the intense surprise of Pwit-Pwit, all was silent within the Racoon House. He hopped in at the door, and presently returned, looking deeply disgusted. "Would you believe it?" he said testily. "Every one of those silly people is snoring louder than the bears. Isn't it disgraceful?" "They are like the bears," said Toots; "the cold makes them drowsy." "Well, I shan't go without my breakfast any longer, simply because it is my duty to carry the early news to people who are too stupid to listen to it," chirped Pwit-Pwit. "I'm half-starved. Come, we will call on the old gray rabbit. There is no one so wise as he in all the Menial World--and he always saves a choice morsel for me, though I must confess that I prefer the fare of Mahmoud." It was only a few steps to the snowy hillside where the old gray rabbit watched over his large family, the youngest of which was a snow-white great-granddaughter. Without waiting for a special invitation, Pwit-Pwit took possession of a bread crust, and was pecking at it greedily, when a wonderful thing happened. The old gray rabbit, ignoring the sparrow, hopped slowly over to where Toots and the Princess stood leaning upon the top rail of his yard fence. "Good morning," said the boy. [Illustration] The rabbit stuck one of its ears straight up and allowed the other to hang down over his cheek, meanwhile moving his flexible lips in the most extraordinary fashion. Toots laughed aloud and clapped his hands, saying: "Thank you, Grandpa Rabbit, my crooked leg is cured. This is the Princess. Her father, who is a great surgeon, made it as straight as its mate. You can see for yourself." With perfect confidence in Toots' ability to understand the rabbit language, the Princess bowed, and then stroked Grandfather Rabbit's ear. Then he hopped still closer to the fence and made a long speech with his ears and flexible lips. And this is what he said: [Illustration: The rabbit stuck one of its ears straight up.] "Little boy, I rejoice at your good fortune. While your poor leg was still crooked, and the iron clanked upon it, and you were as thin and pale as you are now brown and stout, you never neglected me. I always felt that you understood me and mine better than those great careless men who come with the bread and the cabbage-leaves, but with never a word of greeting. Even now, when the ground is white and cold, you do not forget us. We feel that you are one of us. It is not given to all of the Menial People to speak as plainly as I do, but you have my earnest assurance that all have the same feeling of affection toward you." While the rabbit was speaking, Pwit-Pwit, having satisfied his hunger, hopped up beside him, and told him of the disgraceful conduct of the bears and the racoons. "I could have told you," answered the rabbit, "that the first snow would deprive you of all companionship on the part of those people. It was their custom before being taken into captivity to sleep steadily through all the freezing weather. My people understood it well, for then we had only the wildcats, the wolves and the foxes to fear." "But how could they live so long without eating?" demanded Pwit-Pwit. "When the weather is cold, my appetite is sharper than ever." "They lived upon their fat," answered the old gray rabbit. "All the time the leaves were falling the bears ate grapes and berries in the forest, until they were so fat they could hardly walk. I remember we were never afraid of them then, they were so slow and clumsy. It was the same with the racoons. All night they would steal along the margin of the river, gorging themselves with clams, fish and young ducks, and sometimes would go into the fields for the juicy, green corn. So, when the first snow came, they, too, were almost too fat to walk. "Then," continued the old gray rabbit, "the bears would crawl into the farthest corner of their caves, while the racoons would curl up into furry rings at the ends of their burrows, and there they would sleep soundly until the warm sun should again melt the snow. All these things I know well, for it is during the first warm days of spring that the rabbits are ever on the alert because of the gaunt figures of the half-starved bears, awakened by their hunger, which then prowl over the land." "Ah, now I understand," chirped Pwit-Pwit. "Well, now that the bears and the racoons care no longer for the news, I shall have more time than ever to devote to dear old Mahmoud, and to Fatimah and the hippopotamus baby." Just then there came a wild bellow from the direction of Wapiti's yard. [Illustration] "It's Wapiti," said Pwit-Pwit, much excited. "Come at once. He remembers." "If it is the deer you are about to visit," said the rabbit, "I would warn you that his people are apt to be dangerous when the snow is on the ground. It is then that they suffer from hunger, and are none too gentle with their sharp prongs." But Pwit-Pwit said that he had a perfect understanding with Wapiti, and flew away, followed by Toots and the Princess, both eager to know what it was that the red deer had remembered. They found him shaking his antlers and pawing the snow. [Illustration] "Now, I remember," he said. "It was on just such a day as this in the great forest that my gentle, tender-eyed mate was taken from me. There were two fierce dogs that sprang at her throat. But this was not until the iron in the man's hand had spoken, and my mate had fallen to her knees, with the blood gushing from her mouth. Look, Pwit-Pwit, little one, do you see that prong, broken short off?" "Yes," answered the sparrow, eagerly. The red deer tossed his head savagely, then bellowed fiercely: "It was with that same prong that I pinned one of the dogs to a tree, so that he never barked again. I left the prong sticking to his heart." "Served him right," said Pwit-Pwit. "I can't bear dogs; they're as bad as cats." "But my poor mate was dead," continued Wapiti, "and while I was mourning over her body, the men came and bound me fast with cords. That is why you find me here." With that, they took leave of the red deer, and with the sparrow in the lead, proceeded to the Elephant House. "By this time," said Toots, "the lion cubs will have ceased their chatter over the white carpet the heavens laid on the earth in the night, and we shall be able to get in a word." Mahmoud and the Duchess stood as near the front of their house as the chains on their legs would let them, and seemed eager for visitors. They greeted Pwit-Pwit cordially, stretching out their trunks to him. The sparrow hopped upon that of Mahmoud, and said: "Where are your eyes, old friend? Here is the little Limping Boy back again, and you give him not so much as a flap of your ear in greeting." "Alas, my eyes give me small service these days," said the elephant; "yet I would have sworn that the lad who follows you hither with the little butterfly maiden is stout and brown and well-clad, and with two good, straight legs under him. Can it be that my ears are growing dull, also, that I failed to hear the clank of the iron on his leg?" Thus speaking, Mahmoud put forth his trunk, and with the two fingers at its end felt carefully of Toots' legs, first of one and then of the other. Then he drew back and blew a puff of wind through his trunk that ruffled Pwit-Pwit's feathers, saying playfully: "And so, Pwit-Pwit, little one, thou wouldst jest with thy most faithful of friends? Nay, the lad is well-favored and good to look upon, but he is not the little Limping Boy." And Mahmoud, turning his head resolutely, began carrying to his mouth the stack of hay the Keeper had placed before him. Toots felt his heart torn as by a great sorrow. "Mahmoud! Mahmoud!" he sobbed, holding out his arms. But the elephant gave no heed to the boy, and the sparrow had flown away. Toots burst into tears. "It is sad," said the Princess, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, "but it is better to be strong like other boys." And she led him away, and when next Toots and the Princess visited their friends of the Menial World, he was tall, with hair on his lip, and she was slender and very fair; and they looked only in each other's eyes. [Illustration: The End] Transcriber's Note: Italics are indicated by _underscores_. Small capitals have been rendered in full capitals. A number of minor spelling errors have been corrected without note. 
45975	----	[Illustration] The Little Lame Prince By Miss Mulock Pictures By Hope Dunlap [Illustration] The Little Lame Prince and His Travelling Cloak by Miss Mulock With Pictures by Hope Dunlap Rand McNally Co Chicago New York London Copyright, 1909, by Rand-McNally & Company All rights reserved Entered at Stationers' Hall Edition of 1937 Made in U. S. A. [Illustration : Contents] Contents PAGE Chapter I 9 Chapter II 19 Chapter III 31 Chapter IV 43 Chapter V 53 Chapter VI 65 Chapter VII 81 Chapter VIII 91 Chapter IX 99 Chapter X 113 [Illustration: "_Take care, don't let the baby fall again._" _Page 15._] [Illustration: The Little Lame Prince] CHAPTER I. Yes, he was the most beautiful Prince that ever was born. Of course, being a prince, people said this: but it was true besides. When he looked at the candle, his eyes had an expression of earnest inquiry quite startling in a new-born baby. His nose--there was not much of it certainly, but what there was seemed an aquiline shape; his complexion was a charming, healthy purple; he was round and fat, straight-limbed and long--in fact, a splendid baby, and everybody was exceedingly proud of him. Especially his father and mother, the King and Queen of Nomansland, who had waited for him during their happy reign of ten years--now made happier than ever, to themselves and their subjects, by the appearance of a son and heir. The only person who was not quite happy was the king's brother, the heir-presumptive, who would have been king one day, had the baby not been born. But as his Majesty was very kind to him, and even rather sorry for him--insomuch that at the Queen's request he gave him a dukedom almost as big as a county,--the Crown Prince, as he was called, tried to seem pleased also; and let us hope he succeeded. The Prince's christening was to be a grand affair. According to the custom of the country, there were chosen for him four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, who each had to give him a name, and promise to do their utmost for him. When he came of age, he himself had to choose the name--and the god-father or godmother--that he liked best, for the rest of his days. Meantime, all was rejoicing. Subscriptions were made among the rich to give pleasure to the poor: dinners in town-halls for the working men; tea-parties in the streets for their wives; and milk and bun feasts for the children in the schoolrooms. For Nomansland, though I cannot point it out in any map, or read of it in any history, was, I believe, much like our own or many another country. As for the Palace--which was no different from other palaces--it was clean "turned out of the windows," as people say, with the preparations going on. The only quiet place in it was the room which, though the Prince was six weeks old, his mother the Queen had never quitted. Nobody said she was ill, however; it would have been so inconvenient; and as she said nothing about it herself, but lay pale and placid, giving no trouble to anybody, nobody thought much about her. All the world was absorbed in admiring the baby. [Illustration: "_All the people in the palace were lovely too--or thought themselves so, ...from the ladies-in-waiting down ..._"] [Illustration: "_The poor little kitchenmaid ... in her pink cotton gown ... thought doubtless, there never was such a pretty girl._"] The christening-day came at last, and it was as lovely as the Prince himself. All the people in the palace were lovely too--or thought themselves so, in the elegant new clothes which the queen, who thought of everybody, had taken care to give them, from the ladies-in-waiting down to the poor little kitchenmaid, who looked at herself in her pink cotton gown, and thought, doubtless, that there never was such a pretty girl as she. By six in the morning all the royal household had dressed itself in its very best; and then the little Prince was dressed in his best--his magnificent christening-robe; which proceeding his Royal Highness did not like at all, but kicked and screamed like any common baby. When he had a little calmed down, they carried him to be looked at by the Queen his mother, who, though her royal robes had been brought and laid upon the bed, was, as everybody well knew, quite unable to rise and put them on. She admired her baby very much; kissed and blessed him, and lay looking at him, as she did for hours sometimes, when he was placed beside her fast asleep; then she gave him up with a gentle smile, and saying "she hoped he would be very good, that it would be a very nice christening, and all the guests would enjoy themselves," turned peacefully over on her bed, saying nothing more to anybody. She was a very uncomplaining person--the Queen, and her name was Dolorez. Everything went on exactly as if she had been present. All, even the King himself, had grown used to her absence, for she was not strong, and for years had not joined in any gaieties. She always did her royal duties, but as to pleasures, they could go on quite well without her, or it seemed so. The company arrived: great and notable persons in this and neighboring countries; also the four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, who had been chosen with care, as the people who would be most useful to his Royal Highness, should he ever want friends, which did not seem likely. What such want could possibly happen to the heir of the powerful monarch of Nomansland? They came, walking two and two, with their coronets on their heads--being dukes and duchesses, prince and princesses, or the like; they all kissed the child, and pronounced the name which each had given him. Then the four-and-twenty names were shouted out with great energy by six heralds, one after the other, and afterwards written down, to be preserved in the state records, in readiness for the next time they were wanted which would be either on his Royal Highness's coronation or his funeral. Soon the ceremony was over, and everybody satisfied; except, perhaps, the little Prince himself, who moaned faintly under his christening robes, which nearly smothered him. In truth, though very few knew, the Prince in coming to the chapel had met with a slight disaster. His nurse--not his ordinary one, but the state nursemaid, an elegant and fashionable young lady of rank, whose duty it was to carry him to and from the chapel, had been so occupied in arranging her train with one hand, while she held the baby with the other, that she stumbled and let him fall, just at the foot of the marble staircase. To be sure, she contrived to pick him up again the next minute, and the accident was so slight it seemed hardly worth speaking of. Consequently, nobody did speak of it. The baby had turned deadly pale but did not cry, so no person a step or two behind could discover anything wrong; afterwards, even if he had moaned, the silver trumpets were loud enough to drown his voice. It would have been a pity to let anything trouble such a day of felicity. So, after a minute's pause, the procession had moved on. Such a procession! Heralds in blue and silver; pages in crimson and gold; and a troop of little girls in dazzling white, carrying baskets of flowers, which they strewed all the way before the nurse and child,--finally the four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, as proud as possible, and so splendid to look at that they would have quite extinguished their small godson--merely a heap of lace and muslin with a baby-face inside--had it not been for a canopy of white satin and ostrich feathers, which was held over him wherever he was carried. [Illustration: "_The procession had moved on. Such a procession! Heralds in blue and silver; pages in crimson and gold._"] Thus, with the sun shining on them through the painted windows, they stood; the King and his train on one side, the Prince and his attendants on the other, as pretty a sight as ever was seen out of fairyland. "It's just like fairyland," whispered the eldest little girl to the next eldest, as she shook the last rose out of her basket; "and I think the only thing the Prince wants now is a fairy godmother." "Does he?" said a shrill but soft and not unpleasant voice behind; and there was seen among the group of children somebody--not a child--yet no bigger than a child: somebody whom nobody had seen before, and who certainly had not been invited, for she had no christening clothes on. She was a little old woman dressed all in grey: grey gown, grey hooded cloak, of a material excessively fine, and a tint that seemed perpetually changing, like the grey of an evening sky. Her hair was grey and her eyes also; even her complexion had a soft grey shadow over it. But there was nothing unpleasantly old about her, and her smile was as sweet and childlike as the Prince's own, which stole over his pale little face the instant she came near enough to touch him. "Take care. Don't let the baby fall again." The grand young lady nurse started, flushing angrily. "Who spoke to me? How did anybody know?--I mean, what business has anybody--?" Then, frightened, but still speaking in a much sharper tone than I hope young ladies of rank are in the habit of speaking--"Old woman, you will be kind enough not to say 'the baby,' but 'the Prince.' Keep away; his Royal Highness is just going to sleep." "Nevertheless, I must kiss him. I am his godmother." "You!" cried the elegant lady nurse. "You!!" repeated all the gentlemen and ladies in waiting. "You!!!" echoed the heralds and pages--and they began to blow the silver trumpets, in order to stop all further conversation. The Prince's procession formed itself for returning--the King and his train having already moved off towards the palace--but, on the topmost step of the marble stairs, stood, right in front of all, the little old woman clothed in grey. She stretched herself on tiptoe by the help of her stick, and gave the little Prince three kisses. "This is intolerable," cried the young lady nurse, wiping the kisses off rapidly with her lace handkerchief. "Such an insult to his Royal Highness. Take yourself out of the way, old woman, or the King shall be informed immediately." "The King knows nothing of me, more's the pity," replied the old woman with an indifferent air, as if she thought the loss was more on his Majesty's side than hers. "My friend in the palace is the King's wife." "Kings' wives are called queens," said the lady nurse, with a contemptuous air. "You are right," replied the old woman. "Nevertheless, I know her Majesty well, and I love her and her child. And--since you dropped him on the marble stairs (this she said in a mysterious whisper, which made the young lady tremble in spite of her anger)--I choose to take him for my own. I am his godmother, ready to help him whenever he wants me." "You help him!" cried all the group, breaking into shouts of laughter, to which the little old woman paid not the slightest attention. Her soft grey eyes were fixed on the Prince, who seemed to answer to the look, smiling again and again in causeless, aimless fashion, as babies do smile. "His Majesty must hear of this," said a gentleman-in-waiting. "His Majesty will hear quite enough news in a minute or two," said the old woman sadly. And again stretching up to the little Prince, she kissed him on the forehead solemnly. "Be called by a new name which nobody has ever thought of. Be Prince Dolor, in memory of your mother Dolorez." "In memory of!" Everybody started at the ominous phrase, and also at a most terrible breach of etiquette which the old woman had committed. In Nomansland, neither the king nor the queen were supposed to have any Christian name at all. They dropped it on their coronation-day, and it was never mentioned again till it was engraved on their coffins when they died. "Old woman, you are exceedingly ill-bred," cried the eldest lady-in-waiting, much horrified. "How you could know the fact passes my comprehension. But even if you did not know it, how dared you presume to hint that her most gracious Majesty is called Dolorez?" "_Was_ called Dolorez," said the old woman with a tender solemnity. The first gentleman, called the Gold-stick-in-waiting, raised it to strike her, and all the rest stretched out their hands to seize her; but the grey mantle melted from between their fingers like air; and, before anybody had time to do anything more, there came a heavy, muffled, startling sound. The great bell of the palace--the bell which was only heard on the death of some of the Royal family, and for as many times as he or she was years old--began to toll. They listened, mute and horror-stricken. Some one counted: One--two--three--four--up to nine and twenty--just the queen's age. It was, indeed, the Queen. Her Majesty was dead! In the midst of the festivities she had slipped away, out of her new happiness and her old sufferings, neither few nor small. Sending away her women to see the sight--at least, they said afterwards, in excuse, that she had done so, and it was very like her to do it--she had turned with her face to the window, whence one could just see the tops of the distant mountains--the Beautiful Mountains, as they were called--where she was born. So gazing, she had quietly died. When the little Prince was carried back to his mother's room, there was no mother to kiss him. And, though he did not know it, there would be for him no mother's kiss any more. As for his Godmother--the little old woman in grey who called herself so--whether she melted into air, like her gown when they touched it, or whether she flew out of the chapel window, or slipped through the doorway among the bewildered crowd, nobody knew--nobody ever thought about her. Only the nurse, the ordinary homely one, coming out of the Prince's nursery in the middle of the night in search of a cordial to quiet his continual moans, saw, sitting in the doorway, something which she would have thought a mere shadow, had she not seen shining out of it two eyes, grey and soft and sweet. She put her hand before her own, screaming loudly. When she took them away, the old woman was gone. CHAPTER II. Everybody was very kind to the poor little Prince. I think people generally are kind to motherless children, whether princes or peasants. He had a magnificent nursery, and a regular suite of attendants, and was treated with the greatest respect and state. Nobody was allowed to talk to him in silly baby language, or dandle him, or above all to kiss him, though, perhaps, some people did it surreptitiously, for he was such a sweet baby that it was difficult to help it. It could not be said that the Prince missed his mother; children of his age cannot do that; but somehow after she died everything seemed to go wrong with him. From a beautiful baby he became sickly and pale, seeming to have almost ceased growing, especially in his legs, which had been so fat and strong. But after the day of his christening they withered and shrank; he no longer kicked them out either in passion or play, and when, as he got to be nearly a year old, his nurse tried to make him stand upon them, he only tumbled down. This happened so many times that at last people began to talk about it. A prince, and not able to stand on his own legs! What a dreadful thing! what a misfortune for the country! Rather a misfortune to him also, poor little boy! but nobody seemed to think of that. And when, after a while, his health revived, and the old bright look came back to his sweet little face, and his body grew larger and stronger, though still his legs remained the same, people continued to speak of him in whispers, and with grave shakes of the head. Everybody knew, though nobody said it, that something, impossible to guess what, was not quite right with the poor little Prince. Of course, nobody hinted this to the King his father: it does not do to tell great people anything unpleasant. And besides, his Majesty took very little notice of his son, or of his other affairs, beyond the necessary duties of his kingdom. People had said he would not miss the Queen at all, she having been so long an invalid: but he did. After her death he never was quite the same. He established himself in her empty rooms, the only rooms in the palace whence one could see the Beautiful Mountains, and was often observed looking at them as if he thought she had flown away thither, and that his longing could bring her back again. And by a curious coincidence, which nobody dared to inquire into, he desired that the Prince might be called, not by any of the four-and-twenty grand names given him by his godfathers and godmothers, but by the identical name mentioned by the little old woman in grey,--Dolor, after his mother Dolorez. Once a week, according to established state custom, the Prince, dressed in his very best, was brought to the King his father for half-an-hour, but his Majesty was generally too ill and too melancholy to pay much heed to the child. Only once, when he and the Crown Prince, who was exceedingly attentive to his royal brother, were sitting together, with Prince Dolor playing in a corner of the room, dragging himself about with his arms rather than his legs, and sometimes trying feebly to crawl from one chair to another, it seemed to strike the father that all was not right with his son. "How old is his Royal Highness?" said he suddenly to the nurse. "Two years, three months, and five days, please your Majesty." [Illustration: _"How old is his Royal Highness?" said he suddenly to the nurse._] "It does not please me," said the King with a sigh. "He ought to be far more forward than he is now, ought he not, brother? You, who have so many children, must know. Is there not something wrong about him?" "Oh, no," said the Crown Prince, exchanging meaning looks with the nurse, who did not understand at all, but stood frightened and trembling with the tears in her eyes. "Nothing to make your Majesty at all uneasy. No doubt his Royal Highness will outgrow it in time." "Outgrow--what?" "A slight delicacy--ahem!--in the spine; something inherited, perhaps, from his dear mother." "Ah, she was always delicate; but she was the sweetest woman that ever lived. Come here, my little son." And as the Prince turned round upon his father a small, sweet, grave face--so like his mother's--his Majesty the King smiled and held out his arms. But when the boy came to him, not running like a boy, but wriggling awkwardly along the floor, the royal countenance clouded over. "I ought to have been told of this. It is terrible--terrible! And for a prince, too! Send for all the doctors in my kingdom immediately." They came, and each gave a different opinion, and ordered a different mode of treatment. The only thing they agreed in was what had been pretty well known before: that the prince must have been hurt when he was an infant--let fall, perhaps, so as to injure his spine and lower limbs. Did nobody remember? No, nobody. Indignantly, all the nurses denied that any such accident had happened, was possible to have happened, until the faithful country nurse recollected that it really had happened, on the day of the christening. For which unluckily good memory all the others scolded her so severely that she had no peace of her life, and soon after, by the influence of the young lady nurse who had carried the baby that fatal day, and who was a sort of connection of the Crown Prince, being his wife's second cousin once removed, the poor woman was pensioned off, and sent to the Beautiful Mountains, from whence she came, with orders to remain there for the rest of her days. But of all this the King knew nothing, for, indeed, after the first shock of finding out that his son could not walk, and seemed never likely to walk, he interfered very little concerning him. The whole thing was too painful, and his Majesty had never liked painful things. Sometimes he inquired after Prince Dolor, and they told him his Royal Highness was going on as well as could be expected, which really was the case. For after worrying the poor child and perplexing themselves with one remedy after another, the Crown Prince, not wishing to offend any of the differing doctors, had proposed leaving him to nature; and nature, the safest doctor of all, had come to his help, and done her best. He could not walk, it is true; his limbs were mere useless additions to his body; but the body itself was strong and sound. And his face was the same as ever--just his mother's face, one of the sweetest in the world! Even the King, indifferent as he was, sometimes looked at the little fellow with sad tenderness, noticing how cleverly he learned to crawl, and swing himself about by his arms, so that in his own awkward way he was as active in motion as most children of his age. "Poor little man! he does his best, and he is not unhappy; not half so unhappy as I, brother," addressing the Crown Prince, who was more constant than ever in his attendance upon the sick monarch. "If anything should befall me, I have appointed you as Regent. In case of my death, you will take care of my poor little boy?" "Certainly, certainly; but do not let us imagine any such misfortune. I assure your Majesty--everybody will assure you--that it is not in the least likely." He knew, however, and everybody knew, that it was likely, and soon after it actually did happen. The King died, as suddenly and quietly as the Queen had done--indeed, in her very room and bed; and Prince Dolor was left without either father or mother--as sad a thing as could happen, even to a Prince. He was more than that now, though. He was a king. In Nomansland, as in other countries, the people were struck with grief one day and revived the next. "The king is dead--long live the king!" was the cry that rang through the nation, and almost before his late Majesty had been laid beside the queen in their splendid mausoleum, crowds came thronging from all parts of the royal palace, eager to see the new monarch. They did see him--the Prince Regent took care they should--sitting on the floor of the council-chamber, sucking his thumb! And when one of the gentlemen-in-waiting lifted him up and carried him--fancy, carrying a king!--to the chair of state, and put the crown on his head, he shook it off again, it was so heavy and uncomfortable. Sliding down to the foot of the throne, he began playing with the golden lions that supported it, stroking their paws and putting his tiny fingers into their eyes, and laughing--laughing as if he had at last found something to amuse him. "There's a fine king for you!" said the first lord-in-waiting, a friend of the Prince Regent's (the Crown Prince that used to be, who, in the deepest mourning, stood silently beside the throne of his young nephew. He was a handsome man, very grand and clever looking). "What a king! who can never stand to receive his subjects, never walk in processions, who, to the last day of his life, will have to be carried about like a baby. Very unfortunate!" "Exceedingly unfortunate," repeated the second lord. "It is always bad for a nation when its king is a child; but such a child--a permanent cripple, if not worse." "Let us hope not worse," said the first lord in a very hopeless tone, and looking towards the Regent, who stood erect and pretended to hear nothing. "I have heard that these sort of children with very large heads and great broad foreheads and staring eyes, are----well, well, let us hope for the best and be prepared for the worst. In the meantime----" "I swear," said the Crown Prince, coming forward and kissing the hilt of his sword--"I swear to perform my duties as regent, to take all care of his Royal Highness--his Majesty, I mean," with a grand bow to the little child, who laughed innocently back again. "And I will do my humble best to govern the country. Still, if the country has the slightest objection----" But the Crown Prince being generalissimo, and having the whole army at his beck and call, so that he could have begun a civil war in no time; the country had, of course, not the slightest objection. So the king and queen slept together in peace, and Prince Dolor reigned over the land--that is, his uncle did; and everybody said what a fortunate thing it was for the poor little Prince to have such a clever uncle to take care of him. All things went on as usual; indeed, after the Regent had brought his wife and her seven sons, and established them in the palace, rather better than usual. For they gave such splendid entertainments and made the capital so lively, that trade revived, and the country was said to be more flourishing than it had been for a century. Whenever the Regent and his sons appeared, they were received with shouts--"Long live the Crown Prince!" "Long live the Royal family!" And, in truth, they were very fine children, the whole seven of them, and made a great show when they rode out together on seven beautiful horses, one height above another, down to the youngest, on his tiny black pony, no bigger than a large dog. [Illustration: "_And, in truth, they were very fine children, the whole seven of them._"] [Illustration: "_They made a great show when they rode out together on seven beautiful horses._"] As for the other child, his Royal Highness Prince Dolor--for somehow people soon ceased to call him his Majesty, which seemed such a ridiculous title for a poor little fellow, a helpless cripple, with only head and trunk, and no legs to speak of--he was seen very seldom by anybody. Sometimes, people daring enough to peer over the high wall of the palace garden, noticed there, carried in a footman's arms, or drawn in a chair, or left to play on the grass, often with nobody to mind him, a pretty little boy, with a bright intelligent face, and large melancholy eyes--no, not exactly melancholy, for they were his mother's, and she was by no means sad-minded, but thoughtful and dreamy. They rather perplexed people, those childish eyes; they were so exceedingly innocent and yet so penetrating. If anybody did a wrong thing, told a lie for instance, they would turn round with such a grave silent surprise--the child never talked much--that every naughty person in the palace was rather afraid of Prince Dolor. He could not help it, and perhaps he did not even know it, being no better a child than many other children, but there was something about him which made bad people sorry, and grumbling people ashamed of themselves, and ill-natured people gentle and kind. I suppose, because they were touched to see a poor little fellow who did not in the least know what had befallen him, or what lay before him, living his baby life as happy as the day was long. Thus, whether or not he was good himself, the sight of him and his affliction made other people good, and, above all, made everybody love him. So much so, that his uncle the Regent began to feel a little uncomfortable. Now, I have nothing to say against uncles in general. They are usually very excellent people, and very convenient to little boys and girls. Even the "cruel uncle" of "The Babes in the Wood" I believe to be quite an exceptional character. And this "cruel uncle" of whom I am telling was, I hope, an exception too. He did not mean to be cruel. If anybody had called him so, he would have resented it extremely: he would have said that what he did was done entirely for the good of the country. But he was a man who had been always accustomed to consider himself first and foremost, believing that whatever he wanted was sure to be right, and, therefore, he ought to have it. So he tried to get it, and got it too, as people like him very often do. Whether they enjoy it when they have it, is another question. Therefore, he went one day to the council-chamber, determined on making a speech and informing the ministers and the country at large that the young King was in failing health, and that it would be advisable to send him for a time to the Beautiful Mountains. Whether he really meant to do this; or whether it occurred to him afterwards that there would be an easier way of attaining his great desire, the crown of Nomansland, is a point which I cannot decide. But soon after, when he had obtained an order in council to send the King away--which was done in great state, with a guard of honour composed of two whole regiments of soldiers--the nation learnt, without much surprise, that the poor little Prince--nobody ever called him king now--had gone on a much longer journey than to the Beautiful Mountains. He had fallen ill on the road and died within a few hours; at least, so declared the physician in attendance, and the nurse who had been sent to take care of him. They brought his coffin back in great state, and buried it in the mausoleum with his parents. So Prince Dolor was seen no more. The country went into deep mourning for him, and then forgot him, and his uncle reigned in his stead. That illustrious personage accepted his crown with great decorum, and wore it with great dignity, to the last. But whether he enjoyed it or not, there is no evidence to show. CHAPTER III. And what of the little lame prince, whom everybody seemed so easily to have forgotten? Not everybody. There were a few kind souls, mothers of families, who had heard his sad story, and some servants about the palace, who had been familiar with his sweet ways--these many a time sighed and said, "Poor Prince Dolor!" Or, looking at the Beautiful Mountains, which were visible all over Nomansland, though few people ever visited them, "Well, perhaps his Royal Highness is better where he is than even there." They did not know--indeed, hardly anybody did know--that beyond the mountains, between them and the sea, lay a tract of country, barren, level, bare, except for short stunted grass, and here and there a patch of tiny flowers. Not a bush--not a tree--not a resting-place for bird or beast was in that dreary plain. In summer, the sunshine fell upon it hour after hour with a blinding glare; in winter, the winds and rains swept over it unhindered, and the snow came down, steadily, noiselessly, covering it from end to end in one great white sheet, which lay for days and weeks unmarked by a single footprint. [Illustration: "_One large round tower which rose up in the center of the plain._"] Not a pleasant place to live in--and nobody did live there, apparently. The only sign that human creatures had ever been near the spot, was one large round tower which rose up in the centre of the plain, and might be seen all over it--if there had been anybody to see, which there never was. Rose, right up out of the ground, as if it had grown of itself, like a mushroom. But it was not at all mushroom-like; on the contrary, it was very solidly built. In form, it resembled the Irish round towers, which have puzzled people for so long, nobody being able to find out when, or by whom, or for what purpose they were made; seemingly for no use at all, like this tower. It was circular, of very firm brickwork, with neither doors nor windows, until near the top, when you could perceive some slits in the wall, through which one might possibly creep in or look out. Its height was nearly a hundred feet high, and it had a battlemented parapet, showing sharp against the sky. As the plain was quite desolate--almost like a desert, only without sand, and led to nowhere except the still more desolate sea-coast--nobody ever crossed it. Whatever mystery there was about the tower, it and the sky and the plain kept their secret to themselves. It was a very great secret indeed--a state secret--which none but so clever a man as the present king of Nomansland would ever have thought of. How he carried it out, undiscovered, I cannot tell. People said, long afterwards, that it was by means of a gang of condemned criminals, who were set to work, and executed immediately after they had done, so that nobody knew anything, or in the least suspected the real fact. And what was the fact? Why, that this tower, which seemed a mere mass of masonry, utterly forsaken and uninhabited, was not so at all. Within twenty feet of the top, some ingenious architect had planned a perfect little house, divided into four rooms--as by drawing a cross within a circle you will see might easily be done. By making skylights, and a few slits in the walls for windows, and raising a peaked roof which was hidden by the parapet, here was a dwelling complete; eighty feet from the ground, and as inaccessible as a rook's nest on the top of a tree. A charming place to live in! if you once got up there, and never wanted to come down again. Inside--though nobody could have looked inside except a bird, and hardly even a bird flew past that lonely tower--inside it was furnished with all the comfort and elegance imaginable; with lots of books and toys, and everything that the heart of a child could desire. For its only inhabitant, except a nurse of course, was a poor little solitary child. One winter night, when all the plain was white with moonlight, there was seen crossing it a great tall black horse, ridden by a man also big and equally black, carrying before him on the saddle a woman and a child. The woman--she had a sad, fierce look, and no wonder, for she was a criminal under sentence of death, but her sentence had been changed to almost as severe a punishment. She was to inhabit the lonely tower with the child, and was allowed to live as long as the child lived--no longer. This, in order that she might take the utmost care of him; for those who put him there were equally afraid of his dying and of his living. And yet he was only a little gentle boy, with a sweet sleepy smile--he had been very tired with his long journey--and clinging arms, which held tight to the man's neck, for he was rather frightened, and the face, black as it was, looked kindly at him. And he was very helpless, with his poor small shrivelled legs, which could neither stand nor run away--for the little forlorn boy was Prince Dolor. [Illustration: "_He was rather frightened, and the face, black as it was, looked kindly at him._"] He had not been dead at all--or buried either. His grand funeral had been a mere pretence: a wax figure having been put in his place, while he himself was spirited away under charge of these two, the condemned woman and the black man. The latter was deaf and dumb, so could neither tell nor repeat anything. When they reached the foot of the tower, there was light enough to see a huge chain dangling from the parapet, but dangling only half way. The deaf-mute took from his saddle-wallet a sort of ladder, arranged in pieces like a puzzle, fitted it together and lifted it up to meet the chain. Then he mounted to the top of the tower, and slung from it a sort of chair, in which the woman and the child placed themselves and were drawn up, never to come down again as long as they lived. Leaving them there, the man descended the ladder, took it to pieces again and packed it in his pack, mounted the horse, and disappeared across the plain. Every month they used to watch for him, appearing like a speck in the distance. He fastened his horse to the foot of the tower and climbed it, as before, laden with provisions and many other things. He always saw the Prince, so as to make sure that the child was alive and well, and then went away until the following month. While his first childhood lasted, Prince Dolor was happy enough. He had every luxury that even a prince could need, and the one thing wanting--love, never having known, he did not miss. His nurse was very kind to him, though she was a wicked woman. But either she had not been quite so wicked as people said, or she grew better through being shut up continually with a little innocent child, who was dependent upon her for every comfort and pleasure of his life. It was not an unhappy life. There was nobody to tease or ill-use him, and he was never ill. He played about from room to room--there were four rooms--parlour, kitchen, his nurse's bed-room, and his own; learnt to crawl like a fly, and to jump like a frog, and to run about on all-fours almost as fast as a puppy. In fact, he was very much like a puppy or a kitten, as thoughtless and as merry--scarcely ever cross, though sometimes a little weary. As he grew older, he occasionally liked to be quiet for awhile, and then he would sit at the slits of windows, which were, however, much bigger than they looked from the bottom of the tower,--and watch the sky above and the ground below, with the storms sweeping over and the sunshine coming and going, and the shadows of the clouds running races across the blank plain. By-and-by he began to learn lessons--not that his nurse had been ordered to teach him, but she did it partly to amuse herself. She was not a stupid woman, and Prince Dolor was by no means a stupid boy; so they got on very well, and his continual entreaty "What can I do? what can you find me to do?" was stopped; at least for an hour or two in the day. It was a dull life, but he had never known any other; anyhow, he remembered no other; and he did not pity himself at all. Not for a long time, till he grew to be quite a big little boy, and could read easily. Then he suddenly took to books, which the deaf-mute brought him from time to time--books which, not being acquainted with the literature of Nomansland, I cannot describe, but no doubt they were very interesting; and they informed him of everything in the outside world, and filled him with an intense longing to see it. From this time a change came over the boy. He began to look sad and thin, and to shut himself up for hours without speaking. For his nurse hardly spoke, and whatever questions he asked beyond their ordinary daily life she never answered. She had, indeed, been forbidden, on pain of death, to tell him anything about himself, who he was, or what he might have been. He knew he was Prince Dolor, because she always addressed him as "my prince," and "your royal highness," but what a prince was he had not the least idea. He had no idea of any thing in the world, except what he found in his books. He sat one day surrounded by them, having built them up round him like a little castle wall. He had been reading them half the day, but feeling all the while that to read about things which you never can see is like hearing about a beautiful dinner while you are starving. For almost the first time in his life he grew melancholy: his hands fell on his lap; he sat gazing out of the window-slit upon the view outside--the view he had looked at every day of his life, and might look at for endless days more. Not a very cheerful view--just the plain and the sky--but he liked it. He used to think, if he could only fly out of that window, up to the sky or down to the plain, how nice it would be! Perhaps when he died--his nurse had told him once in anger that he would never leave the tower till he died--he might be able to do this. Not that he understood much what dying meant, but it must be a change, and any change seemed to him a blessing. "And I wish I had somebody to tell me all about it; about that and many other things; somebody that would be fond of me, like my poor white kitten." Here the tears came into his eyes, for the boy's one friend, the one interest of his life, had been a little white kitten, which the deaf-mute, kindly smiling, once took out of his pocket and gave him--the only living creature Prince Dolor had ever seen. For four weeks it was his constant plaything and companion, till one moonlight night it took a fancy for wandering, climbed on to the parapet of the tower, dropped over and disappeared. It was not killed, he hoped, for cats have nine lives; indeed, he almost fancied he saw it pick itself up and scamper away, but he never caught sight of it more. "Yes, I wish I had something better than a kitten--a person, a real live person, who would be fond of me and kind to me. Oh, I want somebody--dreadfully, dreadfully!" As he spoke, there sounded behind him a slight tap-tap-tap, as of a stick or a cane, and twisting himself round, he saw--what do you think he saw? Nothing either frightening or ugly, but still exceedingly curious. A little woman, no bigger than he might himself have been, had his legs grown like those of other children, but she was not a child--she was an old woman. Her hair was grey, and her dress was grey, and there was a grey shadow over her whereever she moved. But she had the sweetest smile, the prettiest hands, and when she spoke it was in the softest voice imaginable. "My dear little boy,"--and dropping her cane, the only bright and rich thing about her, she laid those two tiny hands on his shoulders--"my own little boy, I could not come to you until you had said you wanted me, but now you do want me, here I am." [Illustration: "_She laid those two tiny hands on his shoulders--'My own little boy, I could not come to you until you had said you wanted me.'_"] "And you are very welcome, madam," replied the Prince, trying to speak politely, as princes always did in books; "and I am exceedingly obliged to you. May I ask who you are? Perhaps my mother?" For he knew that little boys usually had a mother, and had occasionally wondered what had become of his own. "No," said the visitor, with a tender, half-sad smile, putting back the hair from his forehead, and looking right into his eyes--"No, I am not your mother, though she was a dear friend of mine; and you are as like her as ever you can be." "Will you tell her to come and see me then?" "She cannot; but I dare say she knows all about you. And she loves you very much--and so do I; and I want to help you all I can, my poor little boy." "Why do you call me poor?" asked Prince Dolor in surprise. The little old woman glanced down on his legs and feet, which he did not know were different from those of other children, and then at his sweet, bright face, which, though he knew not that either, was exceedingly different from many children's faces, which are often so fretful, cross, sullen. Looking at him, instead of sighing, she smiled. "I beg your pardon, my prince," said she. "Yes, I am a prince, and my name is Dolor; will you tell me yours, madam?" The little old woman laughed like a chime of silver bells. "I have not got a name--or rather, I have so many names that I don't know which to choose. However, it was I who gave you yours, and you will belong to me all your days. I am your godmother." "Hurrah!" cried the little prince; "I am glad I belong to you, for I like you very much. Will you come and play with me?" So they sat down together, and played. By-and-by they began to talk. "Are you very dull here?" asked the little old woman. "Not particularly, thank you, godmother. I have plenty to eat and drink, and my lessons to do, and my books to read--lots of books." "And you want nothing?" "Nothing. Yes--perhaps--If you please, godmother, could you bring me just one more thing?" "What sort of thing?" "A little boy to play with." The old woman looked very sad. "Just the thing, alas, which I cannot give you. My child, I cannot alter your lot in any way, but I can help you to bear it." "Thank you. But why do you talk of bearing it? I have nothing to bear." "My poor little man!" said the old woman in the very tenderest tone of her tender voice. "Kiss me!" "What is kissing?" asked the wondering child. His godmother took him in her arms and embraced him many times. By-and-by he kissed her back again--at first awkwardly and shyly, then with all the strength of his warm little heart. "You are better to cuddle than even my white kitten, I think. Promise me that you will never go away." "I must; but I will leave a present behind me--something as good as myself to amuse you--something that will take you wherever you want to go, and show you all that you wish to see." "What is it?" "A travelling-cloak." The Prince's countenance fell. "I don't want a cloak, for I never go out. Sometimes nurse hoists me on to the roof, and carries me round by the parapet; but that is all. I can't walk, you know, as she does." "The more reason why you should ride; and besides, this travelling-cloak----" "Hush!--she's coming." There sounded outside the room door a heavy step and a grumpy voice, and a rattle of plates and dishes. "It's my nurse, and she is bringing my dinner; but I don't want dinner at all--I only want you. Will her coming drive you away, godmother?" "Perhaps; but only for a little. Never mind; all the bolts and bars in the world couldn't keep me out. I'd fly in at the window, or down through the chimney. Only wish for me, and I come." "Thank you," said Prince Dolor, but almost in a whisper, for he was very uneasy at what might happen next. His nurse and his godmother--what would they say to one another? how would they look at one another?--two such different faces: one, harsh-lined, sullen, cross, and sad; the other, sweet and bright and calm as a summer evening before the dark begins. When the door was flung open, Prince Dolor shut his eyes, trembling all over: opening them again, he saw he need fear nothing; his lovely old godmother had melted away just like the rainbow out of the sky, as he had watched it many a time. Nobody but his nurse was in the room. "What a muddle your Royal Highness is sitting in," said she sharply. "Such a heap of untidy books; and what's this rubbish?" kicking a little bundle that lay beside them. "Oh, nothing, nothing--give it me!" cried the prince, and darting after it, he hid it under his pinafore, and then pushed it quickly into his pocket. Rubbish as it was, it was left in the place where she had sat, and might be something belonging to her--his dear, kind godmother, whom already he loved with all his lonely, tender, passionate heart. It was, though he did not know this, his wonderful travelling-cloak. CHAPTER IV. And what of the travelling-cloak? What sort of cloak was it, and what good did it do the Prince? Stay, and I'll tell you all about it. Outside it was the commonest-looking bundle imaginable--shabby and small; and the instant Prince Dolor touched it, it grew smaller still, dwindling down till he could put it in his trousers pocket, like a handkerchief rolled up into a ball. He did this at once, for fear his nurse should see it, and kept it there all day--all night, too. Till after his next morning's lessons he had no opportunity of examining his treasure. When he did, it seemed no treasure at all; but a mere piece of cloth--circular in form, dark green in colour, that is, if it had any colour at all, being so worn and shabby, though not dirty. It had a split cut to the centre, forming a round hole for the neck--and that was all its shape; the shape, in fact, of those cloaks which in South America are called _ponchos_--very simple, but most graceful and convenient. Prince Dolor had never seen anything like it. In spite of his disappointment he examined it curiously; spread it out on the floor, then arranged it on his shoulders. It felt very warm and comfortable; but it was so exceedingly shabby--the only shabby thing that the Prince had ever seen in his life. [Illustration: "_Prince Dolor had never seen anything like it. In spite of his disappointment he examined it curiously._"] "And what use will it be to me?" said he sadly. "I have no need of outdoor clothes, as I never go out. Why was this given me, I wonder? and what in the world am I to do with it? She must be a rather funny person, this dear godmother of mine." Nevertheless, because she was his godmother, and had given him the cloak, he folded it carefully and put it away, poor and shabby as it was, hiding it in a safe corner of his toy-cupboard, which his nurse never meddled with. He did not want her to find it, or to laugh at it, or at his godmother--as he felt sure she would, if she knew all. There it lay, and by-and-by he forgot all about it; nay, I am sorry to say, that, being but a child, and not seeing her again, he almost forgot his sweet old godmother, or thought of her only as he did of the angels or fairies that he read of in his books, and of her visit as if it had been a mere dream of the night. There were times, certainly, when he recalled her; of early mornings like that morning when she appeared beside him, and late evenings, when the grey twilight reminded him of the colour of her hair and her pretty soft garments; above all, when, waking in the middle of the night, with the stars peering in at his window, or the moonlight shining across his little bed, he would not have been surprised to see her standing beside it, looking at him with those beautiful tender eyes, which seemed to have a pleasantness and comfort in them different from anything he had ever known. But she never came, and gradually she slipped out of his memory--only a boy's memory, after all; until something happened which made him remember her, and want her as he had never wanted anything before. Prince Dolor fell ill. He caught--his nurse could not tell how--a complaint common to the people of Nomansland, called the doldrums, as unpleasant as measles or any other of our complaints; and it made him restless, cross, and disagreeable. Even when a little better, he was too weak to enjoy anything, but lay all day long on his sofa, fidgetting his nurse extremely--while, in her intense terror lest he might die, she fidgetted him still more. At last, seeing he really was getting well, she left him to himself--which he was most glad of, in spite of his dulness and dreariness. There he lay, alone, quite alone. [Illustration: "_Even when a little better, he was too weak to enjoy anything, but lay all day long on his sofa, fidgetting his nurse extremely._"] Now and then an irritable fit came over him, in which he longed to get up and do something, or go somewhere--would have liked to imitate his white kitten--jump down from the tower and run away, taking the chance of whatever might happen. Only one thing, alas! was likely to happen; for the kitten, he remembered, had four active legs, while he---- "I wonder what my godmother meant when she looked at my legs and sighed so bitterly? I wonder why I can't walk straight and steady like my nurse--only I wouldn't like to have her great noisy, clumping shoes. Still, it would be very nice to move about quickly--perhaps to fly, like a bird, like that string of birds I saw the other day skimming across the sky--one after the other." These were the passage-birds--the only living creatures that ever crossed the lonely plain; and he had been much interested in them, wondering whence they came and whither they were going. "How nice it must be to be a bird. If legs are no good, why cannot one have wings? People have wings when they die--perhaps: I wish I was dead, that I do. I am so tired, so tired; and nobody cares for me. Nobody ever did care for me, except perhaps my godmother. Godmother, dear, have you quite forsaken me?" He stretched himself wearily, gathered himself up, and dropped his head upon his hands; as he did so, he felt somebody kiss him at the back of his neck, and turning, found that he was resting, not on the sofa-pillows, but on a warm shoulder--that of the little old woman clothed in grey. How glad he was to see her! How he looked into her kind eyes, and felt her hands, to see if she were all real and alive! then put both his arms round her neck, and kissed her as if he would never have done kissing! "Stop, stop!" cried she, pretending to be smothered, "I see you have not forgotten my teachings. Kissing is a good thing--in moderation. Only, just let me have breath to speak one word." "A dozen!" he said. "Well, then, tell me all that has happened to you since I saw you--or rather, since you saw me, which is a quite different thing." "Nothing has happened--nothing ever does happen to me," answered the Prince dolefully. "And are you very dull, my boy?" "So dull, that I was just thinking whether I could not jump down to the bottom of the tower like my white kitten." "Don't do that, being not a white kitten." "I wish I were!--I wish I were anything but what I am!" "And you can't make yourself any different, nor can I do it either. You must be content to stay just what you are." The little old woman said this--very firmly, but gently, too--with her arms round his neck, and her lips on his forehead. It was the first time the boy had ever heard any one talk like this, and he looked up in surprise--but not in pain, for her sweet manner softened the hardness of her words. "Now, my prince--for you are a prince, and must behave as such--let us see what we can do; how much I can do for you, or show you how to do for yourself. Where is your travelling-cloak?" Prince Dolor blushed extremely. "I--I put it away in the cupboard; I suppose it is there still." "You have never used it; you dislike it?" He hesitated, not wishing to be impolite. "Don't you think it's--just a little old and shabby, for a prince?" The old woman laughed--long and loud, though very sweetly. "Prince, indeed! Why, if all the princes in the world craved for it, they couldn't get it, unless I gave it them. Old and shabby! It's the most valuable thing imaginable! Very few ever have it; but I thought I would give it to you, because--because you are different from other people." "Am I?" said the Prince, and looked first with curiosity, then with a sort of anxiety, into his godmother's face, which was sad and grave, with slow tears beginning to steal down. She touched his poor little legs. "These are not like those of other little boys." "Indeed!--my nurse never told me that." "Very likely not. But it is time you were told; and I tell you, because I love you." "Tell me what, dear godmother?" "That you will never be able to walk, or run, or jump, or play--that your life will be quite different to most people's lives: but it may be a very happy life for all that. Do not be afraid." "I am not afraid," said the boy; but he turned very pale, and his lips began to quiver, though he did not actually cry--he was too old for that, and, perhaps, too proud. Though not wholly comprehending, he began dimly to guess what his godmother meant. He had never seen any real live boys, but he had seen pictures of them; running and jumping; which he had admired and tried hard to imitate, but always failed. Now he began to understand why he failed, and that he always should fail--that, in fact, he was not like other little boys; and it was of no use his wishing to do as they did, and play as they played, even if he had had them to play with. His was a separate life, in which he must find out new work and new pleasures for himself. The sense of _the inevitable_, as grown-up people call it--that we cannot have things as we want them to be, but as they are, and that we must learn to bear them and make the best of them--this lesson, which everybody has to learn soon or late--came, alas! sadly soon, to the poor boy. He fought against it for a while, and then, quite overcome, turned and sobbed bitterly in his godmother's arms. She comforted him--I do not know how, except that love always comforts; and then she whispered to him, in her sweet, strong, cheerful voice--"Never mind!" "No, I don't think I do mind--that is, I _won't_ mind," replied he, catching the courage of her tone and speaking like a man, though he was still such a mere boy. "That is right, my prince!--that is being like a prince. Now we know exactly where we are; let us put our shoulders to the wheel and----" "We are in Hopeless Tower" (this was its name, if it had a name), "and there is no wheel to put our shoulders to," said the child sadly. "You little matter-of-fact goose! Well for you that you have a godmother called----" "What?" he eagerly asked. "Stuff-and-nonsense." "Stuff-and-nonsense! What a funny name!" "Some people give it me, but they are not my most intimate friends. These call me--never mind what," added the old woman, with a soft twinkle in her eyes. "So as you know me, and know me well, you may give me any name you please; it doesn't matter. But I am your godmother, child. I have few godchildren; those I have love me dearly, and find me the greatest blessing in all the world." "I can well believe it," cried the little lame Prince, and forgot his troubles in looking at her--as her figure dilated, her eyes grew lustrous as stars, her very raiment brightened, and the whole room seemed filled with her beautiful and beneficent presence like light. He could have looked at her for ever--half in love, half in awe; but she suddenly dwindled down into the little old woman all in grey, and with a malicious twinkle in her eyes, asked for the travelling-cloak. "Bring it out of the rubbish cupboard, and shake the dust off it, quick!" said she to Prince Dolor, who hung his head, rather ashamed. "Spread it out on the floor, and wait till the split closes and the edges turn up like a rim all round. Then go and open the sky-light--mind, I say _open the skylight_--set yourself down in the middle of it, like a frog on a water-lily leaf; say 'Abracadabra, dum dum dum,' and--see what will happen!" The prince burst into a fit of laughing. It all seemed so exceedingly silly; he wondered that a wise old woman like his godmother should talk such nonsense. "Stuff-and-nonsense, you mean," said she, answering, to his great alarm, his unspoken thoughts. "Did I not tell you some people called me by that name? Never mind; it doesn't harm me." And she laughed--her merry laugh--as child-like as if she were the prince's age instead of her own, whatever that might be. She certainly was a most extraordinary old woman. "Believe me or not, it doesn't matter," said she. "Here is the cloak: when you want to go travelling on it, say _Abracadabra, dum dum dum_; when you want to come back again, say _Abracadabra, tum tum ti_. That's all; good-bye." A puff of pleasant air passing by him, and making him feel for the moment quite strong and well, was all the Prince was conscious of. His most extraordinary godmother was gone. "Really now, how rosy your Royal Highness's cheeks have grown! You seem to have got well already," said the nurse, entering the room. "I think I have," replied the Prince very gently--he felt kindly and gently even to his grim nurse. "And now let me have my dinner, and go you to your sewing as usual." The instant she was gone, however, taking with her the plates and dishes, which for the first time since his illness he had satisfactorily cleared, Prince Dolor sprang down from his sofa, and with one or two of his frog-like jumps, not graceful but convenient, he reached the cupboard where he kept his toys, and looked everywhere for his travelling-cloak. Alas! it was not there. While he was ill of the doldrums, his nurse, thinking it a good opportunity for putting things to rights, had made a grand clearance of all his "rubbish," as she considered it: his beloved headless horses, broken carts, sheep without feet, and birds without wings--all the treasures of his baby days, which he could not bear to part with. Though he seldom played with them now, he liked just to feel they were there. They were all gone! and with them the travelling-cloak. He sat down on the floor, looking at the empty shelves, so beautifully clean and tidy, then burst out sobbing as if his heart would break. But quietly--always quietly. He never let his nurse hear him cry. She only laughed at him, as he felt she would laugh now. "And it is all my own fault," he cried. "I ought to have taken better care of my godmother's gift. O, godmother, forgive me! I'll never be so careless again. I don't know what the cloak is exactly, but I am sure it is something precious. Help me to find it again. Oh, don't let it be stolen from me--don't, please!" "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed a silvery voice. "Why, that travelling-cloak is the one thing in the world which nobody can steal. It is of no use to anybody except the owner. Open your eyes, my prince, and see what you shall see." His dear old godmother, he thought, had turned eagerly round. But no; he only beheld, lying in a corner of the room, all dust and cobwebs, his precious travelling-cloak. Prince Dolor darted towards it, tumbling several times on the way,--as he often did tumble, poor boy! and pick himself up again, never complaining. Snatching it to his breast, he hugged and kissed it, cobwebs and all, as if it had been something alive. Then he began unrolling it, wondering each minute what would happen. But what did happen was so curious that I must leave it for another chapter. CHAPTER V. If any reader, big or little, should wonder whether there is a meaning in this story, deeper than that of an ordinary fairy tale, I will own that there is. But I have hidden it so carefully that the smaller people, and many larger folk, will never find it out, and meantime the book may be read straight on, like "Cinderella," or "Blue-Beard," or "Hop-o'-my Thumb," for what interest it has, or what amusement it may bring. Having said this, I return to Prince Dolor, that little lame boy whom many may think so exceedingly to be pitied. But if you had seen him as he sat patiently untying his wonderful cloak, which was done up in a very tight and perplexing parcel, using skilfully his deft little hands, and knitting his brows with firm determination, while his eyes glistened with pleasure, and energy, and eager anticipation--if you had beheld him thus, you might have changed your opinion. When we see people suffering or unfortunate, we feel very sorry for them; but when we see them bravely bearing their sufferings, and making the best of their misfortunes, it is quite a different feeling. We respect, we admire them. One can respect and admire even a little child. When Prince Dolor had patiently untied all the knots, a remarkable thing happened. The cloak began to undo itself. Slowly unfolding, it laid itself down on the carpet, as flat as if it had been ironed; the split joined with a little sharp crick-crack, and the rim turned up all round till it was breast-high; for meantime the cloak had grown and grown, and become quite large enough for one person to sit in it, as comfortable as if in a boat. The Prince watched it rather anxiously; it was such an extraordinary, not to say a frightening thing. However, he was no coward, but a thorough boy, who, if he had been like other boys, would doubtless have grown up daring and adventurous--a soldier, a sailor, or the like. As it was, he could only show his courage morally, not physically, by being afraid of nothing, and by doing boldly all that it was in his narrow powers to do. And I am not sure but that in this way he showed more real valour than if he had had six pairs of proper legs. He said to himself, "What a goose I am! As if my dear godmother would ever have given me anything to hurt me. Here goes!" So, with one of his active leaps, he sprang right into the middle of the cloak, where he squatted down, wrapping his arms tight round his knees, for they shook a little and his heart beat fast. But there he sat, steady and silent, waiting for what might happen next. Nothing did happen, and he began to think nothing would, and to feel rather disappointed, when he recollected the words he had been told to repeat--"Abracadabra, dum, dum, dum!" He repeated them, laughing all the while, they seemed such nonsense. And then--and then---- Now, I don't expect anybody to believe what I am going to relate, though a good many wise people have believed a good many sillier things. And as seeing's believing, and I never saw it, I cannot be expected implicitly to believe it myself, except in a sort of a way; and yet there is truth in it--for some people. The cloak rose, slowly and steadily, at first only a few inches, then gradually higher and higher, till it nearly touched the skylight. Prince Dolor's head actually bumped against the glass, or would have done so, had he not crouched down, crying, "Oh, please don't hurt me!" in a most melancholy voice. Then he suddenly remembered his godmother's express command--"Open the skylight!" Regaining his courage at once, without a moment's delay, he lifted up his head and began searching for the bolt, the cloak meanwhile remaining perfectly still, balanced in air. But the minute the window was opened, out it sailed--right out into the clear fresh air, with nothing between it and the cloudless blue. Prince Dolor had never felt any such delicious sensation before! I can understand it. Cannot you? Did you never think, in watching the rooks going home singly or in pairs, oaring their way across the calm evening sky, till they vanish like black dots in the misty grey, how pleasant it must feel to be up there, quite out of the noise and din of the world, able to hear and see everything down below, yet troubled by nothing and teased by no one--all alone, but perfectly content. Something like this was the happiness of the little lame Prince when he got out of Hopeless Tower, and found himself for the first time in the pure open air, with the sky above him and the earth below. True, there was nothing but earth and sky; no houses, no trees, no rivers, mountains, seas--not a beast on the ground, or a bird in the air. But to him even the level plain looked beautiful; and then there was the glorious arch of the sky, with a little young moon sitting in the west like a baby queen. And the evening breeze was so sweet and fresh, it kissed him like his godmother's kisses; and by-and-by a few stars came out, first two or three, and then quantities--quantities! so that, when he began to count them, he was utterly bewildered. [Illustration: "_By-and-by a few stars came out, first two or three, and then quantities!_"] By this time, however, the cool breeze had become cold, the mist gathered, and as he had, as he said, no outdoor clothes, poor Prince Dolor was not very comfortable. The dews fell damp on his curls--he began to shiver. "Perhaps I had better go home," thought he. But how?--For in his excitement the other words which his godmother had told him to use had slipped his memory. They were only a little different from the first, but in that slight difference all the importance lay. As he repeated his "Abracadabra," trying ever so many other syllables after it, the cloak only went faster and faster, skimming on through the dusky empty air. The poor little Prince began to feel frightened. What if his wonderful travelling-cloak should keep on thus travelling, perhaps to the world's end, carrying with it a poor, tired, hungry boy, who, after all, was beginning to think there was something very pleasant in supper and bed? "Dear godmother," he cried pitifully, "do help me! Tell me just this once and I'll never forget again." Instantly the words came rushing into his head--"Abracadabra, tum, tum, ti!" Was that it? Ah, yes!--for the cloak began to turn slowly. He repeated the charm again, more distinctly and firmly, when it gave a gentle dip, like a nod of satisfaction, and immediately started back, as fast as ever, in the direction of the tower. He reached the skylight, which he found exactly as he had left it, and slipped in, cloak and all, as easily as he had got out. He had scarcely reached the floor, and was still sitting in the middle of his travelling-cloak--like a frog on a water-lily leaf, as his godmother had expressed it--when he heard his nurse's voice outside. "Bless us! what has become of your Royal Highness all this time? To sit stupidly here at the window till it is quite dark, and leave the skylight open too. Prince! what can you be thinking of? You are the silliest boy I ever knew." "Am I?" said he absently, and never heeding her crossness; or his only anxiety was lest she might find out anything. She would have been a very clever person to have done so. The instant Prince Dolor got off it, the cloak folded itself up into the tiniest possible parcel, tied all its own knots, and rolled itself of its own accord into the farthest and darkest corner of the room. If the nurse had seen it, which she didn't, she would have taken it for a mere bundle of rubbish not worth noticing. Shutting the skylight with an angry bang, she brought in the supper and lit the candles, with her usual unhappy expression of countenance. But Prince Dolor hardly saw it; he only saw, hid in the corner where nobody else would see it, his wonderful travelling-cloak. And though his supper was not particularly nice, he ate it heartily, scarcely hearing a word of his nurse's grumbling, which to-night seemed to have taken the place of her sullen silence. [Illustration: "_She brought in the supper and lit the candles, with her usual unhappy expression ... he only saw his wonderful travelling-cloak._" _Page 58._] "Poor woman!" he thought, when he paused a minute to listen and look at her, with those quiet, happy eyes, so like his mother's. "Poor woman! _she_ hasn't got a travelling-cloak!" And when he was left alone at last, and crept into his little bed, where he lay awake a good while, watching what he called his "sky-garden," all planted with stars, like flowers, his chief thought was, "I must be up very early to-morrow morning and get my lessons done, and then I'll go travelling all over the world on my beautiful cloak." So, next day, he opened his eyes with the sun, and went with a good heart to his lessons. They had hitherto been the chief amusement of his dull life; now, I am afraid, he found them also a little dull. But he tried to be good--I don't say Prince Dolor always was good, but he generally tried to be--and when his mind went wandering after the dark dusty corner where lay his precious treasure, he resolutely called it back again. "For," he said, "how ashamed my godmother would be of me if I grew up a stupid boy." But the instant lessons were done, and he was alone in the empty room, he crept across the floor, undid the shabby little bundle, his fingers trembling with eagerness, climbed on the chair, and thence to the table, so as to unbar the skylight--he forgot nothing now--said his magic charm, and was away out of the window, as children say, "in a few minutes less than no time!" Nobody missed him. He was accustomed to sit so quietly always, that his nurse, though only in the next room, perceived no difference. And besides, she might have gone in and out a dozen times, and it would have been just the same; she never could have found out his absence. For what do you think the clever godmother did? She took a quantity of moonshine, or some equally convenient material, and made an image, which she set on the window-sill reading, or by the table drawing, where it looked so like Prince Dolor, that any common observer would never have guessed the deception; and even the boy would have been puzzled to know which was the image and which was himself. And all this while the happy little fellow was away, floating in the air on his magic cloak, and seeing all sorts of wonderful things--or they seemed wonderful to him, who had hitherto seen nothing at all. First, there were the flowers that grew on the plain, which, whenever the cloak came near enough, he strained his eyes to look at; they were very tiny, but very beautiful--white saxifrage, and yellow lotus, and ground-thistles, purple and bright, with many others the names of which I do not know. No more did Prince Dolor, though he tried to find them out by recalling any pictures he had seen of them. But he was too far off; and though it was pleasant enough to admire them as brilliant patches of colour, still he would have liked to examine them all. He was, as a little girl I know once said of a playfellow, "a very _examining_ boy." "I wonder," he thought, "whether I could see better through a pair of glasses like those my nurse reads with, and takes such care of. How I would take care of them too! if only I had a pair!" Immediately he felt something queer and hard fixing itself on to the bridge of his nose. It was a pair of the prettiest gold spectacles ever seen; and looking downwards, he found that, though ever so high above the ground, he could see every minute blade of grass, every tiny bud and flower--nay, even the insects that walked over them. "Thank you, thank you!" he cried in a gush of gratitude--to anybody or everybody, but especially to his dear godmother, whom he felt sure had given him this new present. He amused himself with it for ever so long, with his chin pressed on the rim of the cloak, gazing down upon the grass, every square foot of which was a mine of wonders. Then, just to rest his eyes, he turned them up to the sky--the blue, bright, empty sky, which he had looked at so often and seen nothing. Now, surely there was something. A long, black, wavy line, moving on in the distance, not by chance, as the clouds move apparently, but deliberately, as if it were alive. He might have seen it before--he almost thought he had; but then he could not tell what it was. Looking at it through his spectacles, he discovered that it really was alive; being a long string of birds, flying one after the other, their wings moving steadily and their heads pointed in one direction, as steadily as if each were a little ship, guided invisibly by an unerring helm. "They must be the passage-birds flying seawards!" cried the boy, who had read a little about them, and had a great talent for putting two and two together and finding out all he could. "Oh, how I should like to see them quite close, and to know where they come from, and whither they are going! How I wish I knew everything in all the world!" A silly speech for even an "examining" little boy to make; because, as we grow older, the more we know, the more we find out there is to know. And Prince Dolor blushed when he had said it, and hoped nobody had heard him. Apparently somebody had, however; for the cloak gave a sudden bound forward, and presently he found himself high up in air, in the very middle of that band of ærial travellers, who had no magic cloak to travel on--nothing except their wings. Yet there they were, making their fearless way through the sky. Prince Dolor looked at them, as one after the other they glided past him; and they looked at him--those pretty swallows, with their changing necks and bright eyes--as if wondering to meet in mid-air such an extraordinary sort of a bird. [Illustration: "_They looked at him ... as if wondering to meet in mid-air such an extraordinary sort of bird._" _Page 62._] "Oh, I wish I were going with you, you lovely creatures!" cried the boy. "I'm getting so tired of this dull plain, and the dreary and lonely tower. I do so want to see the world! Pretty swallows, dear swallows! tell me what it looks like--the beautiful, wonderful world!" But the swallows flew past him--steadily, slowly, pursuing their course as if inside each little head had been a mariner's compass, to guide them safe over land and sea, direct to the place where they desired to go. The boy looked after them with envy. For a long time he followed with his eyes the faint wavy black line as it floated away, sometimes changing its curves a little, but never deviating from its settled course, till it vanished entirely out of sight. Then he settled himself down in the centre of the cloak, feeling quite sad and lonely. "I think I'll go home," said he, and repeated his "Abracadabra, tum, tum, ti!" with a rather heavy heart. The more he had, the more he wanted; and it is not always one can have everything one wants--at least, at the exact minute one craves for it; not even though one is a prince, and has a powerful and beneficent godmother. He did not like to vex her by calling for her, and telling her how unhappy he was, in spite of all her goodness; so he just kept his trouble to himself, went back to his lonely tower, and spent three days in silent melancholy without even attempting another journey on his travelling-cloak. CHAPTER VI. The fourth day it happened that the deaf-mute paid his accustomed visit, after which Prince Dolor's spirits rose. They always did, when he got the new books, which, just to relieve his conscience, the King of Nomansland regularly sent to his nephew; with many new toys also, though the latter were disregarded now. "Toys indeed! when I'm a big boy," said the Prince with disdain, and would scarcely condescend to mount a rocking-horse, which had come, somehow or other--I can't be expected to explain things very exactly--packed on the back of the other, the great black horse, which stood and fed contentedly at the bottom of the tower. Prince Dolor leaned over and looked at it, and thought how grand it must be to get upon its back--this grand live steed--and ride away, like the pictures of knights. "Suppose I was a knight," he said to himself; "then I should be obliged to ride out and see the world." But he kept all these thoughts to himself, and just sat still, devouring his new books till he had come to the end of them all. It was a repast not unlike the Barmecide's feast which you read of in the "Arabian Nights," which consisted of very elegant but empty dishes, or that supper of Sancho Panza in "Don Quixote," where, the minute the smoking dishes came on the table, the physician waved his hand and they were all taken away. Thus, almost all the ordinary delights of boy-life had been taken away from, or rather never given to, this poor little Prince. "I wonder," he would sometimes think--"I wonder what it feels like to be on the back of a horse, galloping away, or holding the reins in a carriage, and tearing across the country, or jumping a ditch, or running a race, such as I read of or see in pictures. What a lot of things there are that I should like to do! But first, I should like to go and see the world. I'll try." Apparently it was his godmother's plan always to let him try, and try hard, before he gained anything. This day the knots that tied up his travelling-cloak were more than usually troublesome, and he was a full half hour before he got out into the open air, and found himself floating merrily over the top of the tower. Hitherto, in all his journeys he had never let himself go out of sight of home, for the dreary building, after all, was home--he remembered no other; but now he felt sick of the very look of his tower, with its round smooth walls and level battlements. "Off we go!" cried he, when the cloak stirred itself with a slight slow motion, as if waiting his orders. "Anywhere--anywhere, so that I am away from here, and out into the world." As he spoke, the cloak, as if seized suddenly with a new idea, bounded forward and went skimming through the air, faster than the very fastest railway train. "Gee-up, gee-up!" cried Prince Dolor in great excitement. "This is as good as riding a race." And he patted the cloak as if it had been a horse--that is, in the way he supposed horses ought to be patted; and tossed his head back to meet the fresh breeze, and pulled his coat-collar up and his hat down, as he felt the wind grow keener and colder, colder than anything he had ever known. "What does it matter though?" said he. "I'm a boy, and boys ought not to mind anything." Still, for all his good-will, by-and-by he began to shiver exceedingly; also, he had come away without his dinner, and he grew frightfully hungry. And to add to everything, the sunshiny day changed into rain, and being high up, in the very midst of the clouds, he got soaked through and through in a very few minutes. "Shall I turn back?" meditated he. "Suppose I say 'Abracadabra?'" Here he stopped, for already the cloak gave an obedient lurch, as if it were expecting to be sent home immediately. "No--I can't--I can't go back! I must go forward and see the world. But oh! if I had but the shabbiest old rug to shelter me from the rain, or the driest morsel of bread and cheese, just to keep me from starving! Still, I don't much mind; I'm a prince, and ought to be able to stand anything. Hold on, cloak, we'll make the best of it." It was a most curious circumstance, but no sooner had he said this than he felt stealing over his knees something warm and soft; in fact, a most beautiful bearskin, which folded itself round him quite naturally, and cuddled him up as closely as if he had been the cub of the kind old mother-bear that once owned it. Then feeling in his pocket, which suddenly stuck out in a marvellous way, he found, not exactly bread and cheese, nor even sandwiches, but a packet of the most delicious food he had ever tasted. It was not meat, nor pudding, but a combination of both, and it served him excellently for both. He ate his dinner with the greatest gusto imaginable, till he grew so thirsty he did not know what to do. "Couldn't I have just one drop of water, if it didn't trouble you too much, kindest of godmothers." For he really thought this want was beyond her power to supply. All the water which supplied Hopeless Tower was pumped up with difficulty, from a deep artesian well--there were such things known in Nomansland--which had been made at the foot of it. But around, for miles upon miles, the desolate plain was perfectly dry. And above it, high in air, how could he expect to find a well, or to get even a drop of water? He forgot one thing--the rain. While he spoke, it came on in another wild burst, as if the clouds had poured themselves out in a passion of crying, wetting him certainly, but leaving behind, in a large glass vessel which he had never noticed before, enough water to quench the thirst of two or three boys at least. And it was so fresh, so pure--as water from the clouds always is, when it does not catch the soot from city chimneys and other defilements--that he drank it, every drop, with the greatest delight and content. Also, as soon as it was empty, the rain filled it again, so that he was able to wash his face and hands and refresh himself exceedingly. Then the sun came out and dried him in no time. After that he curled himself up under the bearskin rug, and though he determined to be the most wide-awake boy imaginable, being so exceedingly snug and warm and comfortable, Prince Dolor condescended to shut his eyes, just for one minute. The next minute he was sound asleep. When he awoke, he found himself floating over a country quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. Yet it was nothing but what most of you children see every day and never notice it--a pretty country landscape, like England, Scotland, France, or any other land you choose to name. It had no particular features--nothing in it grand or lovely--was simply pretty, nothing more; yet to Prince Dolor, who had never gone beyond his lonely tower and level plain, it appeared the most charming sight imaginable. First, there was a river. It came tumbling down the hillside, frothing and foaming, playing at hide-and-seek among rocks, then bursting out in noisy fun like a child, to bury itself in deep still pools. Afterwards it went steadily on for a while, like a good grown-up person, till it came to another big rock, where it misbehaved itself extremely. It turned into a cataract and went tumbling over and over, after a fashion that made the Prince--who had never seen water before, except in his bath or his drinking-cup--clap his hands with delight. "It is so active, so alive! I like things active and alive!" cried he, and watched it shimmering and dancing, whirling and leaping, till, after a few windings and vagaries, it settled into a respectable stream. After that it went along, deep and quiet, but flowing steadily on, till it reached a large lake, into which it slipped, and so ended its course. [Illustration: "_After a few windings and vagaries, it settled into a respectable stream._"] All this the boy saw, either with his own naked eye, or through his gold spectacles. He saw also as in a picture, beautiful but silent, many other things, which struck him with wonder, especially a grove of trees. Only think, to have lived to his age (which he himself did not know, as he did not know his own birthday) and never to have seen trees! As he floated over these oaks, they seemed to him--trunk, branches, and leaves--the most curious sight imaginable. "If I could only get nearer, so as to touch them," said he, and immediately the obedient cloak ducked down; Prince Dolor made a snatch at the topmost twig of the tallest tree, and caught a bunch of leaves in his hand. Just a bunch of green leaves--such as we see in myriads; watching them bud, grow, fall, and then kicking them along on the ground as if they were worth nothing. Yet, how wonderful they are--every one of them a little different. I don't suppose you could ever find two leaves exactly alike, in form, colour, and size--no more than you could find two faces alike, or two characters exactly the same. The plan of this world is infinite similarity and yet infinite variety. Prince Dolor examined his leaves with the greatest curiosity--and also a little caterpillar that he found walking over one of them. He coaxed it to take an additional walk over his finger, which it did with the greatest dignity and decorum, as if it, Mr. Caterpillar, were the most important individual in existence. It amused him for a long time; and when a sudden gust of wind blew it overboard, leaves and all, he felt quite disconsolate. "Still, there must be many live creatures in the world besides caterpillars. I should like to see a few of them." The cloak gave a little dip down, as if to say "All right, my Prince," and bore him across the oak forest to a long fertile valley--called in Scotland a strath, and in England a weald--but what they call it in the tongue of Nomansland I do not know. It was made up of cornfields, pasturefields, lanes, hedges, brooks, and ponds. Also, in it were what the Prince had desired to see, a quantity of living creatures, wild and tame. Cows and horses, lambs and sheep, fed in the meadows; pigs and fowls walked about the farmyards; and, in lonelier places, hares scudded, rabbits burrowed, and pheasants and partridges, with many other smaller birds, inhabited the fields and woods. [Illustration: "_It was made up of cornfields, pasturefields, lanes, hedges, brooks, and ponds._"] [Illustration: "_In it were what the Prince had desired to see, a quantity of living creatures._"] Through his wonderful spectacles the Prince could see everything; but, as I said, it was a silent picture; he was too high up to catch anything except a faint murmur, which only aroused his anxiety to hear more. "I have as good as two pairs of eyes," he thought. "I wonder if my godmother would give me a second pair of ears." Scarcely had he spoken, than he found lying on his lap the most curious little parcel, all done up in silvery paper. And it contained--what do you think? Actually, a pair of silver ears, which, when he tried them on, fitted so exactly over his own, that he hardly felt them, except for the difference they made in his hearing. There is something which we listen to daily and never notice. I mean the sounds of the visible world, animate and inanimate. Winds blowing, waters flowing, trees stirring, insects whirring (dear me! I am quite unconsciously writing rhyme), with the various cries of birds and beasts--lowing cattle, bleating sheep, grunting pigs, and cackling hens--all the infinite discords that somehow or other make a beautiful harmony. We hear this, and are so accustomed to it that we think nothing of it; but Prince Dolor, who had lived all his days in the dead silence of Hopeless Tower, heard it for the first time. And oh! if you had seen his face. He listened, listened, as if he could never have done listening. And he looked and looked, as if he could not gaze enough. Above all, the motion of the animals delighted him: cows walking, horses galloping, little lambs and calves running races across the meadows, were such a treat for him to watch--he that was always so quiet. But, these creatures having four legs, and he only two, the difference did not strike him painfully. Still, by-and-by, after the fashion of children--and, I fear, of many big people too--he began to want something more than he had, something that would be quite fresh and new. "Godmother," he said, having now begun to believe that, whether he saw her or not, he could always speak to her with full confidence that she would hear him--"Godmother, all these creatures I like exceedingly--but I should like better to see a creature like myself. Couldn't you show me just one little boy?" There was a sigh behind him--it might have been only the wind--and the cloak remained so long balanced motionless in air, that he was half afraid his godmother had forgotten him, or was offended with him for asking too much. Suddenly, a shrill whistle startled him, even through his silver ears, and looking downwards, he saw start up from behind a bush on a common, something-- Neither a sheep, nor a horse, nor a cow--nothing upon four legs. This creature had only two; but they were long, straight, and strong. And it had a lithe active body, and a curly head of black hair set upon its shoulders. It was a boy, a shepherdboy, about the Prince's own age--but, oh! so different. Not that he was an ugly boy--though his face was almost as red as his hands, and his shaggy hair matted like the backs of his own sheep. He was rather a nice-looking lad; and seemed so bright, and healthy, and good-tempered--"jolly" would be the word, only I am not sure if they have such an one in the elegant language of Nomansland--that the little Prince watched him with great admiration. "Might he come and play with me? I would drop down to the ground to him, or fetch him up to me here. Oh, how nice it would be if I only had a little boy to play with me!" But the cloak, usually so obedient to his wishes, disobeyed him now. There were evidently some things which his godmother either could not or would not give. The cloak hung stationary, high in air, never attempting to descend. The shepherd lad evidently took it for a large bird and, shading his eyes, looked up at it, making the Prince's heart beat fast. [Illustration: "_The shepherd lad evidently took it for a large bird._"] However, nothing ensued. The boy turned round, with a long, loud whistle--seemingly his usual and only way of expressing his feelings. He could not make the thing out exactly--it was a rather mysterious affair, but it did not trouble him much--_he_ was not an "examining" boy. Then, stretching himself, for he had been evidently half asleep, he began flopping his shoulders with his arms, to wake and warm himself; while his dog, a rough collie, who had been guarding the sheep meanwhile, began to jump upon him, barking with delight. "Down Snap, down! Stop that, or I'll thrash you," the Prince heard him say; though with such a rough hard voice and queer pronunciation that it was difficult to make the words out. "Hollo! Let's warm ourselves by a race." They started off together, boy and dog--barking and shouting, till it was doubtful which made the most noise or ran the fastest. A regular steeple-chase it was: first across the level common, greatly disturbing the quiet sheep; and then tearing away across country, scrambling through hedges, and leaping ditches, and tumbling up and down over ploughed fields. They did not seem to have anything to run for--but as if they did it, both of them, for the mere pleasure of motion. And what a pleasure that seemed! To the dog of course, but scarcely less so to the boy. How he skimmed along over the ground--his cheeks glowing, and his hair flying, and his legs--oh, what a pair of legs he had! Prince Dolor watched him with great intentness, and in a state of excitement almost equal to that of the runner himself--for a while. Then the sweet pale face grew a trifle paler, the lips began to quiver and the eyes to fill. "How nice it must be to run like that!" he said softly, thinking that never--no, never in this world--would he be able to do the same. Now he understood what his godmother had meant when she gave him his travelling-cloak, and why he had heard that sigh--he was sure it was hers--when he had asked to see "just one little boy." "I think I had rather not look at him again," said the poor little Prince, drawing himself back into the centre of his cloak, and resuming his favourite posture, sitting like a Turk, with his arms wrapped round his feeble, useless legs. "You're no good to me," he said, patting them mournfully. "You never will be any good to me. I wonder why I had you at all; I wonder why I was born at all, since I was not to grow up like other little boys. _Why_ not?" A question, so strange, so sad, yet so often occurring in some form or other, in this world--as you will find, my children, when you are older--that even if he had put it to his mother she could only have answered it, as we have to answer many as difficult things, by simply saying, "I don't know." There is much that we do not know, and cannot understand--we big folks, no more than you little ones. We have to accept it all just as you have to accept anything which your parents may tell you, even though you don't as yet see the reason of it. You may some time if you do exactly as they tell you, and are content to wait. Prince Dolor sat a good while thus, or it appeared to him a good while, so many thoughts came and went through his poor young mind--thoughts of great bitterness, which, little though he was, seemed to make him grow years older in a few minutes. Then he fancied the cloak began to rock gently to and fro, with a soothing kind of motion, as if he were in somebody's arms: somebody who did not speak, but loved him and comforted him without need of words; not by deceiving him with false encouragement or hope, but by making him see the plain hard truth, in all its hardness, and thus letting him quietly face it, till it grew softened down, and did not seem nearly so dreadful after all. Through the dreary silence and blankness, for he had placed himself so that he could see nothing but the sky, and had taken off his silver ears, as well as his gold spectacles--what was the use of either when he had no legs to walk or run?--up from below there rose a delicious sound. You have heard it hundreds of times, my children, and so have I. When I was a child I thought there was nothing so sweet; and I think so still. It was just the song of a skylark, mounting higher and higher from the ground, till it came so close that Prince Dolor could distinguish its quivering wings and tiny body, almost too tiny to contain such a gush of music. "O, you beautiful, beautiful bird!" cried he; "I should dearly like to take you in and cuddle you. That is, if I could--if I dared." But he hesitated. The little brown creature with its loud heavenly voice almost made him afraid. Nevertheless, it also made him happy; and he watched and listened--so absorbed that he forgot all regret and pain, forgot everything in the world except the little lark. It soared and soared, and he was just wondering if it would soar out of sight, and what in the world he should do when it was gone, when it suddenly closed its wings, as larks do, when they mean to drop to the ground. But, instead of dropping to the ground, it dropped right into the little boy's breast. What felicity! If it would only stay! A tiny soft thing to fondle and kiss, to sing to him all day long, and be his playfellow and companion, tame and tender, while to the rest of the world it was a wild bird of the air. What a pride, what a delight! To have something that nobody else had--something all his own. As the travelling-cloak travelled on, he little heeded where, and the lark still stayed, nestled down in his bosom, hopped from his hand to his shoulder, and kissed him with its dainty beak, as if it loved him, Prince Dolor forgot all his grief, and was entirely happy. But when he got in sight of Hopeless Tower, a painful thought struck him. "My pretty bird, what am I to do with you? If I take you into my room and shut you up there, you, a wild skylark of the air, what will become of you? I am used to this, but you are not. You will be so miserable, and suppose my nurse should find you--she who can't bear the sound of singing? Besides, I remember her once telling me that the nicest thing she ever ate in her life was lark pie!" The little boy shivered all over at the thought. And, though the merry lark immediately broke into the loudest carol, as if saying derisively that he defied anybody to eat _him_--still Prince Dolor was very uneasy. In another minute he had made up his mind. "No, my bird, nothing so dreadful shall happen to you if I can help it; I would rather do without you altogether. Yes, I'll try. Fly away, my darling, my beautiful! Good-bye, my merry, merry bird." Opening his two caressing hands, in which, as if for protection, he had folded it, he let the lark go. It lingered a minute, perching on the rim of the cloak, and looking at him with eyes of almost human tenderness; then away it flew, far up into the blue sky. It was only a bird. But, some time after, when Prince Dolor had eaten his supper--somewhat drearily, except for the thought that he could not possibly sup off lark pie now--and gone quietly to bed, the old familiar little bed, where he was accustomed to sleep, or lie awake contentedly thinking--suddenly he heard outside the window a little faint carol--faint but cheerful--cheerful, even though it was the middle of the night. The dear little lark! it had not flown away after all. And it was truly the most extraordinary bird, for, unlike ordinary larks, it kept hovering about the tower in the silence and darkness of the night, outside the window or over the roof. Whenever he listened for a moment, he heard it singing still. He went to sleep as happy as a king. CHAPTER VII. "Happy as a king." How far kings are happy I cannot say, no more than could Prince Dolor, though he had once been a king himself. But he remembered nothing about it, and there was nobody to tell him, except his nurse, who had been forbidden upon pain of death to let him know anything about his dead parents, or the king his uncle, or, indeed, any part of his own history. Sometimes he speculated about himself, whether he had had a father and mother as other little boys had, what they had been like, and why he had never seen them. But, knowing nothing about them, he did not miss them--only once or twice, reading pretty stories about little children and their mothers, who helped them when they were in difficulty, and comforted them when they were sick, he, feeling ill and dull and lonely, wondered what had become of his mother, and why she never came to see him. Then, in his history lessons, of course, he read about kings and princes, and the governments of different countries, and the events that happened there. And though he but faintly took in all this, still he did take it in, a little, and worried his young brain about it, and perplexed his nurse with questions, to which she returned sharp and mysterious answers, which only set him thinking the more. He had plenty of time for thinking. After his last journey in the travelling-cloak, the journey which had given him so much pain, his desire to see the world had somehow faded away. He contented himself with reading his books, and looking out of the tower windows, and listening to his beloved little lark, which had come home with him that day, and never left him again. True, it kept out of the way; and though his nurse sometimes dimly heard it, and said, "What is that horrid noise outside?" she never got the faintest chance of making it into a lark pie. Prince Dolor had his pet all to himself, and though he seldom saw it, he knew it was near him, and he caught continually, at odd hours of the day, and even in the night, fragments of its delicious song. All during the winter--so far as there ever was any difference between summer and winter in Hopeless Tower--the little bird cheered and amused him. He scarcely needed anything more--not even his travelling-cloak, which lay bundled up unnoticed in a corner, tied up in its innumerable knots. Nor did his godmother come near him. It seemed as if she had given these treasures and left him alone--to use them, or lose them, apply them, or misapply them, according to his own choice. That is all we can do with children, when they grow into big children, old enough to distinguish between right and wrong, and too old to be forced to do either. Prince Dolor was now quite a big boy. Not tall--alas! he never could be that, with his poor little shrunken legs; which were of no use, only an encumbrance. But he was stout and strong, with great sturdy shoulders, and muscular arms, upon which he could swing himself about almost like a monkey. As if in compensation for his useless lower limbs, nature had given to these extra strength and activity. His face, too, was very handsome; thinner, firmer, more manly; but still the sweet face of his childhood--his mother's own face. How his mother would have liked to look at him! Perhaps she did--who knows! The boy was not a stupid boy either. He could learn almost anything he chose--and he did choose, which was more than half the battle. He never gave up his lessons till he had learnt them all--never thought it a punishment that he had to work at them, and that they cost him a deal of trouble sometimes. "But," thought he, "men work, and it must be so grand to be a man;--a prince too; and I fancy princes work harder than anybody--except kings. The princes I read about generally turn into kings. I wonder"--the boy was always wondering--"Nurse"--and one day he startled her with a sudden question--"tell me--shall I ever be a king?" The woman stood, perplexed beyond expression. So long a time had passed by since her crime--if it was a crime--and her sentence, that she now seldom thought of either. Even her punishment--to be shut up for life in Hopeless Tower--she had gradually got used to. Used also to the little lame prince, her charge--whom at first she had hated, though she carefully did everything to keep him alive, since upon him her own life hung. But latterly she had ceased to hate him, and, in a sort of way, almost loved him--at least, enough to be sorry for him--an innocent child, imprisoned here till he grew into an old man--and became a dull, worn-out creature like herself. Sometimes, watching him, she felt more sorry for him than even for herself; and then, seeing she looked a less miserable and ugly woman, he did not shrink from her as usual. He did not now. "Nurse--dear nurse," said he, "I don't mean to vex you, but tell me--what is a king? shall I ever be one?" When she began to think less of herself and more of the child, the woman's courage increased. The idea came to her--what harm would it be, even if he did know his own history? Perhaps he ought to know it--for there had been various ups and downs, usurpations, revolutions, and restorations in Nomansland, as in most other countries. Something might happen--who could tell? Changes might occur. Possibly a crown would even yet be set upon those pretty, fair curls--which she began to think prettier than ever when she saw the imaginary coronet upon them. She sat down, considering whether her oath, never to "say a word" to Prince Dolor about himself, would be broken, if she were to take a pencil and write what was to be told. A mere quibble--a mean, miserable quibble. But then she was a miserable woman, more to be pitied than scorned. After long doubt, and with great trepidation, she put her finger to her lips, and taking the Prince's slate--with the sponge tied to it, ready to rub out the writing in a minute--she wrote-- "You are a king." [Illustration: "_After long doubt ... she put her finger to her lips, and taking the Prince's slate ... wrote--'You are a king.'_"] Prince Dolor started. His face grew pale, and then flushed all over; his eyes glistened; he held himself erect. Lame as he was, anybody could see he was born to be a king. "Hush!" said his nurse, as he was beginning to speak. And then, terribly frightened all the while--people who have done wrong always are frightened--she wrote down in a few hurried sentences his history. How his parents had died--his uncle had usurped his throne, and sent him to end his days in this lonely tower. "I, too," added she, bursting into tears. "Unless, indeed, you could get out into the world, and fight for your rights like a man. And fight for me also, my prince, that I may not die in this desolate place." "Poor old nurse!" said the boy compassionately. For somehow, boy as he was, when he heard he was born to be a king, he felt like a man--like a king--who could afford to be tender because he was strong. He scarcely slept that night, and even though he heard his little lark singing in the sunrise, he barely listened to it. Things more serious and important had taken possession of his mind. "Suppose," thought he, "I were to do as she says, and go out into the world, no matter how it hurts me--the world of people, active people, as active as that boy I saw. They might only laugh at me--poor helpless creature that I am; but still I might show them I could do something. At any rate, I might go and see if there was anything for me to do. Godmother, help me!" It was so long since he had asked her help, that he was hardly surprised when he got no answer--only the little lark outside the window sang louder and louder, and the sun rose, flooding the room with light. Prince Dolor sprang out of bed, and began dressing himself which was hard work, for he was not used to it--he had always been accustomed to depend upon his nurse for everything. "But I must now learn to be independent," thought he. "Fancy a king being dressed like a baby!" So he did the best he could--awkwardly but cheerily--and then he leaped to the corner where lay his travelling-cloak, untied it as before, and watched it unrolling itself--which it did rapidly, with a hearty good-will, as if quite tired of idleness. So was Prince Dolor--or felt as if he was. He jumped into the middle of it, said his charm, and was out through the skylight immediately. "Good-bye, pretty lark!" he shouted, as he passed it on the wing, still warbling its carol to the newly-risen sun. "You have been my pleasure, my delight; now I must go and work. Sing to old nurse till I come back again. Perhaps she'll hear you--perhaps she won't--but it will do her good all the same. Good-bye!" But, as the cloak hung irresolute in air, he suddenly remembered that he had not determined where to go--indeed, he did not know, and there was nobody to tell him. "Godmother," he cried, in much perplexity, "you know what I want--at least, I hope you do, for I hardly do myself--take me where I ought to go; show me whatever I ought so see--never mind what I like to see," as a sudden idea came into his mind that he might see many painful and disagreeable things. But this journey was not for pleasure--as before. He was not a baby now, to do nothing but play--big boys do not always play. Nor men neither--they work. Thus much Prince Dolor knew--though very little more. And as the cloak started off, travelling faster than he had ever known it to do--through sky-land and cloud-land, over freezing mountain-tops, and desolate stretches of forest, and smiling cultivated plains, and great lakes that seemed to him almost as shoreless as the sea--he was often rather frightened. But he crouched down, silent and quiet; what was the use of making a fuss? and, wrapping himself up in his bear-skin, waited for what was to happen. After some time he heard a murmur in the distance, increasing more and more till it grew like the hum of a gigantic hive of bees. And, stretching his chin over the rim of his cloak, Prince Dolor saw--far, far below him, yet with his gold spectacles and silver ears on, he could distinctly hear and see--What? Most of us have sometime or other visited a great metropolis--have wandered through its network of streets--lost ourselves in its crowds of people--looked up at its tall rows of houses, its grand public buildings, churches and squares. Also, perhaps, we have peeped into its miserable little back alleys, where dirty children play in gutters all day and half the night--or where men reel tipsy and women fight--where even young boys go about picking pockets, with nobody to tell them it is wrong, except the policeman; and he simply takes them off to prison. And all this wretchedness is close behind the grandeur--like the two sides of the leaf of a book. An awful sight is a large city, seen anyhow, from anywhere. But, suppose you were to see it from the upper air; where, with your eyes and ears open, you could take in everything at once? What would it look like? How would you feel about it? I hardly know myself. Do you? Prince Dolor had need to be a king--that is, a boy with a kingly nature--to be able to stand such a sight without being utterly overcome. But he was very much bewildered--as bewildered as a blind person who is suddenly made to see. He gazed down on the city below him, and then put his hand over his eyes. "I can't bear to look at it, it is so beautiful--so dreadful. And I don't understand it--not one bit. There is nobody to tell me about it. I wish I had somebody to speak to." "Do you? Then pray speak to me. I was always considered good at conversation." The voice that squeaked out this reply was an excellent imitation of the human one, though it came only from a bird. No lark this time, however, but a great black and white creature that flew into the cloak, and began walking round and round on the edge of it with a dignified stride, one foot before the other, like any unfeathered biped you could name. "I haven't the honour of your acquaintance, sir," said the boy politely. [Illustration: "_One half the people seemed so happy and busy._" _Page 90._] [Illustration: "_The other half were so wretched and miserable._" _Page 90._] "Ma'am, if you please. I am a mother bird, and my name is Mag, and I shall be happy to tell you everything you want to know. For I know a great deal; and I enjoy talking. My family is of great antiquity; we have built in this palace for hundreds--that is to say, dozens of years. I am intimately acquainted with the King, the Queen, and the little princes and princesses--also the maids of honour, and all the inhabitants of the city. I talk a good deal, but I always talk sense, and I dare say I should be exceedingly useful to a poor little ignorant boy like you." "I am a prince," said the other gently. "All right. And I am a magpie. You will find me a most respectable bird." "I have no doubt of it," was the polite answer--though he thought in his own mind that Mag must have a very good opinion of herself. But she was a lady and a stranger, so, of course, he was civil to her. She settled herself at his elbow, and began to chatter away, pointing out with one skinny claw while she balanced herself on the other, every object of interest,--evidently believing, as no doubt all its inhabitants did, that there was no capital in the world like the great metropolis of Nomansland. I have not seen it, and therefore cannot describe it, so we will just take it upon trust, and suppose it to be, like every other fine city, the finest city that ever was built. "Mag" said so--and of course she knew. Nevertheless, there were a few things in it which surprised Prince Dolor--and, as he had said, he could not understand them at all. One half the people seemed so happy and busy--hurrying up and down the full streets, or driving lazily along the parks in their grand carriages, while the other half were so wretched and miserable. "Can't the world be made a little more level? I would try to do it if I were the king." "But you're not the king: only a little goose of a boy," returned the magpie loftily. "And I'm here not to explain things, only to show them. Shall I show you the royal palace?" It was a very magnificent palace. It had terraces and gardens, battlements and towers. It extended over acres of ground, and had in it rooms enough to accommodate half the city. Its windows looked in all directions, but none of them had any particular view--except a small one, high up towards the roof, which looked on to the Beautiful Mountains. But since the Queen died there, it had been closed, boarded up, indeed, the magpie said. It was so little and inconvenient, that nobody cared to live in it. Besides, the lower apartments, which had no view, were magnificent--worthy of being inhabited by his Majesty the King. [Illustration: "_It had terraces and gardens, battlements and towers ... and had in it rooms enough to accommodate half the city._"] [Illustration: "_Its windows looked in all directions ... except a small one, high up towards the roof, which looked on to the Beautiful Mountains._"] "I should like to see the King," said Prince Dolor. But what followed was so important that I must take another chapter to tell it in. CHAPTER VIII. What, I wonder, would be most people's idea of a king? What was Prince Dolor's? Perhaps a very splendid personage, with a crown on his head, and a sceptre in his hand, sitting on a throne, and judging the people. Always doing right, and never wrong--"The king can do no wrong" was a law laid down in olden times. Never cross, or tired, or sick, or suffering; perfectly handsome and well-dressed, calm and good-tempered, ready to see and hear everybody, and discourteous to nobody; all things always going well with him, and nothing unpleasant ever happening. This, probably, was what Prince Dolor expected to see. And what did he see? But I must tell you how he saw it. "Ah," said the magpie, "no levée to-day. The King is ill, though his Majesty does not wish it to be generally known--it would be so very inconvenient. He can't see you, but perhaps you might like to go and take a look at him, in a way I often do? It is so very amusing." Amusing, indeed! The Prince was just now too much excited to talk much. Was he not going to see the King his uncle, who had succeeded his father, and dethroned himself; had stepped into all the pleasant things that he, Prince Dolor, ought to have had, and shut him up in a desolate tower? What was he like, this great, bad, clever man? Had he got all the things he wanted, which another ought to have had? And did he enjoy them? "Nobody knows," answered the magpie, just as if she had been sitting inside the Prince's heart, instead of on the top of his shoulder. "He is a king, and that's enough. For the rest nobody knows." As she spoke Mag flew down on to the palace roof, where the cloak had rested, settling down between the great stacks of chimneys as comfortably as if on the ground. She pecked at the tiles with her beak--truly she was a wonderful bird--and immediately a little hole opened, a sort of door, through which could be seen distinctly the chamber below. [Illustration: "_She pecked at the tiles with her beak ... a little hole opened ... 'Now look in, Prince. Make haste, for I must soon shut it up again.'_" _Page 92._] "Now look in, my prince. Make haste, for I must soon shut it up again." But the boy hesitated. "Isn't it rude?--won't they think us--intruding?" "O dear no! there's a hole like this in every palace; dozens of holes, indeed. Everybody knows it, but nobody speaks of it. Intrusion! Why, though the Royal family are supposed to live shut up behind stone walls ever so thick, all the world knows that they live in a glass house where everybody can see them, and throw a stone at them. Now, pop down on your knees, and take a peep at his Majesty." His Majesty! The Prince gazed eagerly down, into a large room, the largest room he had ever beheld, with furniture and hangings grander than anything he could have ever imagined. A stray sunbeam, coming through a crevice of the darkened windows, struck across the carpet, and it was the loveliest carpet ever woven--just like a bed of flowers to walk over; only nobody walked over it; the room being perfectly empty and silent. "Where is the King?" asked the puzzled boy. "There," said Mag, pointing with one wrinkled claw to a magnificent bed, large enough to contain six people. In the centre of it, just visible under the silken counterpane--quite straight and still--with its head on the lace pillow--lay a small figure, something like waxwork, fast asleep--very fast asleep! There were a quantity of sparkling rings on the tiny yellow hands, that were curled a little, helplessly, like a baby's, outside the coverlet; the eyes were shut, the nose looked sharp and thin, and the long grey beard hid the mouth, and lay over the breast. A sight not ugly, nor frightening, only solemn and quiet. And so very silent--two little flies buzzing about the curtains of the bed, being the only audible sound. "Is that the King?" whispered Prince Dolor. "Yes," replied the bird. He had been angry--furiously angry; ever since he knew how his uncle had taken the crown, and sent him, a poor little helpless child, to be shut up for life, just as if he had been dead. Many times the boy had felt as if, king as he was, he should like to strike him, this great, strong, wicked man. Why, you might as well have struck a baby! How helpless he lay! with his eyes shut, and his idle hands folded: they had no more work to do, bad or good. "What is the matter with him?" asked the Prince again. "He is dead," said the Magpie with a croak. No, there was not the least use in being angry with him now. On the contrary, the Prince felt almost sorry for him, except that he looked so peaceful, with all his cares at rest. And this was being dead? So, even kings died? "Well, well, he hadn't an easy life, folk say, for all his grandeur. Perhaps he is glad it is over. Good-bye, your Majesty." With another cheerful tap of her beak, Mistress Mag shut down the little door in the tiles, and Prince Dolor's first and last sight of his uncle was ended. He sat in the centre of his travelling-cloak silent and thoughtful. "What shall we do now?" said the Magpie. "There's nothing much more to be done with his Majesty, except a fine funeral, which I shall certainly go and see. All the world will. He interested the world exceedingly when he was alive, and he ought to do it now he's dead--just once more. And since he can't hear me, I may as well say that, on the whole, his Majesty is much better dead than alive--if we can only get somebody in his place. There'll be such a row in the city presently. Suppose we float up again, and see it all. At a safe distance, though. It will be such fun." "What will be fun?" "A revolution." Whether anybody except a magpie would have called it "fun," I don't know, but it certainly was a remarkable scene. As soon as the Cathedral bell began to toll, and the minute guns to fire, announcing to the kingdom that it was without a king, the people gathered in crowds, stopping at street corners to talk together. The murmur now and then rose into a shout, and the shout into a roar. When Prince Dolor, quietly floating in upper air, caught the sound of their different and opposite cries, it seemed to him as if the whole city had gone mad together. "Long live the King!" "The King is dead--down with the King!" "Down with the crown, and the King too!" "Hurrah for the Republic!" "Hurrah for no Government at all." Such were the shouts which travelled up to the travelling-cloak. And then began--oh, what a scene! When you children are grown men and women--or before--you will hear and read in books about what are called revolutions--earnestly I trust that neither I nor you may ever see one. But they have happened, and may happen again, in other countries beside Nomansland, when wicked kings have helped to make their people wicked too, or out of an unrighteous nation have sprung rulers equally bad; or, without either of these causes, when a restless country has fancied any change better than no change at all. For me, I don't like changes, unless pretty sure that they are for good. And how good can come out of absolute evil--the horrible evil that went on this night under Prince Dolor's very eyes--soldiers shooting people down by hundreds in the streets, scaffolds erected, and heads dropping off--houses burnt, and women and children murdered--this is more than I can understand. But all these things you will find in history, my children, and must by-and-by judge for yourselves the right and wrong of them, as far as anybody ever can judge. Prince Dolor saw it all. Things happened so fast after one another that they quite confused his faculties. "Oh, let me go home," he cried at last, stopping his ears and shutting his eyes; "only let me go home!" for even his lonely tower seemed home, and its dreariness and silence absolute paradise after all this. "Good-bye, then," said the magpie, flapping her wings. She had been chatting incessantly all day and all night, for it was actually thus long that Prince Dolor had been hovering over the city, neither eating nor sleeping, with all these terrible things happening under his very eyes. "You've had enough, I suppose, of seeing the world?" "Oh, I have--I have!" cried the Prince with a shudder. "That is, till next time. All right, your Royal Highness. You don't know me, but I know you. We may meet again sometime." She looked at him with her clear piercing eyes, sharp enough to see through everything, and it seemed as if they changed from bird's eyes to human eyes, the very eyes of his godmother, whom he had not seen for ever so long. But the minute afterwards she became only a bird, and with a screech and a chatter spread her wings and flew away. Prince Dolor fell into a kind of swoon, of utter misery, bewilderment, and exhaustion, and when he awoke he found himself in his own room--alone and quiet--with the dawn just breaking, and the long rim of yellow light in the horizon glimmering through the window panes. CHAPTER IX. When Prince Dolor sat up in bed, trying to remember where he was, whither he had been, and what he had seen the day before, he perceived that his room was empty. Generally, his nurse rather worried him by breaking his slumbers, coming in and "setting things to rights," as she called it. Now, the dust lay thick upon chairs and tables; there was no harsh voice heard to scold him for not getting up immediately--which, I am sorry to say, this boy did not always do. For he so enjoyed lying still, and thinking lazily, about everything or nothing, that, if he had not tried hard against it, he would certainly have become like those celebrated "Two little men Who lay in their bed till the clock struck ten." It was striking ten now, and still no nurse was to be seen. He was rather relieved at first, for he felt so tired; and besides when he stretched out his arm, he found to his dismay that he had gone to bed in his clothes. Very uncomfortable he felt, of course; and just a little frightened. Especially when he began to call and call again, but nobody answered. Often he used to think how nice it would be to get rid of his nurse and live in this tower all by himself--like a sort of monarch, able to do everything he liked, and leave undone all that he did not want to do; but now that this seemed really to have happened, he did not like it at all. "Nurse--dear nurse--please come back!" he called out. "Come back, and I will be the best boy in all the land." And when she did not come back, and nothing but silence answered his lamentable call, he very nearly began to cry. "This won't do," he said at last, dashing the tears from his eyes. "It's just like a baby, and I'm a big boy--shall be a man some day. What has happened, I wonder? I'll go and see." He sprang out of bed--not to his feet, alas! but to his poor little weak knees, and crawled on them from room to room. All the four chambers were deserted--not forlorn or untidy, for everything seemed to have been done for his comfort--the breakfast and dinner-things were laid, the food spread in order. He might live "like a prince," as the proverb is, for several days. But the place was entirely forsaken--there was evidently not a creature but himself in the solitary tower. A great fear came upon the poor boy. Lonely as his life had been, he had never known what it was to be absolutely alone. A kind of despair seized him--no violent anger or terror, but a sort of patient desolation. "What in the world am I to do?" thought he, and sat down in the middle of the floor, half inclined to believe that it would be better to give up entirely, lay himself down and die. This feeling, however, did not last long, for he was young and strong, and I said before, by nature a very courageous boy. There came into his head, somehow or other, a proverb that his nurse had taught him--the people of Nomansland were very fond of proverbs:-- "For every evil under the sun There is a remedy, or there's none; If there is one, try to find it-- If there isn't, never mind it." "I wonder--is there a remedy now, and could I find it?" cried the Prince, jumping up and looking out of the window. No help there. He only saw the broad bleak sunshiny plain--that is, at first. But, by-and-by, in the circle of mud that surrounded the base of the tower he perceived distinctly the marks of a horse's feet, and just in the spot where the deaf-mute was accustomed to tie up his great black charger, while he himself ascended, there lay the remains of a bundle of hay and a feed of corn. "Yes, that's it. He has come and gone, taking nurse away with him. Poor nurse! how glad she would be to go!" That was Prince Dolor's first thought. His second--wasn't it natural?--was a passionate indignation at her cruelty--at the cruelty of all the world towards him--a poor little helpless boy. Then he determined--forsaken as he was--to try and hold on to the last, and not to die as long as he could possibly help it. Anyhow, it would be easier to die here than out in the world, among the terrible doings which he had just beheld. From the midst of which, it suddenly struck him, the deaf-mute had come--contrived somehow to make the nurse understand that the king was dead, and she need have no fear in going back to the capital, where there was a grand revolution, and everything turned upside down. So, of course she had gone. "I hope she'll enjoy it, miserable woman--if they don't cut off her head too." And then a kind of remorse smote him for feeling so bitterly towards her, after all the years she had taken care of him--grudgingly, perhaps, and coldly; still, she had taken care of him, and that even to the last: for, as I have said, all his four rooms were as tidy as possible, and his meals laid out, that he might have no more trouble than could be helped. "Possibly she did not mean to be cruel. I won't judge her," said he. And afterwards he was very glad that he had so determined. For the second time he tried to dress himself, and then to do everything he could for himself--even to sweeping up the hearth and putting on more coals. "It's a funny thing for a prince to have to do," said he laughing. "But my godmother once said princes need never mind doing anything." And then he thought a little of his godmother. Not of summoning her, or asking her to help him--she had evidently left him to help himself, and he was determined to try his best to do it, being a very proud and independent boy--but he remembered her, tenderly and regretfully, as if even she had been a little hard upon him--poor, forlorn boy that he was! But he seemed to have seen and learned so much within the last few days, that he scarcely felt like a boy, but a man--until he went to bed at night. When I was a child, I used often to think how nice it would be to live in a little house all by my own self--a house built high up in a tree, or far away in a forest, or half way up a hillside,--so deliciously alone and independent. Not a lesson to learn--but no! I always liked learning my lessons. Anyhow, to choose the lessons I liked best, to have as many books to read and dolls to play with as ever I wanted: above all, to be free and at rest, with nobody to teaze, or trouble, or scold me, would be charming. For I was a lonely little thing, who liked quietness--as many children do; which other children, and sometimes grown-up people even, cannot always understand. And so I can understand Prince Dolor. After his first despair, he was not merely comfortable, but actually happy in his solitude, doing everything for himself, and enjoying everything by himself--until bedtime. Then, he did not like it at all. No more, I suppose, than other children would have liked my imaginary house in a tree, when they had had sufficient of their own company. But the prince had to bear it--and he did bear it--like a prince: for fully five days. All that time he got up in the morning and went to bed at night, without having spoken to a creature, or, indeed, heard a single sound. For even his little lark was silent: and as for his travelling-cloak, either he never thought about it, or else it had been spirited away--for he made no use of it, nor attempted to do so. A very strange existence it was, those five lonely days. He never entirely forgot it. It threw him back upon himself, and into himself--in a way that all of us have to learn when we grow up, and are the better for it--but it is somewhat hard learning. On the sixth day, Prince Dolor had a strange composure in his look, but he was very grave, and thin, and white. He had nearly come to the end of his provisions--and what was to happen next? Get out of the tower he could not; the ladder the deaf-mute used was always carried away again; and if it had not been, how could the poor boy have used it? And even if he slung or flung himself down, and by miraculous chance came alive to the foot of the tower how could he run away? Fate had been very hard to him, or so it seemed. He made up his mind to die. Not that he wished to die; on the contrary, there was a great deal that he wished to live to do; but if he must die, he must. Dying did not seem so very dreadful; not even to lie quiet like his uncle, whom he had entirely forgiven now, and neither be miserable nor naughty any more, and escape all those horrible things that he had seen going on outside the palace, in that awful place which was called "the world." "It's a great deal nicer here," said the poor little Prince, and collected all his pretty things round him: his favourite pictures, which he thought he should like to have near him when he died; his books and toys--no, he had ceased to care for toys now; he only liked them because he had done so as a child. And there he sat very calm and patient, like a king in his castle, waiting for the end. "Still, I wish I had done something first--something worth doing, that somebody might remember me by," thought he. "Suppose I had grown a man, and had had work to do, and people to care for, and was so useful and busy that they liked me, and perhaps even forgot I was lame. Then, it would have been nice to live, I think." A tear came into the little fellow's eyes, and he listened intently through the dead silence for some hopeful sound. Was there one--was it his little lark, whom he had almost forgotten? No, nothing half so sweet. But it really was something--something which came nearer and nearer, so that there was no mistaking it. It was the sound of a trumpet, one of the great silver trumpets so admired in Nomansland. Not pleasant music, but very bold, grand, and inspiring. As he listened to it the boy seemed to recall many things which had slipped his memory for years, and to nerve himself for whatever might be going to happen. What had happened was this. The poor condemned woman had not been such a wicked woman after all. Perhaps her courage was not wholly disinterested, but she had done a very heroic thing. As soon as she heard of the death and burial of the King, and of the changes that were taking place in the country, a daring idea came into her head--to set upon the throne of Nomansland its rightful heir. Thereupon she persuaded the deaf-mute to take her away with him, and they galloped like the wind from city to city, spreading everywhere the news that Prince Dolor's death and burial had been an invention concocted by his wicked uncle--that he was alive and well, and the noblest young Prince that ever was born. It was a bold stroke, but it succeeded. The country, weary, perhaps, of the late King's harsh rule, and yet glad to save itself from the horrors of the last few days, and the still further horrors of no rule at all, and having no particular interest in the other young princes, jumped at the idea of this Prince, who was the son of their late good King and the beloved Queen Dolorez. "Hurrah for Prince Dolor! Let Prince Dolor be our sovereign!" rang from end to end of the kingdom. Everybody tried to remember what a dear baby he once was--how like his mother, who had been so sweet and kind, and his father, the finest looking king that ever reigned. Nobody remembered his lameness--or, if they did, they passed it over as a matter of no consequence. They were determined to have him to reign over them, boy as he was--perhaps just because he was a boy, since in that case the great nobles thought they should be able to do as they liked with the country. Accordingly, with a fickleness not confined to the people of Nomansland, no sooner was the late King laid in his grave than they pronounced him to have been a usurper; turned all his family out of the palace, and left it empty for the reception of the new sovereign, whom they went to fetch with great rejoicing; a select body of lords, gentlemen, and soldiers, travelling night and day in solemn procession through the country, until they reached Hopeless Tower. There they found the Prince, sitting calmly on the floor--deadly pale indeed, for he expected a quite different end from this, and was resolved if he had to die, to die courageously, like a prince and a king. But when they hailed him as prince and king, and explained to him how matters stood, and went down on their knees before him, offering the crown (on a velvet cushion, with four golden tassels, each nearly as big as his head)--small though he was and lame, which lameness the courtiers pretended not to notice--there came such a glow into his face, such a dignity into his demeanour, that he became beautiful, king-like. "Yes," he said, "if you desire it, I will be your king. And I will do my best to make my people happy." Then there arose, from inside and outside the tower, such a shout as never yet was heard across the lonely plain. Prince Dolor shrank a little from the deafening sound. "How shall I be able to rule all this great people? You forget, my lords, that I am only a little boy still." "Not so very little," was the respectful answer. "We have searched in the records, and found that your Royal Highness--your Majesty, I mean--is precisely fifteen years old." "Am I?" said Prince Dolor; and his first thought was a thoroughly childish pleasure that he should now have a birthday, with a whole nation to keep it. Then he remembered that his childish days were done. He was a monarch now. Even his nurse, to whom, the moment he saw her, he had held out his hand, kissed it reverently, and called him ceremoniously "his Majesty the King." "A king must be always a king, I suppose," said he half sadly, when, the ceremonies over, he had been left to himself for just ten minutes, to put off his boy's clothes, and be re-attired in magnificent robes, before he was conveyed away from his tower to the Royal Palace. He could take nothing with him; indeed, he soon saw that, however politely they spoke, they would not allow him to take anything. If he was to be their king, he must give up his old life for ever. So he looked with tender farewell on his old books, old toys, the furniture he knew so well, and the familiar plain in all its levelness, ugly yet pleasant, simply because it was familiar. "It will be a new life in a new world," said he to himself; "but I'll remember the old things still. And, oh! if before I go, I could but once see my dear old godmother." While he spoke, he had laid himself down on the bed for a minute or two, rather tired with his grandeur, and confused by the noise of the trumpets which kept playing incessantly down below. He gazed, half sadly, up to the skylight, whence there came pouring a stream of sun-rays, with innumerable motes floating there, like a bridge thrown between heaven and earth. Sliding down it, as if she had been made of air, came the little old woman in grey. [Illustration: "_There came pouring a stream of sun-rays ... like a bridge ... Sliding down it, as if she had been made of air, came the little old woman in grey._"] So beautiful looked she--old as she was--that Prince Dolor was at first quite startled by the apparition. Then he held out his arms in eager delight. "O, godmother, you have not forsaken me!" "Not at all, my son. You may not have seen me, but I have seen you, many a time." "How?" "O, never mind. I can turn into anything I please, you know. And I have been a bear-skin rug, and a crystal goblet--and sometimes I have changed from inanimate to animate nature, put on feathers, and made myself very comfortable as a bird." "Ha!" laughed the Prince, a new light breaking in upon him, as he caught the infection of her tone, lively and mischievous. "Ha, ha! a lark, for instance?" "Or a magpie," answered she, with a capital imitation of Mistress Mag's croaky voice. "Do you suppose I am always sentimental and never funny?--If anything makes you happy, gay or grave, don't you think it is more than likely to come through your old godmother?" "I believe that," said the boy tenderly, holding out his arms. They clasped one another in a close embrace. Suddenly Prince Dolor looked very anxious. "You will not leave me now that I am a king? Otherwise, I had rather not be a king at all. Promise never to forsake me?" The little old woman laughed gaily. "Forsake you? that is impossible. But it is just possible you may forsake me. Not probable though. Your mother never did, and she was a queen. The sweetest queen in all the world was the lady Dolorez." "Tell me about her," said the boy eagerly. "As I get older I think I can understand more. Do tell me." "Not now. You couldn't hear me for the trumpets and the shouting. But when you are come to the palace, ask for a long-closed upper room, which looks out upon the Beautiful Mountains; open it and take it for your own. Whenever you go there, you will always find me, and we will talk together about all sorts of things." "And about my mother?" The little old woman nodded--and kept nodding and smiling to herself many times, as the boy repeated over and over again the sweet words he had never known or understood--"my mother--my mother." "Now I must go," said she, as the trumpets blared louder and louder, and the shouts of the people showed that they would not endure any delay. "Good-bye, Good-bye! Open the window and out I fly." Prince Dolor repeated gaily the musical rhyme--but all the while tried to hold his godmother fast. Vain, vain!--for the moment that a knocking was heard at his door, the sun went behind a cloud, the bright stream of dancing motes vanished, and the little old woman with them--he knew not where. So Prince Dolor quitted his tower--which he had entered so mournfully and ignominiously, as a little helpless baby carried in the deaf-mute's arms--quitted it as the great King of Nomansland. [Illustration: "_So Prince Dolor quitted his tower ... quitted it as the great King of Nomansland._" _Page 111._] The only thing he took away with him was something so insignificant, that none of the lords, gentlemen, and soldiers who escorted him with such triumphant splendour, could possibly notice it--a tiny bundle, which he had found lying on the floor just where the bridge of sunbeams had rested. At once he had pounced upon it, and thrust it secretly into his bosom, where it dwindled into such small proportions, that it might have been taken for a mere chest-comforter--a bit of flannel--or an old pocket-handkerchief! It was his travelling-cloak. CHAPTER X. Did Prince Dolor become a great king? Was he, though little more than a boy, "the father of his people," as all kings ought to be? Did his reign last long--long and happy?--and what were the principal events of it, as chronicled in the history of Nomansland? Why, if I were to answer all these questions, I should have to write another book. And I'm tired, children, tired--as grown-up people sometimes are; though not always with play. (Besides, I have a small person belonging to me, who, though she likes extremely to listen to the word-of-mouth story of this book, grumbles much at the writing of it, and has run about the house clapping her hands with joy when mamma told her that it was nearly finished. But that is neither here nor there.) I have related, as well as I could, the history of Prince Dolor, but with the history of Nomansland I am as yet unacquainted. If anybody knows it, perhaps he or she will kindly write it all down in another book. But mine is done. However, of this I am sure, that Prince Dolor made an excellent king. Nobody ever does anything less well, not even the commonest duty of common daily life, for having such a godmother as the little old woman clothed in grey, whose name is--well, I leave you to guess. Nor, I think, is anybody less good, less capable of both work and enjoyment in after life, for having been a little unhappy in his youth, as the Prince had been. I cannot take upon myself to say that he was always happy now--who is?--or that he had no cares; just show me the person who is quite free from them! But, whenever people worried and bothered him--as they did sometimes, with state etiquette, state squabbles, and the like, setting up themselves and pulling down their neighbours--he would take refuge in that upper room which looked out on the Beautiful Mountains and, laying his head on his godmother's shoulder, become calmed and at rest. Also, she helped him out of any difficulty which now and then occurred--for there never was such a wise old woman. When the people of Nomansland raised the alarm--as sometimes they did--for what people can exist without a little fault-finding?--and began to cry out, "Unhappy is the nation whose king is a child," she would say to him gently, "You are a child. Accept the fact. Be humble--be teachable. Lean upon the wisdom of others till you have gained your own." He did so. He learned how to take advice before attempting to give it, to obey before he could righteously command. He assembled round him all the good and wise of his kingdom--laid all its affairs before them, and was guided by their opinions until he had maturely formed his own. This he did, sooner than anybody would have imagined, who did not know of his godmother and his travelling-cloak--two secret blessings, which, though many guessed at, nobody quite understood. Nor did they understand why he loved so the little upper room, except that it had been his mother's room, from the window of which, as people remembered now, she had used to sit for hours watching the Beautiful Mountains. Out of that window he used to fly--not very often; as he grew older, the labours of state prevented the frequent use of his travelling-cloak; still he did use it sometimes. Only now it was less for his own pleasure and amusement than to see something, or investigate something, for the good of the country. But he prized his godmother's gift as dearly as ever. It was a comfort to him in all his vexations; an enhancement of all his joys. It made him almost forget his lameness--which was never cured. However, the cruel things which had been once foreboded of him did not happen. His misfortune was not such a heavy one after all. It proved to be much less inconvenience, even to himself, than had been feared. A council of eminent surgeons and mechanicians invented for him a wonderful pair of crutches, with the help of which, though he never walked easily or gracefully, he did manage to walk, so as to be quite independent. And such was the love his people bore him that they never heard the sound of his crutch on the marble palace-floors without a leap of the heart, for they knew that good was coming to them whenever he approached them. Thus, though he never walked in processions, never reviewed his troops mounted on a magnificent charger, nor did any of the things which make a show monarch so much appreciated, he was able for all the duties and a great many of the pleasures of his rank. When he held his levées, not standing, but seated on a throne, ingeniously contrived to hide his infirmity, the people thronged to greet him; when he drove out through the city streets, shouts followed him wherever he went--every countenance brightened as he passed, and his own, perhaps, was the brightest of all. [Illustration: "_When he drove out through the city streets, shouts followed him wherever he went._" _Page 116._] First, because, accepting his affliction as inevitable, he took it patiently; second, because, being a brave man, he bore it bravely; trying to forget himself, and live out of himself, and in and for other people. Therefore other people grew to love him so well, that I think hundreds of his subjects might have been found who were almost ready to die for their poor lame King. He never gave them a queen. When they implored him to choose one, he replied that his country was his bride, and he desired no other. But, perhaps, the real reason was that he shrank from any change; and that no wife in all the world would have been found so perfect, so lovable, so tender to him in all his weaknesses, as his beautiful old godmother. His four-and-twenty other godfathers and godmothers, or as many of them as were still alive, crowded round him as soon as he ascended the throne. He was very civil to them all, but adopted none of the names they had given him, keeping to the one by which he had been always known, though it had now almost lost its meaning; for King Dolor was one of the happiest and cheerfullest men alive. He did a good many things, however, unlike most men and most kings, which a little astonished his subjects. First, he pardoned the condemned woman who had been his nurse, and ordained that from henceforward there should be no such thing as the punishment of death in Nomansland. All capital criminals were to be sent to perpetual imprisonment in Hopeless Tower, and the plain round about it, where they could do no harm to anybody, and might in time do a little good, as the woman had done. Another surprise he shortly afterwards gave the nation. He recalled his uncle's family, who had fled away in terror to another country, and restored them to all their honours in their own. By-and-by he chose the eldest son of his eldest cousin (who had been dead a year), and had him educated in the royal palace, as the heir to the throne. This little prince was a quiet, unobtrusive boy, so that everybody wondered at the King's choosing him, when there were so many more; but as he grew into a fine young fellow, good and brave, they agreed that the King judged more wisely than they. "Not a lame prince neither," his Majesty observed one day, watching him affectionately; for he was the best runner, the highest leaper, the keenest and most active sportsman in the country. "One cannot make oneself, but one can sometimes help a little in the making of somebody else. It is well." This was said, not to any of his great lords and ladies, but to a good old woman--his first homely nurse--whom he had sought for far and wide, and at last found, in her cottage among the Beautiful Mountains. He sent for her to visit him once a year, and treated her with great honour until she died. He was equally kind, though somewhat less tender, to his other nurse, who, after receiving her pardon, returned to her native town and grew into a great lady, and I hope a good one. But as she was so grand a personage now, any little faults she had did not show. [Illustration: "_But as she was so grand a personage now, any little faults she had did not show._" _Page 118. Thus King Dolor's reign passed, year after year, long and prosperous. Whether he was happy--"as happy as a king"--is a question no human being can decide. But I think he was, because he had the power of making everybody about him happy, and did it too; also because he was his godmother's godson, and could shut himself up with her whenever he liked, in that quiet little room, in view of the Beautiful Mountains, which nobody else ever saw or cared to see. They were too far off, and the city lay so low. But there they were, all the time. No change ever came to them; and I think, at any day throughout his long reign, the King would sooner have lost his crown than have lost sight of the Beautiful Mountains. In course of time, when the little prince, his cousin, was grown into a tall young man, capable of all the duties of a man, his Majesty did one of the most extraordinary acts ever known in a sovereign beloved by his people and prosperous in his reign. He announced that he wished to invest his heir with the royal purple--at any rate, for a time--while he himself went away on a distant journey, whither he had long desired to go. Everybody marvelled, but nobody opposed him. Who could oppose the good King, who was not a young king now? And, besides, the nation had a great admiration for the young Regent--and, possibly, a lurking pleasure in change. So there was fixed a day, when all the people whom it would hold, assembled in the great square of the capital, to see the young Prince installed solemnly in his new duties, and undertaking his new vows. He was a very fine young fellow; tall and straight as a poplar tree, with a frank handsome face--a great deal handsomer than the King, some people said, but others thought differently. However, as his Majesty sat on his throne, with his grey hair falling from underneath his crown, and a few wrinkles showing in spite of his smile, there was something about his countenance which made his people, even while they shouted, regard him with a tenderness mixed with awe. [Illustration: "_All the people ... assembled to see the young Prince installed solemnly in his new duties and undertaking his new vows._" _Page 119._] He lifted up his thin, slender hand, and there came a silence over the vast crowd immediately. Then he spoke, in his own accustomed way, using no grand words, but saying what he had to say in the simplest fashion, though with a clearness that struck their ears like the first song of a bird in the dusk of the morning. "My people, I am tired: I want to rest. I have had a long reign, and done much work--at least, as much as I was able to do. Many might have done it better than I--but none with a better will. Now I leave it to others. I am tired, very tired. Let me go home." There rose a murmur--of content or discontent none could well tell; then it died down again, and the assembly listened silently once more. "I am not anxious about you--my people--my children," continued the king. "You are prosperous and at peace. I leave you in good hands. The Prince Regent will be a fitter king for you than I." "No, no, no!" rose the universal shout--and those who had sometimes found fault with him shouted louder than anybody. But he seemed as if he heard them not. "Yes, yes," said he, as soon as the tumult had a little subsided; and his voice sounded firm and clear; and some very old people, who boasted of having seen him as a child, declared that his face took a sudden change, and grew as young and sweet as that of the little Prince Dolor. "Yes, I must go. It is time for me to go. Remember me sometimes, my people, for I have loved you well. And I am going a long way, and I do not think I shall come back any more." He drew a little bundle out of his breast pocket--a bundle that nobody had ever seen before. It was small and shabby-looking, and tied up with many knots, which untied themselves in an instant. With a joyful countenance, he muttered over it a few half-intelligible words. Then, so suddenly that even those nearest to his Majesty could not tell how it came about, the King was away--away--floating right up in the air--upon something, they knew not what, except that it appeared to be as safe and pleasant as the wings of a bird. And after him sprang a bird--a dear little lark, rising from whence no one could say, since larks do not usually build their nests in the pavement of city squares. But there it was, a real lark, singing far over their heads, louder and clearer, and more joyful, as it vanished further into the blue sky. Shading their eyes, and straining their ears, the astonished people stood, until the whole vision disappeared like a speck in the clouds--the rosy clouds that overhung the Beautiful Mountains. Then they guessed that they should see their beloved king no more. Well-beloved as he was, he had always been somewhat of a mystery to them, and such he remained. But they went home, and, accepting their new monarch, obeyed him faithfully for his cousin's sake. King Dolor was never again beheld or heard of in his own country. But the good he had done there lasted for years and years; he was long missed and deeply mourned--at least, so far as anybody could mourn one who was gone on such a happy journey. Whither he went, or who went with him, it is impossible to say. But I myself believe that his godmother took him, on his travelling-cloak, to the Beautiful Mountains. What he did there, or where he is now, who can tell? I cannot. But one thing I am quite sure of, that, wherever he is, he is perfectly happy. And so, when I think of him, am I. THE END. [Illustration: STORY OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE] The author of this little book, Dinah Maria Mulock Craik, was a woman as modest, sweet, and wholesome as the story itself. She lived in England, but her writings endeared her to people all over the world. Some American ladies who went to call upon her in her home, Wildwood Cottage, in Hampstead, near London, describe her as wearing a black silk gown with a plain linen collar, her brown hair drawn smoothly back from an open brow, and her face, gracious and winning to an unusual degree, bearing the look of one who had tasted of sorrow. This was when she was already a well-known writer, having won her place in literature by hard and faithful work; but probably she did not dream, even then, that she would come to be recognized as, next to Dickens, the most widely-read novelist of her time. She was born April 20, 1826, at Stoke-upon-Trent, one of the chief manufacturing towns of Staffordshire, England. Staffordshire is the central county of England, and has many curious and interesting features. It forms the sloping base of a long chain of hills, where in countless ages the sea, sometimes covering the land and again driven away from it by the upheaval of a great body of earth and stone, has worn down the grit and limestone rock into clay. Did you know that all clay was mud made by the washing away of rocks? Just think how many hundreds of years it took to make the little ball of clay you model with! Well, the people who lived in this country found out, eighteen hundred years ago, that they could mould their clay into pots and basins, even if they could not make things grow in it; so they dug up the clay, shaped it with their hands, and baked it in the sun, making jars, bowls, and other useful things which they sold to farmers in exchange for food. About that time there came marching over the thickly wooded land, companies of Roman soldiers, who took all the clay bowls they wanted for their own use, and showed the potters how to make better ones. They also compelled them to make floors, roofs, and wall ornaments of clay baked in very hot ovens, called kilns. Much of this old Roman pottery was, of course, broken and lost, but still, if you should ever go there, you would find pieces of it in the banks of the little rivers and brooks near the clay pits, pieces more than a thousand years old. Because it is so full of clay--dark blue clay, and red and yellow ochres, used for coloring and painting, as well as red and black chalk--the country seems to have been made for potteries. Besides this, there used always to be plenty of wood to keep the kilns hot, for a great forest covered nearly all the land. This was a continuation of the Forest of Arden, about which you will read some day, as well as about Sherwood Forest, which sheltered Robin Hood and his merry men.--Have you heard about them yet?--Later, when better fuel was needed, two great coal fields were discovered underlying the county, one of them twenty miles long by two broad. Here, then, where all was so perfectly prepared for his work, it was natural that the greatest potter of modern times, and one of the greatest of all times, should be born--Josiah Wedgwood, who lived for many years in the very town where Mrs. Craik was born. He not only loved to make dishes and jars of all kinds as perfect as possible, but while shut in with a long illness he studied the chemistry and the arithmetic needed in his trade. In years of hard labor and close study he so mastered his trade that he made it both a science and an art. He, more than any other, turned the county into one of the busiest places in the world, where thousands of men work from morning till night to supply the whole world with every sort of thing that can be made out of clay. Perhaps on the bottom of your plates at home you may find printed the words "Staffordshire, England." Before Wedgwood's time--in 1653, to be accurate--Stoke-upon-Trent was a small group of thatched houses and two pot-works, gathered around the ancient parish church. In 1762, thirty-two years after Wedgwood's birth, it had a population of 8,000, of whom 7,000 were employed, in one way or another, in the pottery trade. The whole country-side is now black with smoke from the many factories. At one time, when the potters used salt to glaze their ware--that is, to put a bright polish on it--they used to open up their huge ovens every Saturday morning, between the hours of eight and twelve, and cast in salt. It would then melt, and run over the surface of the clay jugs and things inside, and leave a smooth, shining surface. If you let some salt and water, very strong of salt, boil over an old crock of your mother's, when the fire is making the stove red-hot, you will see how it works. Indeed, it was through an accidental boiling-over of this sort that salt-glaze was discovered. On Saturdays, when the salt was cast into the kilns, it made great clouds of smoke and vapor, filling streets and houses, and spreading far out into the country, so heavy that travelers to town lost their way, and persons in the street ran against each other. Here lived, and preached, and argued, and laid down the law, a brilliant, enthusiastic Irishman, named Thomas Mulock, the father of the woman who wrote this book. He was a minister, but one who did not agree with any of the other ministers around him. He had a warm, eager nature, and a temper to match, and as the second of twenty-two children must have exercised from his early childhood all that power of domineering which made Lord Byron nickname him "Muley Mulock." By this name he was known over half of Europe, but for all that he was much loved and admired, and moved in the same circle as Byron, Scott, Southey, and Wordsworth. From him, Mrs. Craik undoubtedly inherited her gifts as a writer. Her mother was a daughter of Mr. Mellard, a tanner and a member of the Reverend Thomas Mulock's congregation. She was one of three sisters who used to talk with the young minister over the wall that separated their gardens. There is a legend that he went all in white to the wedding, his shoes being of white satin; but this is very likely only a picturesque bit of gossip, kept alive by the fact that Mr. Mulock was quite romantic enough and independent enough to have done such a thing if it had happened to strike his fancy. His wife was a frail little woman, and the troubles which soon beset her husband on account of his strong, new opinions, were hard for her to bear, as was also the way in which he, like a hot-blooded Irishman, sure that he was right and all the rest of the world wrong, marched straight into the thick of any theological fight that might be going on. Dinah, at last, although merely an inexperienced girl, persuaded her mother to go with her to London, to seek a little peace and quiet, leaving the father to fight out his battles alone in the country place he found--or made--so full of strife. This was a tremendous responsibility for a young girl with no means to speak of and only an ordinarily good education, such as was given to young ladies in the girls' schools of those days. At school she seems to have been a great favorite, and is described as being always the center of a bevy of girls, who hung round her lovingly, and for whom she prophesied the most wonderful things. She was always sure they had great abilities, but seemed to be quite unconscious that she herself was the most gifted of them all, and would be remembered when they were forgotten. Even after she came to London, she made friends among other girls, and in spite of her unceasing and exacting work, seems always to have had time to enjoy them and make them enjoy her. She was only twenty years old when, in 1846, she went to London, and undertook the main support of her mother and the two young brothers who soon joined them. She did everything her pen could find to do, writing stories for fashion books and other periodicals, and had the satisfaction, finally, of knowing that she had succeeded in caring for her aged mother to the end of her life. Of the two brothers, the elder, Thomas, Jr., true son of his father, took part in some act of rebellion while studying at the Royal Academy. His father sided with the principals of the school and approved of the son's being expelled, his own heart aching, most probably, while he did what he thought was his duty. The son's heart, in turn, was sore at what he must have thought unloving conduct on the father's part. At any rate, he decided soon after to go to Australia, and, as he was about to board the ship, fell off the quay and was killed. This was a heavy blow to the brave young sister, now left with only the younger brother. He was a musician and a photographer of no mean rank at a time when few persons thought of photography as an art. Though he never proved a support to her, always leaning on her motherly care and getting himself into many scrapes from which she had to pull him out he was nevertheless the joy of his sister's life. In London Miss Mulock made friends whose assistance, later, was worth a great deal to her. She had published, in 1849, her first novel, _The Ogilvies_, which brought her recognition, and made men and women of real power in the world of letters seek her out. When they knew her personally, her simple cordiality, friendliness, and, above all, her thorough goodness of heart, made them her warm friends. When she found herself able to take a cottage--the "Wildwood Cottage" already spoken of--she quickly gathered around her some of the brightest and best people in the great city. From that time on, her books came out steadily and in great numbers. In all, she wrote forty-six works, including many novels, some essays, and two or three volumes of poetry. The greatest of her novels is _John Halifax, Gentleman_, considered by many the best story of English middle-class life ever written. This novel was translated into French, German, Italian, Greek, and Russian, and is still one of the most frequently called for books in the public libraries. Her poems, _Douglas, Douglas, Tender and True_, and _Philip My King_, are known wherever English is spoken. There is an interesting story connected with the latter poem. Philip Bourke Marston, the boy to whom it refers, was the son of one of Miss Mulock's London friends, Westland Marston, a famous dramatic poet and critic. When his little son was born, August 13, 1850, he asked Miss Mulock to be Philip's godmother, and traces of her deep affection for the gifted child are to be found among her writings. _A Hero_ was written for him, and it is to him, evidently, that the lovely little poem, _A Child's Smile_, refers. The boy lost his sight when only three years old. The cause is said to have been too much belladonna, given to prevent scarlet fever. For many years enough sight remained to enable him, in his own words, to see "the three boughs waving in the wind, the pageant of sunset in the west, and the glimmer of a fire upon the hearth." Shut in thus to the inner world of thought and feeling, Philip indulged in an imaginative series of wonderful adventures, and in long daydreams excited by music. Perhaps his blindness, coupled with his vivid imagination, is the reason why the beautiful poems he wrote when he grew older show such a wonderfully vivid power of portraying nature. When he saw a tree-bough waving in the wind, he saw it only dimly with his outward eyes, but as he sat dreaming over it afterward, it became more real to him than any bough was likely to become to an everyday, hearty boy who saw so many trees, with so many branches, that he hardly noticed them at all. It must have been a great comfort to him to have such a godmother as Miss Mulock--a real fairy godmother, who could weave magic spells of the most interesting stories, and heal the aches of his poor heart by sweet little poems. It was at Wildwood Cottage that Miss Mulock formed that close acquaintance with George Lillie Craik that finally led to her marriage with him. Mr. Craik met with a serious railroad accident near her house, which she promptly gave up to him, she staying with a friend near by; in the long days of convalescence they learned to know each other thoroughly. The marriage was singularly happy. Mr. Craik was a man of letters as well as a publisher, and they had every taste in common. Their life together was beautiful and full of a deep peace. Although they had no children of their own, they had an adopted daughter, Dorothy, and she it is for whom _The Adventures of a Brownie_ was written. It is probably because of Mrs. Craik's devotion and love for her that the little book is so free from self-consciousness, so evidently written wholeheartedly "as told to my child." Mrs. Craik's death, which took place in 1887, was, like her life, full of self-sacrificing affection and obedience to duty. She had not been ill, beyond a few attacks of heart-trouble that no one considered serious. By some blessed chance, on the morning of her last day on earth, her husband took an especially loving farewell of her--so much so that Dorothy laughed at him, and Mrs. Craik, smiling happily, reminded her that, although they had been so long married, they were lovers still. It was within a few weeks of Dorothy's marriage when the sudden heart failure came, and Mrs. Craik's one wish was that she might be permitted to live four weeks longer, so that her death might not overshadow her daughter's wedding. She resigned even this unselfish wish when she saw that it was not God's will. The beauty of her character, it may be supposed, quite as much as any peculiar merit in her writings, led Queen Victoria, who always tried to reward uprightness of life as well as unusual skill in any art, to bestow upon Mrs. Craik the only mark of recognition in her power. This was a small pension, and although she often was criticised for keeping a sum of money she did not need, while many less fortunate writers did need it, she retained it as her right, to use as her conscience dictated. She set it aside for struggling authors who would accept help from the queen's bounty that they would refuse from her private funds. Other writers may be more brilliant and more profound than Mrs. Craik, but her tales of simple goodness bring, not only a sense of rest and relief to the reader, but also a new desire to put goodness into his own daily life. In all her stories Mrs. Craik makes goodness as lovely as it really is. There are sad things in them, but the sadness is always made sweet at last by courage and patience and kindliness. 
32279	----	THE CHILDREN ON THE TOP FLOOR BOOKS BY NINA RHOADES "The Brick House Series" ONLY DOLLIE Illustrated by Bertha G. Davidson New cover design. Large 12mo Cloth $1.00 THE LITTLE GIRL NEXT DOOR Illustrated by Bertha G. Davidson Large 12mo Cloth $1.00 WINIFRED'S NEIGHBORS Illustrated by Bertha G. Davidson Large 12mo Cloth $1.00 THE CHILDREN ON THE TOP FLOOR Illustrated by Bertha G. Davidson Large 12mo Cloth $1.00 HOW BARBARA KEPT HER PROMISE Illustrated by Bertha G. Davidson Large 12mo Cloth $1.00 LITTLE MISS ROSAMOND Illustrated by Bertha G. Davidson Large 12mo Cloth $1.00 PRISCILLA OF THE DOLL SHOP Illustrated by Bertha G. Davidson Large 12mo Cloth $1.00 LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. BOSTON [Illustration: The next hour passed very pleasantly.--_Page 144._] THE CHILDREN ON THE TOP FLOOR BY NINA RHOADES Author of "Only Dollie," "The Little Girl Next Door," and "Winifred's Neighbors" _ILLUSTRATED BY BERTHA G. DAVIDSON_ BOSTON LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. Copyright, 1904, by Lee and Shepard _All rights reserved_ The Children on the Top Floor Published August, 1904. Norwood Press Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass. U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A Mishap and Its Consequences 7 II. Betty's Temptation 20 III. Winifred's Thank Offering 34 IV. Gathering Clouds 48 V. Winifred to the Rescue 65 VI. Friends in Need 80 VII. A Chance for Jack 93 VIII. The Doctor's Verdict 105 IX. Suspense 115 X. A Letter and a Surprise 124 XI. At Navesink 140 XII. Drifting 153 XIII. "His Lordship" 171 XIV. Jack's New Friend 180 XV. Something Happens 196 XVI. Uncle Jack 211 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE The next hour passed very pleasantly. _(Frontispiece)_. 144 Little Betty Randall gazing disconsolately down on the débris of her three cream cakes, 10 Betty found them all laughing heartily over "My Grandmother's Cat" 94 What a delightful afternoon that was! 111 That sail down the bay was a new and very delightful experience 136 "There aren't any oars, and we're drifting" 159 "It is very good," said Lord Carresford 189 "I'm the happiest boy in the world," said Jack 219 THE CHILDREN ON THE TOP FLOOR CHAPTER I A MISHAP AND ITS CONSEQUENCES "Will you please let me have two cream cakes?" The young woman behind the counter of the small bakery glanced kindly at the maker of this request, a little girl in a rather neat-looking dress, with a dark, earnest face and a pair of big, solemn brown eyes. "They're nice and fresh to-day," she remarked pleasantly; "they came out of the oven only an hour ago." The customer smiled. "I'm glad," she said; "my little brother is very fond of cream cakes." "And how is your little brother to-day?" the woman questioned, at the same time selecting three large, fat cream cakes from the heaped up dish on the counter. "He's pretty well, thank you. Oh, excuse me, but you're giving me three; I only asked for two." "Never mind about that, it's all right. Too bad your little brother can't get out these fine spring days, isn't it?" A troubled, wistful look came into the child's face. "He would like to get out," she said sadly; "I wish he could." "Yes, indeed, I don't wonder; it's just grand in the park these warm afternoons. My two little boys about live there. If you could take him out for a drive sometimes, it would do him a lot of good, I'm sure." Before the child could answer, the door of the bakery opened, and two more customers, a lady and a little girl of nine or ten, came in. "Well, Winnie," said the lady smiling, as they approached the counter, "have you decided which it is to be to-day, macaroons or chocolate éclairs?" "I think it had better be éclairs to-day, we had macaroons three times last week," the little girl said, laughing, and glancing with an expression of interest at the first customer, who had now received her package, and was turning to leave the store. "Oh, mother," she added eagerly, as the door closed, "did you see? that's the little girl who lives in our house." "Was it really?" the lady inquired, looking interested in her turn; "I didn't notice her." "Oh, yes, I'm quite sure; I've seen her several times on the stairs, you know. I wish she hadn't gone so quick; I should have liked to speak to her. It seems so queer not to know a person who lives in the same house that you do, doesn't it?" "And a very nice little girl she is too," put in the young woman behind the counter, glad of an opportunity to say a good word for one of her favorite customers. "She often comes in here, and we serve the family with bread. They live in the apartment house on the corner." "That's where we live," said Winifred; "do you know what the little girl's name is?" "Yes; it's Randall, Betty Randall; she told me so herself the other day. Her mother's a very handsome lady, quite stylish-looking, though I believe she gives lessons of some kind. She's a widow, with two children, this one and a little boy, who is a cripple. It's my opinion they've seen better days. Shall I send these things, ma'am, or will you take them with you?" "I will take them, thank you. Come, Winifred." "Mother," said Winifred, as they left the bakery, "I really do wish I knew that little girl. She has a very nice face, and if her brother is a cripple, I might go and read to him sometimes. You know I'm very fond of cripples." The lady laughed. "Well, you may speak to the child, if you like," she said kindly. "I scarcely know whether it would do for you to call on the family. You see, dear, a great many people live in that big apartment house, and they may not all be desirable friends for you. But look, isn't that the very child you are talking about? Yes, to be sure it is, and she seems to be in trouble. She must have had a fall." A moment later little Betty Randall, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, gazing disconsolately down on the débris of her three cream cakes, which lay crushed and shapeless at her feet, was startled to hear a sweet, sympathetic voice saying close to her side: "I'm sorry; how did it happen?" "I slipped on a piece of orange peel," explained little Betty, at once recognizing the lady and little girl she had seen at the baker's, "and fell right on my bag of cream cakes. They're all spoiled." [Illustration: Little Betty Randall gazing disconsolately down on the débris of her three cream cakes.--_Page 10._] "It's too bad, but hadn't you better go back for some more?" the lady suggested pleasantly. Betty hesitated, and her color rose. "I think not to-day," she said a little primly; "mother might not like it. I don't mind about myself," she added quickly, "but I'm sorry for Jack; he's very fond of cream cakes." "Is Jack your little brother?" Winifred asked. "Yes; how did you know I had a little brother?" "The woman at the baker's said so, and she said he was a cripple." Betty's face softened wonderfully. By this time they had abandoned the cream cakes to their fate, and were all three walking on together towards the big apartment house on the next corner. "Yes, he is a cripple," she said; "he can't walk at all. He had a fall when he was a baby, and it hurt his spine." "How very sad," said Winifred sympathetically; "how did it happen?" "His nurse dropped him one day when mother and father were out. She didn't tell at first, and nobody knew what was the matter with Jack, and what made him cry whenever any one touched him. At last the doctor found out that his spine was injured, and then she confessed." "How old is he now?" Winifred inquired. "He will be nine the day after to-morrow, but he seems older than that. He's a very clever little boy; he reads a great deal, and he can draw beautiful pictures. Mother thinks it's because he is so much by himself that he gets to be so old-fashioned. I'm eleven, but I'm not nearly so clever as Jack." "I suppose you are very fond of him," said Winifred. "A person would naturally be very fond of a brother who is a cripple." "I love him better than anything else in the world," said Betty simply. At that moment the apartment house was reached. "Isn't it strange that we live in the same house and never spoke to each other before?" remarked Winifred, as they mounted the first flight of stairs together. "We haven't lived here very long, though; only since January." "We have lived here for two years," said Betty, "and we don't know any of the people in the house." Winifred's eyes opened wide in surprise, but they were already on the first landing, and her mother had rung the bell of their own apartment. "Good-bye," she said, "this is where we live. I hope I shall see you again soon." Betty stood for a moment gazing at the closed door, behind which her new acquaintances had disappeared, and then she toiled on, up three more long steep flights of stairs, until, on the very top landing of all, she paused, and taking a key from her pocket, proceeded to open a door on her right. "Is that you, Betty?" called an eager little voice, as the door swung open, and Betty passed into the small, narrow hall of the "top floor rear apartment." "Yes, dear; but, oh, Jack, I'm so sorry; I slipped on a horrid piece of orange peel and spilled all the cream cakes. It'll have to be cold meat and bread and butter to-day." "You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" the anxious little voice inquired. "Oh, no, not a bit, and quite an interesting thing happened. Just wait till I take off my hat, and get your lunch ready, and I'll tell you all about it." Five minutes later, Betty, her little dark face somewhat flushed from recent exertions, but looking, on the whole, very bright and happy, entered the small front room, bearing a tray containing milk, cold meat, and a pile of thin bread-and-butter sandwiches. "I'll put it on the little table, and we can have lunch together," she said cheerfully. "See what a lot of sandwiches mother's made for us." As she spoke, Betty drew a small table close to the sofa on which lay the little cripple. Jack watched her every movement with loving eyes. Such a pale, wan face as it was; such a poor, shrunken little body! But it was not a dull face, and the large, beautiful blue eyes had a bright, glad light in them, despite the fact that their owner spent all his poor life confined to a sofa. "Now tell me about the interesting thing," Jack said, when Betty, having completed her arrangements, had seated herself by his side, prepared to enjoy the cold meat and bread and butter. "Yes, I will. It isn't very much, though, only when I was at the baker's who should happen to come in but the lady and the little girl who live down on the second floor. You know, I told you about that little girl, how pretty she was, and how she and her mother were always together. I've seen her mother taking her to school ever so many mornings, and I think she was on her way home from school now, for she carried books. Well, I got my cream cakes--they were lovely ones too, and the woman gave me three, though I only asked for two--and I was hurrying home as fast as I could, when all of a sudden I slipped on that old orange peel, and fell flat. My bag burst open, and of course the cream cakes were all squashed. I got up, and was standing looking at my poor cream cakes, and feeling so dreadfully sorry, when the lady and the little girl stopped to speak to me. They were ever so kind. The lady said I had better go back to the store for more, but I didn't have money enough for that, you know." "You didn't say so, did you?" Jack questioned anxiously. "Of course I didn't. I just said I thought I wouldn't go back to-day, and then we all walked home together, and the little girl asked me about you." "What did you tell her?" "Oh, I said you were a very clever boy, and--why, there's the door bell; I wonder who it can be?" "Perhaps it's mother come home early," Jack suggested, his pale little face brightening; "perhaps one of her pupils didn't take a lesson, or----" But Betty did not hear. She was already halfway across the little hall, and in another moment was standing with the open door in her hand, gazing in surprise at the neat, pleasant-faced servant girl who confronted her. The girl held in her hand a plate covered with a napkin. "Is this Miss Betty Randall?" the stranger inquired, smiling. "Yes," said Betty, in growing bewilderment. She was sure she had never seen the girl before. "Well, here are some éclairs for you. Miss Winifred Hamilton sends them to you and your little brother, and hopes you'll both enjoy them." And before Betty could recover sufficiently from her surprise to utter a word of either thanks or protest, the plate was in her hands, and the servant girl was hurrying away downstairs. It was with a very bright face, however, that the little girl came running back into the sitting room, in answer to Jack's eager "What is it, Betty?" "It's éclairs, four beautiful chocolate éclairs," she explained joyfully, "and the nice little girl downstairs has sent them to us. "She just bought them too, for I heard her mother asking her at the baker's whether it was to be éclairs or macaroons, and she said éclairs. Wasn't it kind of her to send them? You do like chocolate éclairs very much, don't you, Jack, dear?" "I love them," said Jack heartily, "but, Betty, do you suppose mother would like it?" Betty's bright face clouded, but only for a moment. "I don't believe she'd mind," she said with decision. "You see, things to eat aren't like money, and I think it would be rude not to take them when the little girl was so kind." Jack acquiesced in this view of the matter, and the two children were soon in the full enjoyment of their unexpected treat. "Her name is Hamilton, Winifred Hamilton," remarked Betty, poising a delicious morsel on her fork as she spoke, "and she knows my name too. The maid asked if I wasn't Miss Betty Randall. She is such a pretty little girl, Jack; her hair is all fluffy and crimpy round her face, and she's got beautiful eyes." "I wish I could see her," said Jack wistfully; "do you suppose she would come up here if you asked her?" "I shouldn't wonder," said Betty hopefully; "she said she was very much interested in cripples." Jack made an impatient movement, and a look of pain crossed his face. "I wish I wasn't a cripple," he said, his lip beginning to tremble; "I wish I could get up and walk like other people. I want to see things." Betty laid down her fork, and a look of sympathy and almost womanly tenderness came into her eyes. "What kind of things do you want to see, Jack?" she asked gently. "Oh, I don't know; all kinds of things. I get so tired looking out of the window at roofs and chimneys. I should like to see a park with deer in it, and swans and a peacock, like the one mother tells about." "But you couldn't see that park, you know, dear, because that was in England, away across the Atlantic Ocean." "Well, but there is a park here, too, isn't there? I heard Mrs. Flynn talking about it the other day. She said it was beautiful in the park now, with all the flowers coming out." "Oh, yes, there's Central Park, and it is very pretty, but not so pretty as the one mother tells about." Jack's face brightened again. "Couldn't I go there some time?" he asked eagerly; "is it too far for any one to carry me?" Betty shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid it's too far for that," she admitted, "but if we only had a carriage you could go. The janitor would carry you downstairs, I know, and it wouldn't be a long drive. I don't believe it would hurt your back one bit. I'll tell you what, Jack. Day after to-morrow will be your birthday; let's ask mother to hire a carriage, and take us both." Betty's eyes were sparkling with the sudden inspiration, but now it was Jack's turn to shake his head and look dubious. "I'm afraid it would cost too much," he said mournfully; "I should love it, but I'm really afraid it would." "I don't believe it would be so very expensive," said hopeful Betty. "There's a livery stable right across the street, and I'll go over this afternoon and find out how much it costs. I've got a dollar and five cents in my bank; I counted it last night, and mother says it's all mine, to do just what I please with. Oh, Jack, dear, I'm sure it can't cost more than a dollar, and I should just love to get it for your birthday present. I wonder why we were all so stupid as never to have thought of doing it before." CHAPTER II BETTY'S TEMPTATION It was about an hour later when Betty, having washed and put away the luncheon dishes, and settled Jack with his story book and drawing materials, ran lightly down the three long flights of stairs to the Hamiltons' apartment. In one hand she carried Mrs. Hamilton's plate and napkin, and in the other a small tin money box, which jingled at every step. At the Hamiltons' front door she paused, and rather timidly rang the bell. The door was opened by the same girl who had brought the éclairs. "I came to bring back the plate," Betty explained, "and will you please tell Miss Winifred Hamilton that my little brother and I enjoyed the cakes very much." "Wouldn't you like to come in and speak to her yourself?" the girl asked pleasantly; "she's right here." She moved aside as she spoke, and there, sure enough, was Winifred standing smiling in the parlor door. "Yes, do come in," said the little girl hospitably. "Mother's out, but I stayed at home to make a dress for one of my children. They're really my _dolls_, you know," she added, smiling at Betty's look of bewilderment, "but I always call them my children. I'm so very fond of them, you see, and they do seem something like real children. Come in and I'll show them to you." There was no declining this tempting invitation, and Betty was soon making the acquaintance of Winifred's family, and being introduced respectively to Lord Fauntleroy, Rose-Florence, Violet-May, Lily-Bell, and Miss Mollie. "You see, when my father and mother were away in California I used to be alone a good deal," Winifred explained, "and so if it hadn't been for the children I should have been rather lonely. I lived with Uncle Will and Aunt Estelle then, and Aunt Estelle is a very busy lady and has to go out a good deal. My mother hardly ever goes out without me, and I don't have nearly so much time to devote to the children as I used, but I shouldn't like to have them feel neglected, so sometimes I stay at home on purpose to look after them a little." "How old are you?" Betty inquired. To her this conversation seemed extremely childish. She had never had much time in her busy little life to care for dolls, Jack having claimed all her thought and attention. "I shall be ten next July, so as it's April now, father says I'm nine and three-quarters. Father's very fond of joking, and so is Uncle Will." "You go to school, don't you?" Betty asked. "Yes, I go to Miss Lothrop's. I was coming from school when I met you to-day. Mother almost always takes me and comes for me herself, because we have only Lizzie, and she has a great deal to do." "We don't keep any girl at all now," said Betty, "and so I can't go to school, because there would be nobody to take care of Jack. We did keep a girl last year, but some of mother's pupils gave up, and she couldn't get any new ones, so we had to let her go. Mother gives us our lessons every afternoon when she comes home, and we study in the mornings by ourselves." "Is your mother a teacher?" Winifred inquired with interest. "Yes, she gives music lessons, and she plays beautifully too. We have a piano, because Jack loves music so, and mother plays to him almost every evening." "I guess cripples always like music," said Winifred reflectively. "Mr. Bradford had a lovely music box; it played twelve tunes." "Who is Mr. Bradford?" "He was a crippled gentleman I used to know. He was very kind, and I loved him very much. I used to read to him, and he liked it. He died last winter." "Some cripples are quite strong in other ways, you know," Betty hastened to explain. Winifred's remark about dying had made her vaguely uncomfortable. "Jack isn't nearly so delicate as he used to be. I think if he could only get out in the fresh air sometimes he would be ever so much better." "Doesn't he ever go out?" "No. You see, he can't walk at all, and he's too heavy to carry far. It's awfully hard for him never to see anything but chimneys. Our apartment is in the rear, so he can't even see the trolley cars." "Why don't you take him for a drive sometimes?" Winifred asked sympathetically. Betty's eyes sparkled. "That's just what I'm going to do," she said triumphantly. "I never thought of it till to-day, but first the woman at the baker's spoke of it, and then Jack said he wished he could see Central Park. The day after to-morrow will be his birthday, and I'm going to hire a carriage and take him for a nice drive. I'm going to pay for it out of my own money too; it's to be my birthday present." "That will be nice," said Winifred in a tone of satisfaction. "Does he know about it?" "Yes, and he's so pleased. I'm going right over to the livery stable now to ask how much it will cost. It couldn't be more than a dollar, do you think it could?" Winifred, whose ideas on the subject were quite as vague as Betty's own, and to whom a dollar appeared a rather large sum, replied that she was sure it couldn't, and after a little more conversation Betty departed on her errand. With a beating heart the little girl crossed the street and entered the office of the livery stable on the opposite corner. A man was writing at a desk, but he looked up at her entrance, and laid down his pen. "Well, miss, what can I do for you?" he inquired politely, as Betty paused, uncertain in just what words to put her request. "Do you want a cab?" "No, thank you," said Betty, "at least not to-day, but I think I shall want one the day after to-morrow. Would you please tell me how much it would cost to hire a carriage to take us to Central Park?" The man glanced at a big book which lay open on the desk before him. "Central Park," he repeated, beginning to turn over the pages, "that would mean an afternoon drive, of course. Our regular charge for an afternoon drive is five dollars." "Five dollars!" Betty gave a little gasp. "I didn't know it would be so expensive," she said, and without another word she turned and walked quickly out of the office. But once outside she did not hurry. Very slowly she recrossed the street, entered at the familiar door, and began climbing the long flights of stairs. At the top of the first flight she was stopped by her new friend Winifred. "I was watching for you," Winifred explained; "I wanted to know if it was all right about the carriage. Oh, what's the matter? Didn't you get it, after all?" Betty shook her head; she could not speak just then, but all the bright look of pride and happiness had gone out of her face. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Winifred sympathetically. "Were the carriages all engaged for the day after to-morrow? Perhaps you could get one at some other stable." "It isn't that," said Betty, trying hard to steady the quiver in her voice, "but--but they were very expensive--much more expensive than I thought. We couldn't possibly have one." "How much are they?" Winifred inquired with interest. "Five dollars, the man said." "Oh!" and Winifred's eyes opened wide in astonishment; "that is a great deal of money. Uncle Will gave me a five-dollar gold-piece for Easter, and we thought it was very good of him. But if your little brother wants to go so very much, and if it's his birthday, don't you think your mother might possibly let you have the money?" But Betty shook her head decidedly. "She couldn't possibly," she said, "I know she couldn't." And then all at once her forced composure gave way, and she burst into tears. "Oh, he'll be so disappointed, so dreadfully disappointed," she sobbed. "Oh, I wish I had never said anything about it to him, but I was so sure a dollar would be enough, and I promised him--I promised him." It was some few minutes later when Betty, still with red eyes, but otherwise looking much as usual, reached the top landing and paused for a moment outside their own door. Jack was so happy; how could she tell him that their cherished plan must be given up? She gave a long sigh, and drawing the door-key from her pocket, was in the act of fitting it in the lock when she heard the sound of footsteps and rustling skirts just behind her, and, turning in surprise, caught sight of a rather stout, florid lady coming up the stairs. "This is the top floor, isn't it?" the stranger inquired rather breathlessly, as she reached the landing. She was not accustomed to climbing stairs, and did not enjoy it. "Yes," said Betty politely. "Well, I'm thankful to hear it, I'm sure. I never had such a climb in my life. It's an outrage not to have elevators in these high buildings. Can you tell me which is Mrs. Randall's apartment?" "It's this one," said Betty, looking very much surprised, for she was sure she had never seen the lady before, "but Mrs. Randall is out. I'm her little girl; I could take any message." The lady drew a step back, and stood regarding Betty with keen, though kindly scrutiny. "So you are Mrs. Randall's little girl," she said; "I remember she told me she had children. Well, I suppose I shall have to leave my message with you, though I am sorry not to see her myself, if only to say good-bye." "Won't you come in?" said Betty. "Mother will be at home pretty soon, I think; she generally gets back by four." "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly spare the time; my carriage is waiting, and I have no end of things to attend to this afternoon. Will you tell your mother that Mrs. Martin called? Mrs. Henry Martin. Perhaps you may have heard her speak of me." "Oh, yes," said Betty eagerly; "mother gives music lessons to your two little boys." "Yes, to be sure she does, and that is the very thing I wanted to see her about. My husband has suddenly decided to go to Europe on business, and we are all going with him. It was arranged only last evening, and we sail next Saturday. I hate to take the children off like this right in the middle of the quarter, and that is why I wanted to come and see your mother about it rather than write her a note. It really can't be helped, and I know she will understand. Ask her, please, to let me have her bill, and she needn't trouble to come again; the children will be too busy to take any more lessons before we sail." "I'll tell mother," said Betty; "she'll be sorry not to have seen you herself." Mrs. Martin was turning away, but she glanced once more at Betty's pale little face, and then, as if with a sudden thought, she paused and drew out her purse. "My little boys are very fond of your mother," she said kindly. "They mind her better than they ever minded any other teacher they had, and their father and I are both much pleased with her methods. I hope that another winter--but one never knows what may happen. Here's a little present for you, dear; buy something nice for yourself with it." As she spoke, Mrs. Martin held out her hand, and in it there was a bill. Betty saw it distinctly; a crisp, new five-dollar bill. For one breathless, delicious moment, the little girl wavered, while her heart beat so fast that she could scarcely breathe, and all the blood in her body seemed to come surging up into her face and neck. Impulsively, she held out her hand. Another second and her fingers would have closed upon the tempting gift. Suddenly her hand dropped to her side, and all the color died out of her face again, leaving it even paler than before. "You are very kind," she said in a low, unsteady voice; "thank you very much, but--but mother doesn't like to have us take money." Mrs. Martin looked surprised, even a little annoyed. For a moment she seemed inclined to dispute the point, but seeing the child's evident embarrassment and distress, changed her mind. "Very well, dear," she said good-naturedly. "I am sorry you won't take my present, but you are right not to do anything of which your mother would disapprove. When we come back next autumn you must get your mother to bring you to see us some time. Now good-bye. You won't forget my message, will you?" Jack was watching anxiously for his sister's return. At the familiar sound of the latch-key he raised himself on his elbow, straining his eyes for the first glimpse of Betty's face. "Well, is it all right?" he cried eagerly; "are we going to have the carriage? Oh, Betty, it isn't; I see it in your eyes." Betty said nothing, but going over to the sofa, sat down beside her little brother, slipping her arm lovingly about him. Jack winked hard and bit his lip, but he, too, was silent after that first exclamation. Perhaps even Betty herself did not realize how keen this disappointment was to the little cripple. In a few moments Betty spoke. "It was five dollars," she said. "Five dollars!" repeated Jack incredulously. "Oh, Betty, what a lot of money! Mother could never spare all that at once." "I could have had it, though," said Betty, speaking fast and nervously. "I could have had every bit of it. A lady was coming to see mother; I met her on the stairs. Mother gives her little boys music lessons, and she came to say they are all going to Europe next week. She was very kind; she said she wanted to give me a present, and she offered me a five-dollar bill." Jack gasped, and two red spots glowed in his cheeks. "You didn't take it, did you?" "I wanted to," said Betty slowly; "I wanted to very much. I was just going to take it in my hand, and then I remembered how mother would feel, and I didn't." Jack heaved a deep sigh. "I'm glad you didn't," he said rather tremulously. Again there was silence. Both children were trying hard to keep back the coming tears. Again Betty was the first to speak. "I suppose some mothers wouldn't mind their children taking presents," she said. "I wonder why mother is so very particular?" "Why, don't you know?" Jack's blue eyes opened wide in surprise. "It's because we're English, and mother once lived in that beautiful place with the park and the deer. She can't forget about it, even if she is poor now. She has to remember she's a lady, and ladies never do take money from strangers." Betty sighed impatiently. "I suppose it's wrong," she said, "but sometimes I can't help wishing mother hadn't been quite such a grand person when she lived in England. What's the use of it now when we have to live in a flat, and mother has to give music lessons and do all the housework herself? If she hadn't had all those beautiful things once, she wouldn't mind so much about being poor now." "Well, but it's nice to have the other things to think about," said Jack. "Aren't you glad you've got ancestors?" "I don't think I care very much," said practical Betty; "I'd rather have relations that are alive now. Winifred Hamilton said her uncle gave her a five-dollar gold-piece for Easter. I wish we had an uncle, don't you?" "We have got Uncle Jack," said Jack thoughtfully, "but we don't know where he is, and mother doesn't like to have us ask her about him. There's the door bell, and it's mother's ring. Wait one minute, Betty, please. Don't say anything to her about the carriage; she'd be so sorry to think we were disappointed, you know." "No, I won't," said Betty emphatically. CHAPTER III WINIFRED'S THANK OFFERING "Mother, dear, I want to talk to you about something very important." "Well, my pet, what is it?" And Mrs. Hamilton laid aside her book, and took her little daughter into her lap. It was the hour before dinner; the time of day that Winifred always liked best, because then her mother was never busy, and was quite ready to tell her stories, play games, or discuss any subject under the sun. "It's about a story I've been reading," said Winifred, nestling her head comfortably on her mother's shoulder. "It's a lovely story, all about a little boy who was stolen and had to act in a circus and live in a caravan. He had a very hard time, but in the end his father and mother found him, and they were so happy that his father built a hospital for poor children just to show how grateful he was. He called it a Thank Offering." Winifred paused to give a long, contented glance about the pretty, comfortable room. Her mother softly stroked the fluffy little head resting against her shoulder. She knew there was more to come. "Well," Winifred went on after a moment, "I've been thinking a great deal about that story. You see, I think I feel very much the way those people did. Since you and father came home from California, and we came here to live, I've been so very, very happy. I say a little prayer to God about it sometimes, but I think I should like to do something for a Thank Offering too." "What would you like to do?" Mrs. Hamilton asked, stooping to kiss the sweet, earnest little face. "Well, I've been thinking about that, and it seems as if the best thing would be to make some one else very happy. You know the five-dollar gold-piece that Uncle Will gave me for Easter?" "Yes, dear." "Well, do you think he would mind very much if I spent it all on giving somebody else a good time?" "He would not mind in the least, I am sure, but I thought you had decided to buy a bracelet just like Lulu Bell's." "Yes, I had; but, you see, that was before I began to think about the Thank Offering." "Well, and when did you first begin to think of the Thank Offering?" Mrs. Hamilton asked, smiling. "It was yesterday afternoon, when Betty Randall was so disappointed because the man at the livery stable told her it would cost five dollars for a carriage to take her little brother for a drive. I've been thinking about it ever since, and to-day at recess I told Lulu, and she thinks just the same as I do." "You mean that you would like to spend your five dollars in hiring a carriage to take that little cripple boy and his sister for a drive?" "Yes, mother; do you think I might? I don't know the little boy yet, but I like Betty very much, and she was so disappointed." Mrs. Hamilton was looking both pleased and interested. "I do think you might," she said heartily, "and, Winnie, dear, I like your idea of a Thank Offering very much indeed. I have been thinking a good deal about that poor child myself ever since what you told me yesterday. Didn't you say to-morrow would be the little boy's birthday?" "Yes, to-morrow; and to-morrow will be Saturday too. Oh, mother, dear, do you really think we could?" "I will go up and call on Mrs. Randall this evening," said Mrs. Hamilton with decision. "I have never met her, but I like her little girl's appearance very much. I don't believe she will have any objection to letting the children go with us. There's father's key. Run and open the door for him and give him a nice kiss." It was about half-past eight that evening when Mrs. Hamilton left her own apartment and climbed the three flights of stairs to the top floor. On the last landing she paused to get her breath before ringing the Randalls' bell, and at that moment her ear caught the sound of music. Some one was playing on the piano, and playing in a way that at once attracted Mrs. Hamilton's attention. This was not the kind of music she was accustomed to hearing through open windows or thin walls. Mrs. Hamilton had studied music herself under some of the best teachers the city could produce, and she knew at once that this was no ordinary musician. She had heard that Mrs. Randall gave music lessons, but she had never expected anything like this. She stood quite still, listening until the piece came to an end, and then as the last notes of the beautiful nocturne died away, she raised her head and lightly touched the electric bell. The door was opened by the same little girl she had seen the day before. "Good-evening," said the visitor, smiling pleasantly, "is your mother at home?" "Yes," said Betty, looking very much surprised, but standing aside to let the lady pass; "she's in the parlor playing to Jack." Mrs. Hamilton crossed the narrow hall, and entered the small but very neat-looking parlor. She noticed at a glance the plants in the window; the canary in his gilt cage, and the little crippled boy lying on the sofa. Jack's face was flushed with pleasure, and his blue eyes, full of sweet content, rested lovingly on the figure of the lady at the piano. At the sight of the unexpected visitor the lady rose. "Mother," said Betty eagerly, "it's Mrs. Hamilton--Winifred Hamilton's mother." A slight flush rose in Mrs. Randall's cheeks, but her greeting, though perhaps a little formal, was perfectly courteous. Mrs. Hamilton saw at a glance that the woman at the baker's had not exaggerated when she had described Betty's mother as "a very handsome lady." She was very tall and stately, and she spoke in a low, refined voice. Her eyes were large and dark, and there was a look in them that seemed to tell of suffering--a look that went straight to Mrs. Hamilton's kind heart. It was impossible for any one to remain long ill at ease in the society of sweet, genial Mrs. Hamilton, and in five minutes the two ladies were chatting pleasantly together, and Mrs. Randall had almost ceased to wonder why her neighbor should have intruded upon her at this unseasonable hour. Mrs. Hamilton made friends with Jack in a way that won his heart at once, and Betty sat watching her with frank admiration. At last the visitor said: "And now I must really explain my reason for troubling you at this time of the evening, Mrs. Randall. My little Winifred has taken a great fancy to your Betty, and is most anxious to make the acquaintance of Jack as well. She and I are going for a drive in the park to-morrow afternoon, and I have come to ask you if you will allow Betty and Jack to go with us." The color deepened in Mrs. Randall's face, and she began to be a little formal again. "You are very kind," she began politely, "but I am afraid----" A low exclamation from both children checked the words on her lips, and she glanced anxiously from one eager little face to the other. Betty was actually pale with suppressed excitement, and Jack's blue eyes said unutterable things. "You needn't be afraid to trust Jack to us," Mrs. Hamilton went on, just as if she had not heard her hostess's courteous words; "the janitor can carry him up and down stairs, and I promise to take the very best care of him." "You are very kind," Mrs. Randall said again, and this time there was more warmth in her tone. "The children would enjoy it immensely, I know. You would like to go, wouldn't you, Jack, darling?" "Like it! Oh, mother, I should love it better than anything in the world." Of course there was no more hesitation after that, and when Mrs. Hamilton went downstairs ten minutes later, it was to tell Winifred the good news that Mrs. Randall had given her consent, and that the carriage was to be ordered for three o'clock the following afternoon. "I rather like Mrs. Randall," Mrs. Hamilton said to her husband when Winifred had slipped away to her room, to tell her children all about her Thank Offering; "she is a lady, one can see that at once, and, oh, Phil, she was playing the piano when I went upstairs. I haven't heard such music in years. I think she has seen better days, and is inclined to resent anything that seems like patronage. There is a look in her eyes that somehow made my heart ache." Mrs. Randall was very silent for some time after her visitor had left. She closed the piano, and went away to sit by herself in her dark little bedroom, leaving the children to chatter over the delightful prospect for the morrow, and when she came back to put Jack to bed, her eyes looked as if she had been crying. "Mother," whispered the little boy, laying his cheek softly against his mother's as she bent to give him a last good-night kiss, "you aren't sorry you said yes, are you?" "No, darling," she answered tenderly; "I can never be sorry about anything that gives my little boy pleasure, but, oh, Jack dear, I wish I had the money to take you myself." Betty's first action on waking the next morning was to rush to the window to ascertain the state of the weather. "It's perfectly lovely, Jack," she announced joyfully, running from the room she shared with her mother into the tiny one Jack occupied. "The sun is shining as bright as can be, there isn't a cloud in the sky. Here's your birthday present; it's only a box of drawing pencils, but I couldn't go far enough to buy anything else yesterday, and I thought you'd like it." Jack, who was already sitting up in bed, hugging a new story book, assured his sister that drawing pencils were the very things he most wanted. "And see what mother gave me," he added, holding up the new book for Betty's inspection, "'The Boys of Seventy-six.' Oh, Betty, I do think birthdays are lovely things, don't you?" That was a busy morning for the Randalls. Being Saturday, there were no lessons for Mrs. Randall to give, but there was all the weekly house-cleaning to be done, and Betty and her mother worked steadily until luncheon time. If Mrs. Randall had ancestors, she had also plenty of good common sense. She was not too proud to work for her little ones, however unwilling she might be to accept favors for them from others, and she plied broom and mop to such good purpose that by twelve o'clock the little home was the very picture of neatness and order. Jack lay on the sofa as usual, too happy in eager anticipations for the afternoon to forget them even in the interest of his new story book. Mrs. Randall went out for a little while after luncheon, returning with a pretty blue sailor cap for Jack. The thought had suddenly occurred to Betty that her brother possessed no outdoor garments, and for a moment she was filled with dismay, but her mother assured her that, with the aid of her own long cape and the new sailor cap, the little boy would do very well indeed. "I wish I had time to finish your new dress though, dear," she said, glancing regretfully at the darn in Betty's skirt. "I tried to do it last night, but my eyes hurt me, and I was afraid to work any longer." "I don't mind one bit," declared Betty, remembering to have wakened in the night just as the clock was striking twelve, and found her mother's place in bed still empty. "I think this dress is nice enough, and I'm sure Mrs. Hamilton and Winifred are too kind to care about what people wear." "I care though," said Mrs. Randall with a sigh; "I should like to have people think that my little girl was a lady." "Well, if I behave nicely and am ladylike, won't they think so any way?" inquired Betty innocently. At which her mother smiled in spite of herself, and gave her a kiss. At three o'clock precisely there was a ring at the door bell, and Mrs. Hamilton appeared. She was closely followed by Mr. Jones, the good-natured janitor, who lifted Jack in his strong arms and carried him downstairs as easily as if he had been a baby. Mrs. Randall accompanied the party to the sidewalk, and stood by, watching anxiously while the little cripple was placed carefully and tenderly on the seat of the comfortable carriage Mrs. Hamilton had procured. She looked so sad and wistful that kind Mrs. Hamilton longed to ask her to take her place in the carriage, but dared not, lest in doing so she might arouse her neighbor's sensitive pride. At last all was ready, Mrs. Hamilton and the two little girls were in their places, and the carriage moved slowly away from the door. "Good-bye, mother, dear," cried Jack, waving his thin little hand as he leaned comfortably back among his pillows; "I'm having such a lovely, lovely time." There were tears in Mrs. Randall's dark eyes as she turned away, and when she had gone back to her own rooms, instead of at once settling down to her afternoon's sewing, she threw herself wearily upon Jack's sofa and buried her face in the pillows with a sob. What a drive that was! I don't think any one of those four people will ever forget it. "It was one of the loveliest experiences I ever had in my life, Phil," Mrs. Hamilton told her husband that evening with tears in her eyes. "To see that dear little fellow's wonder and delight over the very simplest things was enough to make one ashamed of ever having been dissatisfied with one's lot or discontented about anything. I never before in my life saw any one so perfectly happy." It was pretty to see the devotion of the two little girls to the poor crippled boy. "Are you quite sure you're comfortable, Jack?" Winifred kept asking over and over again, while Betty looked anxiously into her brother's radiant face to make sure he was not getting tired. It was a glorious spring afternoon, and the park had never looked more lovely. How Jack enjoyed it no words could describe. "I don't believe mother's park was any more beautiful than this one," he said to Betty, as, in answer to a direction from Mrs. Hamilton the coachman turned the horses to go round a second time. "I haven't seen any deer, but there are sheep and swans." "Where's your mother's park?" Winifred inquired, with pardonable curiosity. Betty blushed and gave her brother a warning glance. Jack looked as if he had said something he was sorry for. "It's a story mother tells us," he explained, "about a park she used to see when she lived in England. It was a beautiful park, and we love to hear about it." "My friend Lulu Bell's father and mother used to live in England," said Winifred, "and she went there with them once for a visit. Did you ever live there?" "No," answered Betty, Jack's attention having been called off for the moment by the sight of some new wonder, "father and mother came to this country before we were born." "Has your father been long dead, dear?" Mrs. Hamilton asked kindly. "He died six years ago, when I was only five. I don't remember him very well, and Jack doesn't remember him at all. Oh, Jack, look at that carriage without any horses. That's an automobile." It was nearly five o'clock before the carriage again drew up before the door of the big apartment house, and Mr. Jones came out and once more lifted Jack in his arms to carry him upstairs. There was a tinge of bright color on the little boy's usually pale cheeks and his eyes were shining. "I've had the most beautiful time I ever had in my life," he said, turning to Mrs. Hamilton with a radiant smile. "You've been so very kind, and so has Winifred, and--and, please, I'd like to kiss you both." CHAPTER IV GATHERING CLOUDS "Oh, dear! I do wish it would stop raining," sighed Betty, glancing out of the window one wet afternoon a few days later. "It's rained just as hard as it can for two whole days, and it doesn't look a bit more like clearing now than it did yesterday morning." "I hope mother won't take any more cold," said Jack, rather anxiously, pausing in his task of endeavoring to draw a sketch from memory of an automobile. "She coughed dreadfully last night; it woke me up. I wish she didn't have to go out on rainy days." "So do I," said Betty decidedly. "Don't you hate being poor, Jack?" "If you were only grown up," Jack went on, ignoring his sister's question, "you could go out and give the lessons on wet days or when mother didn't feel well, and she could stay at home and rest." "No, I couldn't," said Betty, dolefully. "You know I'm not a bit musical; I couldn't play like mother if I tried all my life. I don't see how I'm ever going to be any kind of a teacher if I can't go to school and get a diploma. People can't teach without diplomas; Mrs. Flynn says so. Her daughter's trying for one this year." "Well, you would be able to do something any way," Jack maintained, "and mother wouldn't have to work so dreadfully hard. I wish you were grown up, Betty, only then I should have to be grown up too, and I shouldn't like that." "Why not?" inquired Betty in some surprise. Jack flushed, and turned his face towards the wall. "I don't know exactly," he stammered, "but I think--I'm sure it must be much worse to be a grown up cripple, than to be a little boy one." Betty left her seat by the window, and coming over to her brother's side, sat down on the end of the sofa by Jack's feet. "You wouldn't mind so much if you could be a great artist and paint beautiful pictures, would you, Jack?" she asked gently. "N--no, I don't suppose I should, not quite so much, because then I could sell my pictures, and make lots of money for you and mother. Then we could live in a lovely place in the country, and keep a carriage." "And you could go to drive every day," added Betty, falling in at once with Jack's fancy, "and mother could have a fine piano, and go to hear all the concerts and operas. Then we could give money to poor people instead of having people want to give it to us, and I could be very accomplished, and go to parties sometimes." "Yes," said Jack eagerly, "and some time we could all go to England, and see the place where mother used to live." Betty looked a little doubtful. "I don't know whether mother would like that or not," she said. "You see, when mother lived there she knew father, and now he's dead. It might make her feel badly to go back." "So it might; I never thought about that, but she might like to see Uncle Jack. I should like to see him, shouldn't you, Betty?" "Yes; I wonder if we ever shall. Mother doesn't like to have us talk much about him, but I know she loves him very much; her eyes always look that way when she tells us how handsome and splendid he used to be when he was a boy." "Wouldn't it be nice if Winifred Hamilton came to see us this afternoon," Jack remarked rather irrelevantly; "I do like her very much, don't you?" "Yes, she's lovely; she said she'd come to see you some day." "We haven't seen her since the day we went for the drive. Perhaps she's waiting for you to call on her first." "Mother won't let me go," said Betty regretfully; "she says she's afraid Mrs. Hamilton might not want Winifred to know us." "But if she hadn't wanted to know us she wouldn't have taken us to drive, would she?" "I shouldn't think so, but, any way, mother won't let me go there till Winifred has been here." "There's the clock striking four," exclaimed Jack joyfully; "mother'll be in in a few minutes now. Why don't you light the gas stove, Betty, and get her slippers nice and warm? She'll be so tired and wet." "I will," said Betty, springing up with alacrity; "and I'll make her a cup of tea, too; she'll like that." And away bustled the little housewife, disappointment and vexation alike forgotten in the pleasant prospect of making mother comfortable. She had scarcely finished her preparations, and the kettle was just beginning to boil, when the familiar ring was heard, and she flew to open the door. Jack was quite correct in his predictions; Mrs. Randall was both wet and tired. Indeed, she came in looking so much more tired than usual that Betty noticed it, and inquired anxiously as she hung up the dripping umbrella, and helped her mother off with her waterproof, "Have you got a headache, mother, dear?" "Yes, dear, I have a bad headache. My cold is rather bad, too; I have been coughing a great deal to-day. Is Jack all right?" "Oh, yes; he ate a good lunch, and was reading all the morning, and drawing pictures all the afternoon." "How chilly it feels here," Mrs. Randall said, shivering and coughing as she spoke. "I've lighted the stove, and your slippers are nice and warm," said Betty proudly. "The kettle's boiling too, and I'll have a nice cup of tea for you in five minutes." Mrs. Randall's tired face brightened, and she looked rather relieved. "That is good," she said. "Hurry as quickly as you can with the tea, dear, for I believe I am really chilled through." Betty, nothing loath, flew about like a small whirlwind; had her mother's wet shoes off and the warm slippers in their place; drew the comfortable armchair as near as possible to the steam radiator, and darted away to the kitchen, from whence she returned in a twinkling, with a cup of steaming tea. Mrs. Randall drank the tea, but though she pronounced it delicious, and declared herself ever so much better, she still shivered, and cowered over the radiator for warmth. Jack watched her anxiously, with a troubled look on his pale little face. In a little while Mrs. Randall rose. "I think I will go and lie down," she said, and the children noticed that her voice was very hoarse. "My head is bad, and if I could sleep for half an hour I might be all right. Be sure and call me in time to get dinner, Betty." "I hope mother isn't going to be ill," said Jack anxiously, when they were once more alone together. "Oh, I guess not," said cheerful Betty; "she's only got a cold and a headache. She'll be better after she's rested. Let's play a game of lotto." Jack assented, but though they played several games, and Betty did her best to be entertaining, the troubled expression did not leave his face. Suddenly he stopped short in the middle of a game. "Hear mother coughing, Betty; she can't be asleep. I wish you'd go and see if she wants anything." Betty rose promptly, and hurried into the little bedroom. Her mother was lying on her bed, with flushed cheeks and wide-open eyes. At sight of her little girl she smiled faintly. "I'm getting nice and warm now, dear," she said; "that tea did me so much good. I'm going to get up very soon." "You look ever so much better," said Betty in a tone of decided relief. "You've got a lovely color in your cheeks." Mrs. Randall pressed her hand to her forehead, but said nothing, and next moment a violent spasm of coughing shook her from head to foot. The evening that followed was a decidedly uncomfortable one. Mrs. Randall's cough was very painful, and although she went about as usual, and tried to appear like herself, it was easy to see that every movement cost her an effort. Betty noticed that she scarcely tasted any dinner, and Jack's eyes never left her face. Almost as soon as dinner was over Jack said he was tired, and would like to go to bed. The others soon followed, and by nine o'clock the lights were out, and the little family settled for the night. But there was little sleep for at least two members of the household. Mrs. Randall coughed incessantly, and tossed from side to side in feverish restlessness. Betty lay with wide-open eyes, and a heavier heart than she had ever known before. It was all very well to assure Jack that there was not much the matter with mother, and that she would surely be all right in the morning. She knew nothing about illness, but she could not help thinking that that dreadful cough and those burning hands meant something more than an every-day cold. "I am afraid I am disturbing you very much, dear," Mrs. Randall said at last, when the clock struck ten, and a restless movement on Betty's part assured her that the child was still wide awake. "I wish I could be quieter, but this cough----" "Never mind, mother, I'm not one bit sleepy. I'm really not. Wouldn't you like to have me get you some water or something?" "No, thank you, darling; I'm afraid it wouldn't do any good, but if you are not asleep I should like to talk to you a little." Betty took one of the hot hands in both her little cool ones, and patted it gently. After another fit of coughing, her mother went on. "You are only a little girl, Betty, but you are very sensible, and in many ways seem older than you really are. There are some things that I think you ought to know about, in case anything should ever happen to me." "But nothing is going to happen, is it, mother?" Betty asked in a rather frightened whisper. They both spoke in whispers, so as not to disturb Jack in the next room. "No, no, dear, of course not; I only said 'in case.' I am sure I shall be all right in the morning, but if at any time I should be ill, Betty--if anything serious were to happen to me--you and Jack would be all alone." Betty nestled closer to her mother's side, and softly kissed the hot fingers. "I sometimes fear, dear, that I have done wrong in not making more friends," Mrs. Randall said, after another fit of coughing. "People would have been kind I dare say, but I have always been so proud and reserved. Some of the families where I teach would have been friendly if I had let them. I almost wish now that I had." "Mrs. Hamilton is very kind," said Betty eagerly; "and she came to see you." "Yes, dear, and I liked her too, but I have always so dreaded being patronized. You know, dear, that I haven't always been poor." "Yes, mother, I know; you were not poor in England." "I have often told you about my English home, and about your Uncle Jack, and how happy we were together when we were children. I have been thinking a great deal of those times this evening, and all last night I dreamed of Jack." "He was your twin brother, wasn't he, mother?" "Yes; and we were everything to each other. Our mother died when we were babies, and our two sisters were much older, almost grown up in fact, while we were still little children. I suppose my father loved us in his way, but he was very stern, and we were all rather afraid of him. Our older sisters were very good to us little ones, but they had their own affairs to think of, and so Jack and I were left a good deal to ourselves. Such merry times as we had--such pranks as we played." "You mean the time when Uncle Jack rode the wild colt, and the day you climbed the plum tree, and fell and broke your arm," said Betty, glad to have her mother's thoughts turn in this direction, and hopeful of new stories. "Yes, those and many others, but, Betty dear, I want to talk to you about something else to-night. You have never heard very much about your father, have you, darling?" "No, mother," said Betty softly; "I know you don't like to talk about him." "I ought to like it, but I loved him so dearly that for a long time after his death I could not bring myself to mention his name to any one, even my own children." "Did Uncle Jack love him too?" Betty asked rather timidly; "you said you always liked the same things." "They never met. Jack was at college when your father first came into our neighborhood. He came to visit at the vicarage; Mr. Marvyn, our vicar, had known his father. By that time both my sisters were married, and as I was often lonely at home when Jack was away, I got into the habit of spending a good many days with the Marvyn girls, who were about my own age. Your father was only a poor artist, but he was very clever, and people said he would make his mark in the world some day. Jack was very fond of sketching himself, and I think that was one reason why I first began to be interested in your father. We used to go off on sketching expeditions together that spring, and we grew to know each other very well. Jack was invited to spend his summer vacation in Switzerland with a party of friends, and he decided to go. It was the first vacation he had not spent with me, and I think I was more hurt and jealous than I had any right to be under the circumstances. I wrote him how I felt, and he, as was only natural, thought me silly, and told me so. That made me angry, and we quarreled for the first time in our lives. It was only a foolish little quarrel, but it kept me from telling him, as I should otherwise have done, how much I was going about with Archie Randall. "At first my father did not seem to notice how things were going, but I think some one must have warned him, for one day when I came back from a long walk with your father, he called me into his study, and told me he did not wish me to have anything more to do with young Randall, who was only a penniless artist, and not a proper companion for one of his daughters. "I am not going to tell you about that time, Betty. I was very angry, and I am afraid I did not behave very well towards my father, who was an old man, and who I think really loved me. When he found that I would not obey him, he sent for Archie, and forbade him to see me again. Then all at once your father and I found out how much we cared for each other. He was very honorable. He wanted me to wait for him while he went away and made a name for himself, but I was young and headstrong, and I loved him better than anything else in the world. The end of it was that we ran away, and were married in London by special license." Betty gasped. This was the most interesting, romantic story she had ever heard. "And didn't your father ever forgive you?" she questioned breathlessly. "No, never. He wrote me one letter after my marriage, and only one. He said that I had disgraced my family, and he never wished to see my face again. He said he had changed his will, and that neither I nor my husband should ever inherit a penny of his money." "And Uncle Jack, was he angry too?" "He wrote me only once. He was very much grieved, and could not understand how I could have acted as I had done. That was twelve years ago and I have never heard a word from him since. "We came to America, and after a time your father obtained employment as an illustrator for a publishing firm here in New York. Then you and Jack were born. We were very happy in those days, and if it had not been for my longing to see Jack and know that he forgave me, I should have been quite content. I was too proud to write to him, but kept hoping that something would happen to bring us together again, and that he and my husband might become good friends. Then, six years ago, just as we were beginning to feel that we were really making our way in the world, your father died." Mrs. Randall paused, and Betty felt the hand she held quiver convulsively, but after a moment's pause she went on again. "It was a terrible struggle at first. I had never been brought up to support myself, and now I was left alone in the world with two little helpless children to care for. Little Jack was frightfully delicate. The doctors told me that it was only by the very tenderest care that I could hope to save him. Twice I decided to write to my brother Jack. He would help me, I knew. I even wrote the letters, but I tore them up again. I was too proud. I could not ask for help even from him. "My music was my only talent, and in time I succeeded in procuring pupils. It has been hard work ever since, but I have managed somehow, and you and Jack have never suffered." "No, indeed, we haven't, mother; we've had lots of good times, and Jack is ever so much stronger than he used to be." "I know that, and I am very thankful. If I can only keep my health--I have always been very strong. Why, I don't think I have ever been really ill in my life." A spasm of coughing interrupted Mrs. Randall's words, and it was several minutes before she was able to speak again. "I don't know why I am telling you all this to-night, Betty, unless it is that I feel so restless and wakeful. If I keep well everything will be all right, but if anything should ever happen--things do happen sometimes you know, darling--if you and Jack are ever left alone in the world, then you must try to find your Uncle Jack. He will be good to you and love you for my sake, I know." "Where does he live, mother?" "I don't know where he is now, but a letter sent to the old home would probably reach him. My father has been dead for nearly two years--I saw the notice of his death in an English newspaper--and Jack, as his only son, would naturally inherit everything. My father was a general, you know--General Stanhope. In my desk you will find a letter addressed to John Stanhope, Esq., Stonybrook Grange, Devonshire, England. That is the address of my old home. You must see that it is stamped and posted. I wrote it shortly after my father's death. I thought that I ought to make some provision in case of anything happening to me. In it I have told him everything, and asked him to care for you and Jack. Why, my darling, what are you crying for? I didn't say anything was going to happen. Hush, I hear Jack stirring; I am afraid our talk is disturbing him. Now turn over like a good little girl, and go to sleep. I feel better than I did, and I shall try to go to sleep too." Betty, much reassured by her mother's words, obeyed as far as turning over was concerned, and soon the only sounds to be heard were the ticking of the clock and Mrs. Randall's heavy breathing. Betty lay awake for some time, thinking over the story she had heard, but she was only a little girl, after all, and before very long her thoughts grew dim and confused; she fell into a doze, and in a few moments more was fast asleep. CHAPTER V WINIFRED TO THE RESCUE When Betty next opened her eyes it was broad daylight, and the morning sunshine was peeping through the chinks of the shutters. Her first thought was of her mother, and she was glad to find that Mrs. Randall was still asleep. She was breathing heavily, but her eyes were closed, and she did not cough. Even when Betty rose softly, and crept round to the other side of the bed to look at her more closely, she did not move, although she was as a rule a very light sleeper. "It's after seven," said Betty to herself, glancing rather uneasily at the clock; "I don't think mother ever slept so late before." Just then she heard Jack stirring in his bed, and she hurried into the next room to tell him to be very quiet, as mother was still asleep. "Is she better?" Jack inquired in an anxious whisper, as Betty bent over him in motherly fashion, to arrange his pillows more comfortably. "Yes, I think so; her eyes are shut, and she's lying very still. I only just woke up myself." "I've been awake for ever so long," said Jack; "I've been listening to mother. She doesn't cough so much any more, but she breathes so hard, and sometimes she moans. Oh, Betty, I'm frightened; I don't know why, but I am." And the poor little fellow buried his face in the pillow, and began to cry. Betty dropped on her knees by the bedside, striving to comfort her little brother by every means in her power. "There isn't anything to be frightened about, Jack, there really isn't," she whispered soothingly. "Mother's all right; she told me she was better last night before she went to sleep, and, oh, Jack dear, she told me something else; such an interesting story, all about father and our grandfather and Uncle Jack. I'll tell you all of it by and by. There's mother calling me; don't let her see you've been crying." Mrs. Randall's eyes were open when Betty returned to her bedside. Indeed, the little girl's first impression was that they were unusually bright. There was a bright color in her cheeks too, but Mrs. Randall's first words quickly dispelled Betty's hope that she was better. "I'm afraid I shall not be able to get up this morning, Betty," she said, and her voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper now; "I seem to have lost all my strength, and there is such a terrible pain in my chest that I can scarcely breathe." "Oh, mother, what shall we do?" cried Betty in sudden consternation. "Oughtn't you to have a doctor come to see you?" Mrs. Randall shook her head decidedly. "No, no," she said impatiently, "I can't afford to have a doctor; I will lie here for a while, and perhaps I shall feel better. What day is it?" "Thursday," said Betty, trying to control the sudden trembling of her knees. "That's too bad; Mrs. Flynn is always engaged on Thursdays, I know. I thought she might be able to come in and help. Well, you'll have to manage about breakfast as well as you can. I don't want anything myself, but you must prepare some oatmeal, and boil some eggs for Jack and yourself. Tell Jack he must stay in bed a little while longer, but that just as soon as I can I will come and dress him." That was the strangest morning Betty and Jack had ever spent. Never before in their remembrance had their mother failed to be up and about by seven o'clock. Even in those sad days, which Betty could just remember, after their father's death, her own grief had never prevented her from fulfilling the little household duties. Now she lay still, with closed eyes, scarcely noticing what went on about her. Betty brought her some tea, and she drank it thirstily, but refused to touch any food. Once she roused herself sufficiently to say that she thought a mustard plaster on her chest might ease the pain, but when Betty inquired anxiously how to make one, she did not answer, and seemed to have forgotten all about the matter. Jack was very good and patient, but he was, if anything, more frightened than Betty, and his white, drawn little face was pitiful to see. Betty made him as tidy as she could, gave him his breakfast, and brought him his new story book to read, but he shook his head mournfully. "I don't want to read this morning," he said; "I'd rather just lie still." "Oh, Jack, you're not going to be ill too, are you?" cried Betty, the tears starting to her eyes. "No, I'm not ill, only I can't read; I wish I could see how mother looks." "She looks all right," said Betty encouragingly; "she's got a lovely color in her cheeks, only I wish she'd wake up and talk about things. I don't know what to do about going to market, and I suppose we ought to tell her pupils she can't give them any lessons to-day." "She's talking now, I hear her," said Jack in a tone of relief. "Oh, Betty, she's calling me. Yes, mother, dear, I'm all right; I'm so glad you're better." Betty flew to her mother's side. "Are you better, mother?" she asked eagerly. "I'm so glad you're awake, because I want to ask----" She paused abruptly, terrified by the strange look in those bright, feverish eyes. Her mother was looking straight into her face, but did not seem to see her. "Jack, Jack," she kept repeating in her low, hoarse whisper, "Jack, I want you. I did wrong, I know, but you will forgive me. You will be good to the children, and love them for my sake, won't you, Jack?" Betty's face was very white, her eyes big with terror. "Jack," she gasped, running back to her brother's room, and flinging herself down beside him in an abandonment of grief and despair, "mother's talking in her sleep; she doesn't know what she's saying. She thinks Uncle Jack is here. Oh, what shall we do--what shall we do?" "We'll have to get some one to come and see her," said Jack with decision. "Run down and ask Mrs. Hamilton to come; I know she will, she's so kind." Betty sprang to her feet. "I'll go right away," she said, "perhaps she'll know what to do. Mother says she can't afford to have a doctor. Oh, there's the door bell; I'm so glad somebody's come." She ran to the door, threw it open, and then drew back a step in surprise. The visitor was Winifred Hamilton. "Good-morning," said Winifred pleasantly. "Mother's gone out shopping with Aunt Estelle, and she said I might come and see you and Jack. I was coming before, but I've had a bad cold ever since Saturday, and mother was afraid of the draughts on the stairs. I haven't been to school all the week. Why, what's the matter--is Jack ill?" "No," said Betty; "Jack's all right, but oh, I'm so sorry your mother's gone out. I was just going to ask her if she wouldn't please come up here to see mother." "Is there something the matter with your mother?" Winifred inquired sympathetically. "She had a bad cold yesterday, and this morning she's worse. She keeps her eyes shut most of the time, and doesn't understand the things I say to her. I'm afraid she is very ill--oh, I'm afraid she is." And Betty burst into tears. Winifred's tender little heart was filled with compassion. "Don't cry, don't," she whispered, throwing her arms impulsively around Betty's neck; "maybe she'll be all right soon. I'll tell mother about it the minute she comes in, and she'll come right up. Do you think Jack would like to have me stay with him for a while? I might read to him while you're doing things for your mother." Betty said she was sure Jack would like it very much, and having dried her eyes on Winifred's handkerchief, she led the way to her brother's bedside. "Jack," said Betty softly, "here's Winifred Hamilton. Her mother's out, but she's going to tell her about mother just as soon as she comes home." Jack looked pleased. "I'm glad to see you," he said politely, holding out his thin little hand. "I'm usually up on the sofa by this time, but mother wasn't able to dress me this morning." "That's all right," said Winifred, giving the outstretched hand a hearty squeeze. "When people aren't very strong they often stay in bed quite late, you know. Your mother's awake now, isn't she, Betty? I hear her talking." Betty stole on tiptoe to her mother's door, but returned in a moment. "She's only talking in her sleep," she said anxiously. "I spoke to her, but she didn't answer. Did you ever see any one who was very ill, Winifred?" "I saw Mr. Bradford have an attack once," said Winifred; "his eyes were shut, and he looked very white. Mrs. Bradford sent for the doctor. Why don't you have a doctor come to see your mother?" "She doesn't want one," said Betty, coloring. "I asked her this morning, and she said she didn't. Would you mind coming to look at her, Winifred? Perhaps you can tell what the matter is." Winifred said she would not mind, and, hand in hand, the two little girls stole into the dark little bedroom, and stood looking down at the flushed face on the pillow. Mrs. Randall was tossing restlessly from side to side, and talking in a low, incoherent way. "Mother," said Betty in a voice that she tried hard to make steady and cheerful, "here's Winifred Hamilton. She came up to see us, and she's going to read to Jack." Mrs. Randall muttered something unintelligible, and her eyes wandered past the two children, and fixed themselves vacantly on the opposite wall. "I'm not going to be ill," she said, apparently addressing some unseen person; "I can't be ill, you know. I must take care of the children; there's no one else to do it." "She's delirious," whispered Winifred, looking frightened. "I never saw any one like that before, but I've read about it in books. I'm sure a doctor ought to see her." Betty's cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes drooped, but she said nothing, and in silence they went back to Jack. The little boy looked imploringly at Winifred, as if with some faint hope that she might be able to set matters right. "Do you think she's very ill?" he asked tremulously. "I think a doctor ought to see her," said Winifred decidedly. "My friend Lulu Bell's papa is a doctor, and he's very kind. Would you like to have me ask him to come and see your mother?" "No," said Betty sharply; "mother doesn't want a doctor; I told you so before." "But, Betty," persisted Winifred, "she ought to have some medicine or something, and we don't know what to do for her. I know mother would send for a doctor right away if she were at home." To Winifred's surprise, Betty suddenly put up both hands before her face, and burst into a passion of crying. "Oh, what shall we do--what shall we do?" she sobbed, rocking herself backward and forward in her distress; "we can't have a doctor, mother said we couldn't; she said we couldn't afford it." For a moment Winifred stood motionless, uncertain what to do or say. Jack hid his face in the bedclothes, shaking from head to foot with sobs. Next instant both Winifred's arms were around Betty's neck. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Betty," she whispered eagerly. "I'll go and see Dr. Bell myself, and tell him all about it. He's very kind indeed. Lulu says he often goes to see poor--I mean people who can't afford to pay him, and when Lulu's kitty got run over by a trolley-car and had her leg broken, he set the leg himself, and took such good care of the kitty that she got all well again. I'll go right away; he's always at home in the morning, and I know he won't mind coming one single bit. Oh, Betty, please, please do let me." Betty wavered, but Jack, lifting his tear-stained face from the pillow, cried imploringly: "Yes, do go, Winifred, and, oh, please ask him to come right away. Mother must have a doctor, Betty, and it doesn't matter whether she can afford it or not." Winifred waited to hear no more. Three minutes later she was ringing violently at her own front door bell. "Oh, Lizzie," she cried breathlessly, as the maid opened the door, "I want you to put on your hat right away, and come with me to Dr. Bell's! Mrs. Randall is very, very ill, and Betty and Jack don't know what to do for her." At first Lizzie seemed inclined to hesitate, but when the state of the case had been more fully explained to her, she willingly consented to leave her ironing, and she and Winifred were soon in the street hurrying towards the home of Winifred's friends. As they approached their destination, Winifred's courage began to fail. After all, she thought, she might be doing a very bold and unheard-of thing in asking a doctor to go to see a person who had frankly stated that she could not afford to employ him. What if Dr. Bell were angry--what if he refused to go? Winifred's heart sank at the thought. Her friend Lulu would be at school she knew, but possibly her mother or aunt might be at home. Winifred decided that in that case she would tell her story to them. It would be much less formidable than appealing directly to the doctor himself. Her heart was beating very fast as they mounted Dr. Bell's front steps and when the door was opened by a small boy in brass buttons, who greeted her with a broad smile of recognition, she could scarcely summon voice enough to inquire: "Are Mrs. Bell or Miss Warren at home, Jimmie?" "No, Miss, they've both of 'em gone out," returned the boy, regarding her somewhat curiously. "Miss Lulu's out too; she's gone to school." "Yes, I knew Lulu would be at school," said Winifred, "but I thought Mrs. Bell or Miss Warren might be in. I--I want to see the doctor." "Oh, the doctor's in all right. He's got a patient just now, but you can wait in the front office." There was no help for it then, and, with a little frightened gasp, Winifred followed the boy to the doctor's comfortable office, where she sat down on a sofa to wait until he should be disengaged. She did not have long to wait. In a few moments she heard the front door open and close. Then the door of the waiting room opened and the doctor came in. He was a tall gentleman with a kind, pleasant face, and at sight of Winifred he came quickly forward, smiling and holding out his hand. "Good-morning, little Miss Winnie," he said pleasantly, "and what can I do for you to-day? Nothing wrong at home, I hope." "Oh, no, sir," said Winifred, half her fears vanishing at the sound of the doctor's kind voice; "father and mother are very well. I've had a cold, but I'm all right again now. I come--that is, I want--oh, Dr. Bell, will you please do me a very great favor?" "Do you a favor?" the doctor repeated, still smiling, and sitting down beside her on the sofa. "Yes indeed, I will--that is, if I can. What is it?" "It's to go and see Mrs. Randall, who lives in our apartment house," Winifred explained timidly. "She's a very nice lady, but she hasn't any money to pay a doctor with. She's very ill indeed, but she told Betty--that's her little girl, you know--not to send for a doctor, because she couldn't afford it." The doctor looked a little puzzled. "Perhaps she wouldn't care to see me then," he said, "if she objected to having a doctor sent for." "Oh, yes, she would," said Winifred earnestly, "at least she wouldn't know anything about it, and Betty and Jack would be so very glad. Jack is a cripple, he can't walk at all; and, oh, it's dreadful to see him so unhappy. Mrs. Randall is really very ill. She doesn't know Betty and she keeps talking to herself the way people in books do when they're delirious. "I said I'd come and tell you about it, and I was sure you'd come, because Lulu says you're so very kind." The doctor smiled, but he was beginning to look really interested. "Did your mother send you for me?" he asked. Winifred's eyes sank. "N--no, sir," she faltered, "mother's out shopping, and doesn't know anything about it. Perhaps I oughtn't to have come, but I didn't know what else to do, and I was so very sorry for Betty and Jack." Winifred's lip quivered, and two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. The doctor patted her shoulder kindly. "You did quite right to come," he said, "and I will go to see your friend to-day." "Will you please go just as soon as you can?" Winifred asked eagerly. The doctor rose and looked at his watch. "It is half-past ten now," he said. "I have to stay in my office till eleven, and then I have one or two serious cases to see, but I will be at Mrs. Randall's as early as I possibly can." "Now run along home, and if your mother makes any objections, tell her I said you did quite right to come, and that I am very glad you did." "Oh, thank you, sir, thank you very much indeed," said Winifred gratefully, and the look she gave the doctor said more than any words could have done. With a sudden impulse, he bent and kissed her. "You dear little girl," he said. And then another patient was announced, and Winifred hurried away. CHAPTER VI FRIENDS IN NEED By the time Dr. Bell arrived at the apartment house Betty and Jack were no longer alone with their mother. Mrs. Hamilton had returned from her shopping expedition, and as soon as she heard the story from Winifred, had hastened upstairs to see what could be done. One glance at the flushed face and bright burning eyes, had been enough to convince her that Winifred had not exaggerated matters and that Mrs. Randall was indeed very ill. As for Betty, at the first glimpse of Mrs. Hamilton's kind, sweet face it had seemed to the little girl as though a great load had been suddenly lifted from her shoulders. Mrs. Hamilton did not waste much time in words, but at once set about the task of making everybody more comfortable. In an incredibly short time Mrs. Randall's face and hands were bathed, and her bed smoothed; Jack was dressed in his wrapper, and carried to his usual place on the sitting-room sofa, and a substantial meal was in preparation in the kitchen. When the doctor came, Mrs. Hamilton sent Betty to stay with Jack, and the two children sat silently, hand in hand, listening for any sounds that might come from their mother's room. "Do you think the doctor will make her well right away, Betty?" Jack whispered at last. "I guess he will if he can. He's got a very kind face, and he smiled at me when I opened the door. Hark, they're coming out now." Next moment Mrs. Hamilton and the doctor came into the room together. They both looked grave and anxious. "She must have a nurse," Betty heard the doctor say in a low voice. "I will send one as soon as I can, and be in again myself this evening. You will stay with her till the nurse arrives?" "Oh, yes, certainly; and the children, what of them?" The doctor glanced for the first time towards the sofa where the two children sat, Jack propped up with pillows, and Betty close beside him, holding his hand. He remembered what Winifred had said about the little crippled boy, and his face softened. "We must see about them by and by," he said, "and in the meantime I think we can count on their keeping quiet." "Oh, yes, sir," said Betty eagerly; "Jack is always very quiet indeed, and I won't make any noise." "That's right. You are both going to be brave little people, I know, and perhaps by and by you may like to go and make a little visit to some of your friends, just until your mother gets stronger." "We haven't any friends," said Betty; "we don't know any one at all, except Mrs. Hamilton and Winifred." The doctor looked surprised, and a little troubled. "No friends?" he repeated; "no aunts or cousins?" Betty shook her head. "We have an uncle in England," she said, "but we've never seen him. We haven't any relations in this country. Mother has her pupils, but we don't know any of them." The doctor said no more, and was turning to leave the room, when Jack spoke for the first time since his entrance. "Please, sir," he said tremulously, "would you mind telling us--is mother going to be well again pretty soon?" "Pretty soon I hope, my boy," said the doctor kindly, and coming over to the sofa, he took the thin little hand in his and looked long and earnestly into Jack's troubled face. "I shall do all I can to make her well soon, you may be sure of that." "Thank you, sir," said Jack gratefully. "I think you are a very kind gentleman," he added in his quaint, old-fashioned little way. The doctor smiled, gave the small hand a friendly shake and hurried away, followed by Mrs. Hamilton. That was about the longest afternoon Betty and Jack had ever known. Mrs. Hamilton was very kind, but she was too busy to pay much attention to them, and they were left pretty much to themselves. There was no use in trying to read or to play games. They tried lotto, but it proved a miserable failure. Then Betty tried reading aloud, but a big lump kept rising in her throat and choking her, and they soon gave that up as well. After all, the most comforting thing seemed to sit hand in hand, talking in whispers, and listening to every sound from the sick-room. At about four o'clock there was a ring at the bell, and Betty, hurrying to admit the visitor, encountered in the hall a tall young woman, with a bright, sensible face, who carried a traveling bag, and who Mrs. Hamilton told her was the nurse Dr. Bell had promised to send. After that there was a good deal of whispering and moving about, but no one came near the children, and the time seemed very long indeed. It was nearly dark when the doctor came again. The children heard his voice in the hall, and after a little while he and Mrs. Hamilton came into the sitting room together, and Mrs. Hamilton lighted the gas. "You poor little things," she said cheerfully, "what a long, lonely afternoon you have had. They've been as quiet as little mice, doctor, and I feel sure Betty is going to be a great help to Miss Clark. As for Jack, he is going to be a good, brave little boy, and let Winifred and me take care of him till his mother gets well again." She bent over the sofa as she spoke, and softly kissed Jack's forehead. He looked up in her face rather apprehensively, and his lip trembled. "You're very kind indeed," he said politely, "but if you please, I'd rather stay with mother. I'll be very good." "I know you will be good, dear; but, you see, there isn't very much room here. Betty will have to sleep in your bed, and then there is Miss Clark, you know. So I want you to be a very good boy, and come home with me. Betty shall come down to see you the first thing in the morning, and you and Winifred will have such good times together." Jack began to cry. "I'd rather not, indeed, I would much rather not," he sobbed; "I've never been away from mother and Betty at night. Mother always puts me to bed." Mrs. Hamilton looked distressed and rather helpless, but the doctor came to the rescue. "Jack," he said pleasantly, sitting down beside the little boy, "what would you like to be when you grow up?" "An artist," said Jack promptly, and in his surprise at the question he forgot to cry. "My father was an artist, and I want to be one too. My grandfather was a general, and I'd like to be a soldier, but I couldn't, you know, on account of not being able to walk." "I don't know about that," said the doctor, smiling; "fighting isn't the only part of a soldier's duty, you know. Wouldn't you like to begin by being a brave little soldier boy now?" "How could I?" Jack inquired wonderingly. "Well, one very important part of a soldier's duty is to obey orders. Now we know that you want to stay here with your mother and Betty, but we feel that it will be much better for you to go home with Mrs. Hamilton, who has very kindly offered to take you with her. Betty can be a great help to Miss Clark, the nurse, if she stays here. You would like to do something to help your mother get well, wouldn't you?" "Yes, of course I would," said Jack, with a brightening face. "Well, the very best thing you can possibly do for her at this moment is to obey Mrs. Hamilton, and let me carry you downstairs to her rooms." Jack was silent for a moment; his face was twitching, and he clasped and unclasped his hands nervously. Then he looked up into the doctor's face. "All right," he said bravely, "I'll go, only--only, may I kiss mother good-night first?" "Your mother is asleep now, but you may look at her if you like. She is more comfortable than she was this morning. Shall I take you in to have a peep at her?" Jack nodded--he was finding it rather hard work to speak just then--and the doctor lifted him in his arms and carried him into the bedroom. Mrs. Randall was lying with closed eyes, still breathing heavily, but no longer talking in that strange, incoherent way that had frightened Betty so much in the morning. Miss Clark, in her nurse's uniform, sat at the foot of the bed. "Good-night, mother," Jack whispered very softly, and he kissed his hand to the motionless figure on the bed. "I'll be a good boy. Good-night and pleasant dreams." The nurse rose, and, at a sign from Dr. Bell, followed them out of the room. "This is Miss Clark, Jack," the doctor said; "she is taking splendid care of your mother." "Thank you very much," said Jack, trying to smile. "Won't you please be a little kind to Betty too? I think she'll miss me." "That I will, dear," said the nurse heartily; and then she turned away hurriedly with a suspicious moisture in her eyes. It cost Betty a great effort to see her little brother carried away from her, and she clung to him passionately for a moment, feeling half inclined to protest against such a strange state of affairs. But she was a sensible little woman, and realizing the necessity in this case, she forced a smile, and the last words that Jack heard as the doctor carried him downstairs were Betty's cheerful assurances that she should take good care of mother, and come to see him the very first thing in the morning. It was no easy task for Jack to keep back the tears, but he did keep them back, though he had to bite his lip and to wink very hard indeed in order to do it. Dr. Bell did not fail to notice the effort, and he found himself beginning to like this small boy immensely. Winifred was watching for them at the open door, and she gave Jack such a rapturous greeting that it would have been impossible not to feel gratified by it. Almost before he realized what had happened, Jack found himself settled on a comfortable sofa, with Winifred hovering over him, and Mrs. Hamilton and Lizzie bustling about completing the arrangements for his comfort. "And now I must say good-night, my little soldier," Dr. Bell said, taking Jack's hand as he spoke. "I shall come to see your mother again in the morning, and I have an idea that you and I are going to be great friends. By the way, how long is it that you have been laid up like this?" "Ever since I was a baby," said Jack. "My nurse let me fall, and it hurt my back." The doctor said nothing, but looked interested, and when he followed Mrs. Hamilton out of the room a few moments later he asked her how long she had known the Randall family. "I never spoke to them until last week," said Mrs. Hamilton, and in a few words she told the story of Winifred's Thank Offering. The doctor looked considerably surprised. "Do you mean to tell me that they are almost total strangers to you, and yet that you are willing to take all this trouble for them?" Mrs. Hamilton smiled. "People learn to help each other where I have lived," she said simply; "and besides, I am so happy myself now that I think I feel a little as Winifred does, and should like to make a Thank Offering too." "I wish there were more people in the world like you and Winifred," said the doctor heartily. "I am sure it would be a better place than it is if there were." * * * * * An hour later Jack was lying in a soft bed in the little room opening out of Winifred's. Mrs. Hamilton had undressed him almost as tenderly as his mother could have done; had heard him say his prayers, and when at last she had bent down to give him a good-night kiss, Jack's warm little heart had overflowed, and he had suddenly thrown his arms around her neck. "I love you," he whispered softly; "oh, I do love you very much." But when Mrs. Hamilton had turned down the gas and gone away, and Jack found himself alone in this strange room, away from his mother and Betty, he began to feel very lonely. There was no one to see the tears now, and he let them have their own way at last. He tried to cry very softly, so as not to disturb Winifred in the next room, but in spite of all his efforts the choking sobs would come. Suddenly the door creaked slightly, there was a patter of bare feet on the carpet, and a sweet little voice whispered close at his side: "Are you asleep, Jack?" "No," said Jack, speaking in a rather muffled voice, for he had been trying to stifle his sobs by burying his head in the pillow, "I haven't gone to sleep yet, but I guess I shall pretty soon." "I just came to ask if you would like to have one of the children for company. I know boys don't care much about dolls generally, but they are very comforting sometimes, especially when people don't feel quite happy, and I thought you might possibly like Lord Fauntleroy, because he's a boy too, you know." "You are very kind," said Jack gratefully; "I should like it. I never do play with dolls--boys don't, you know, but a boy doll--well, that seems a little different, doesn't it?" "Of course it does," said Winifred confidently. "Just wait a minute, and I'll bring him." She darted away into her own room, returning in a moment with Lord Fauntleroy in her arms. "I'll put him right here on the pillow beside you," she said, "and if you should feel lonely, you can just put out your hand and touch him. There isn't anything to be lonely for really, you know, because father and mother are in the parlor, and I'm right here in the next room, but people do sometimes feel a little queer in the dark, especially if they're not used to it. Lulu Bell doesn't like the dark a bit, and she was ten last December. Now I guess we'd better not talk any more, because mother said we were to go right to sleep." Whether it was the presence of Lord Fauntleroy or the thought of the kind little girl who had brought him I do not know, but, whatever the cause may have been, Jack did not cry any more that night. He lay awake for a little while thinking about how kind every one was, and then his eyes closed, and he fell into a sound sleep from which he did not wake till morning. CHAPTER VII A CHANCE FOR JACK For several days Mrs. Randall was very ill, much worse than Jack ever knew, for no one had the heart to tell him of the anxiety that was filling their minds to the exclusion of almost every other thought. Even Betty had always a bright smile and a cheerful assurance for her little brother that mother would soon be better, no matter how heavy her poor little heart might be. It was impossible to help loving the sweet-tempered, gentle little cripple, and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton soon found themselves growing very fond of their guest, while Dr. Bell seldom failed to stop for a word or two with his little soldier boy, as he called him, after each of his visits to the invalid upstairs. As for Winifred, she constituted herself Jack's willing slave, and the two soon became firm friends. They read together, played games together, and finally, as a mark of especial favor, Jack undertook to teach her to draw, an honor which was highly appreciated by the little girl. Lulu Bell, hearing the story from her father, came at once to see the interesting addition to the Hamilton household, and the three children spent a delightful afternoon together, the little girls teaching Jack several new games, and being taught several themselves in return. Betty, coming in for a few moments to see how her brother was getting on, found them all laughing heartily over "My Grandmother's Cat." Jack's eyes were fairly dancing, and there was a brighter tinge of color in his cheeks than she had seen there in many a day. Poor Betty's heart was very heavy that day, and, somehow, the sight of Jack's happiness--a happiness in which she had no share--caused her to feel almost angry, although she could not have told why. It was the first time in his life that Jack had ever enjoyed anything in which his sister had not an equal share. Winifred greeted Betty very kindly, and Jack begged her to stay and join in the fun, but the little girl only shook her head sadly, saying she must go back to her mother, as Miss Clark might need her. "But you'll come back very soon, won't you, Betty?" Jack said a little wistfully, lifting his face for a kiss. "Oh, Betty dear, I am having such a good time; I wish you could stay." [Illustration: Betty found them all laughing heartily over "My Grandmother's Cat."--_Page 94._] "I can't," said Betty shortly, and having kissed her little brother she hurried away, winking hard to keep back the tears. On the stairs she encountered Miss Clark, dressed for her daily walk. "Your mother is asleep," the nurse explained, "and Mrs. Hamilton is going to sit with her till I come back. Don't look so worried, dear, she isn't any worse to-day; indeed, we think she is a little better." Betty tried to smile, but the effort was rather a failure, and when she had reached their own apartment, sat down on Jack's sofa, laying her head down on the cushion on which her little brother's head had so often rested. A few moments later, Mrs. Hamilton, going into the kitchen for something she wanted, was startled by the sound of low, subdued crying. Glancing in at the door of the sitting room she saw Betty lying face downwards on the sofa, her whole frame shaking with sobs. Next instant she was bending over the little figure, softly stroking Betty's tumbled hair. "Betty," she said tenderly, "poor little Betty, what is it?" With a start Betty lifted her face, and somewhat to Mrs. Hamilton's surprise, grew suddenly very red. "It isn't anything," she said, beginning a hasty search for her handkerchief, "only--only, I'm a horrid, wicked girl." "Betty, dear, what do you mean?" Mrs. Hamilton sat down on the sofa and put an arm affectionately around the trembling child. "Don't you know what a great help you have been to Miss Clark and me? Why, I have never seen a more thoughtful, sensible little girl." "I am wicked, though," Betty maintained stoutly; "I'm jealous. I don't like to have Jack so happy without me." Mrs. Hamilton with some difficulty repressed a smile. "Jealousy is a very common fault in all of us, Betty," she said, "but I am sure you wouldn't like it if Jack were unhappy and fretting." "No, oh, no, I shouldn't like that!--but"--with a stifled sob--"he did seem to be having such a good time, and I'm so unhappy and so worried about mother." "I know you are worried about your mother, dear, but we all think her a little better to-day, and Dr. Bell says that if she continues to improve for the next twenty-four hours he hopes she will be out of all danger. And now, Betty, I am going to tell you something that I know you will be glad to hear. It is about Jack." "About Jack?" repeated Betty, beginning to look interested. "Yes, dear. I know how dearly you love your little brother, and how happy it would make you if anything could be done for him--anything to help his illness, I mean." "Oh, Mrs. Hamilton, could anything really----" Betty could say no more, but her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes were more expressive than words. "Dr. Bell was talking to me about Jack last evening," Mrs. Hamilton went on. "He is very much interested in the case, and as soon as your mother is well enough he is going to ask her consent to bring a famous surgeon here to see Jack." Betty was actually trembling with excitement. "And he thinks--he thinks that something might be done, so that Jack would be able to walk like other people?" she gasped. "He thinks something might be tried." "I remember I once heard mother say that when Jack was a baby a doctor told father that if he ever grew strong enough to bear it an operation might be performed. Jack was so delicate for a long time that mother never dared to think of it, but he is much stronger now." "Well," said Mrs. Hamilton, rising, "we won't talk to any one about it just yet, least of all to Jack himself, because, you know, it might amount to nothing, and then think how terribly disappointed he would be. But you and I can talk about it sometimes, and it will be our little secret." "Yes," said Betty eagerly, "and as soon as mother is well enough she shall know too. Oh, Mrs. Hamilton, you have made me so very, very happy I don't know what to do." There was no more jealousy for Betty that day. She went about with a look of such radiant happiness on her face that, when she came to kiss Jack good-night, his first words were an eager exclamation. "Oh, Betty, mother's better; I know she is, or you wouldn't look like that!" The next morning Mrs. Randall really was better, and Dr. Bell came in after his early visit to tell Jack the good news. "You have been a good, brave little soldier," he said kindly, "and in a few more days you will be able to go back to your mother and Betty." "Betty has been much braver, though," said Jack, always eager to sound his sister's praises. "Mrs. Hamilton says she doesn't know what they would have done without Betty." "Yes, indeed, Betty has been a famous little helper. I shall tell your mother she has two little people to be proud of." It was still some days, however, before Jack could go home, or before Mrs. Randall was able fully to understand the state of affairs. At first she was too weak to care much about what went on around her. She would lie with half-closed eyes, only smiling faintly when spoken to, and silently accepting all that was done for her without appearing to think very much about it. But as her strength began to return, cares and anxieties returned too, and one morning, when Mrs. Hamilton went up to relieve Miss Clark for an hour, she found the invalid looking so flushed and distressed that she hastened to inquire, as she took the hand Mrs. Randall held out to her, "Is anything wrong? Are you not feeling as well this morning?" "Oh, yes, I am gaining strength every day," said Mrs. Randall with a sigh, "but, Mrs. Hamilton, how can I ever repay you for all you have done for us? I have been questioning Betty, and she has told me everything." "Now, my dear Mrs. Randall, please don't let us talk about repaying anything," said Mrs. Hamilton cheerfully. "You haven't the least idea of the pleasure your dear little boy has given my Winifred, and as for any little things that I may have been able to do, why, they have given me real pleasure too." "You are very good, very good indeed," Mrs. Randall murmured, "but I can't help worrying a little when I think of all that this illness of mine involves. There are so many expenses to think of; the doctor and the nurse, and other things besides. Miss Clark tells me that it will be several weeks yet before I am able to go back to my work, and it is so near the end of the season." "I told Betty to write to your pupils, telling them of your illness," said Mrs. Hamilton. "We found a list of addresses in your desk. Several notes have come for you, but I was afraid you were not strong enough to see them before. Would you like to read some of them now?" Mrs. Randall said she would, and when she had opened and glanced over the half-dozen notes Mrs. Hamilton brought her, she looked up with tears in her eyes. "People are very good," she said a little unsteadily. "I don't think I ever realized it before, but I have a great deal for which to be thankful." "I don't think we ever do realize what true friendship means until trouble comes," said Mrs. Hamilton gently. "I know I did not until a great sorrow came to me. I now feel that there is no greater happiness in the world than being able to show my friends how much I care for them." The two ladies had a long talk that morning, and grew to know and like each other better than either would have believed possible before. When Mrs. Hamilton had gone back to her own apartment Mrs. Randall called Betty to her side. "Betty, darling," she said, and though there were tears in her eyes, there was a more peaceful expression on her face than the little girl had ever seen there before. "I am afraid I have been a very foolish, selfish mother to you and Jack, but we all make mistakes sometimes, and I am going to try and undo mine as soon as I can. Everybody has been so good it makes me ashamed of my old foolish pride. Mrs. Hamilton has taught me a lesson this morning that I shall never forget. I think she is the best woman I have ever known." That same afternoon Jack came home. Dr. Bell carried him upstairs and laid him on the bed beside his mother. How delightful it was to the little cripple to nestle in his mother's arms once more, and to feel her tender kisses on his face. Neither of them said very much; but their happy faces told the story plainly enough, and the doctor's kind eyes glistened as he turned away rather hurriedly to give some direction to Miss Clark. But after the first few rapturous moments, Jack found his tongue and chattered away, telling of all the pleasant times he had had, and the kind friends he had made, while Mrs. Randall listened; and Betty hovered over them both with such a radiant face that her mother asked her smilingly if she had not something delightful to tell as well as Jack. But Betty only blushed a little and shook her head. She had no intention of disclosing her secret just yet. "Oh, Betty, it is nice to be at home again," said Jack, stretching himself comfortably on the familiar sofa, when Miss Clark had carried him away to the sitting room, leaving Mrs. Randall to rest for a while. "I've had a perfectly lovely time, but I do like home." "You don't love Winifred better than me, do you?" said Betty, with a little twinge of the old jealousy. "Why, Betty, how could I possibly do such a thing as that?" Jack's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "I didn't know," said Betty, hanging her head. "I'm awfully glad you don't." "I love Winifred very much," said Jack slowly, "but then you're my own sister, and of course a person couldn't love another person as much as his own sister. Oh, Betty, you didn't really think I could, did you?" Jack was beginning to look troubled, and Betty, very much ashamed of herself, hastened to reassure him. "No, no, of course I didn't, not really, you know," she said, giving her brother a hearty kiss. "I was silly, that's all, but it's all right now. Isn't it lovely having mother so much better? Miss Clark says she can begin to sit up in a few days, and such nice things have happened. Nearly all mother's pupils have written kind notes, and most of them have sent checks paying up to the end of the term. I don't think mother wanted to take the checks at first, but Mrs. Hamilton talked to her, and she says she's going to try not to mind so much about accepting favors any more. I think there is only just one other thing in the world that could make me happier than I am to-day." "What's that?" Jack inquired. "To have you able to walk," said Betty softly. She turned her head away as she spoke, so that her brother should not see the expression in her eyes. Jack gave a little start, and drew a long, deep breath. "But, Betty," he said almost in a whisper, "that's something that couldn't ever possibly happen, you know. Oh, Betty, dear, please don't talk about it, because you see it's impossible." Suddenly Betty laid her face down beside her brother's on the pillow, with a sob. "Very, very wonderful things do happen sometimes," she whispered, "things that are almost as wonderful as fairy stories. If you ever could be made to walk, Jack, wouldn't you be the very happiest boy in the whole world?" "Of course I should," said Jack with decision, "if it only could happen, but then you know, it couldn't." Betty said no more, but hugged Jack tight, and kissed him a great many times, and then she went away to the kitchen to help Miss Clark get dinner. CHAPTER VIII THE DOCTOR'S VERDICT Miss Clark's prediction proved correct, and in a few days Mrs. Randall was able to sit up, and to be helped into the sunny little parlor, where she sat by Jack's sofa, looking happier and more at rest than the children had ever seen her look before. After that she improved so rapidly that even Dr. Bell was surprised, and declared he had never seen a woman with a finer constitution. At the end of another week Miss Clark went away to another case, and Mrs. Flynn, the good-natured Irishwoman who did the Randalls' washing, was engaged to come in by the day. So the bright spring days came and went, and when the sun was brightest and the air warmest, Jack's pale face would often look a little wistful, but nothing more was said about drives in the park, and Betty, still waiting patiently for leave to reveal her secret, began to wonder if after all Mrs. Hamilton had been mistaken, or Dr. Bell had changed his mind. One Saturday morning in May, Winifred appeared shortly after breakfast, looking pleased and excited, and bringing an invitation for Betty. "It's from Lulu Bell," she explained, when Betty, quite thrilled at the prospect, had brought the visitor into the parlor to tell the news to her mother and Jack. "Lulu asked Gertie Rossiter and me to lunch with her and go to the circus to-day, but Gertie has the measles, so Lulu telephoned, and asked me to bring Betty instead. Mother says she hopes you'll let Betty go, Mrs. Randall, because she's sure Mrs. Bell would like to have her very much." Mrs. Randall looked pleased. "I am sure Betty would enjoy it," she said; "you would like to go, wouldn't you, dear?" Betty hesitated, and glanced a little uneasily at Jack. "I should like it," she said. "I've never been to the circus and it must be lovely, but--but----" "Oh, Betty, you must go!" cried Jack eagerly. "It'll be so nice, and you can tell me all about it when you come home." The time had been, and not so long before either, when Mrs. Randall would have been inclined to regard this invitation as an attempt at patronage, but she had been learning more than one lesson in these days of her convalescence, and Mrs. Hamilton's kindly advice was beginning to bear fruit. "Lulu says her mother doesn't want us to wear anything especially nice," Winifred went on, "because we shall go around to see the animals before the circus begins, and it may be dusty. I've got a lovely new book out of the library; it's called 'Dorothy Dainty,' and I'm going to bring it up for Jack to read this afternoon. I know he'll like it." Matters being thus happily arranged, Winifred hurried away to telephone her friend that Betty would be delighted to accept the invitation, and Betty made herself very useful, helping Mrs. Flynn with the Saturday cleaning, feeling all the time as if she were about to enter upon a new and very interesting experience. "You're sure you don't mind, Jack," she said, stooping to kiss him at the last moment before going downstairs to join Winifred. "Not a bit," said Jack heartily. "I hope you'll have a lovely time, and it'll be such fun to hear all about it." "You're not a single mite jealous, are you?" said Betty, with a sudden recollection of her own feelings on another occasion. "No, of course not. What does it feel like to be jealous?" "Well, you know, I never went away and left you for a whole afternoon, just to have fun before, and I'm going to have a good time, and you're not. You wouldn't like it if you were jealous." "But I am going to have a nice time," said Jack, looking rather puzzled; "I've got that nice book Winifred brought, and mother's going to play for me. I wonder what being jealous really does feel like." "It doesn't feel nice," said Betty, blushing, "but I don't believe you'll ever know anything about it, you're too dear." It was about twelve o'clock when the two little girls, accompanied by Mrs. Hamilton, left the apartment house, and started on their walk across the park, to the Bells' home on Madison Avenue. It was a beautiful day, and the park was full of children, all making the most of their Saturday holiday. They met several May parties, and Betty told them how her mother had once read them Tennyson's "May Queen," and how Jack had been so much interested in the poem that he had learned it by heart. "Jack is really a very clever boy," said Winifred admiringly. "I don't like boys very much generally, they're so rough, but I respect Jack very much indeed." "There isn't any other boy in the world like him," said Betty, with conviction. "Mrs. Hamilton," she added rather shyly, "do you suppose Dr. Bell has forgotten Jack, now that he doesn't come to see mother any more?" "I am very sure he has not," said Mrs. Hamilton decidedly. Betty said no more on the subject, but her heart beat high with renewed hope, and during the rest of the walk she felt as if she were treading upon air. Betty could not help feeling a little uncomfortable when she first caught sight of the handsome house where Winifred's friends lived. She had met Lulu only once, and although she looked upon the doctor as one of her best friends, she did not know any other members of the family, and the thought of being presented to entire strangers was a rather embarrassing one. Mrs. Hamilton, having another engagement, left them at the foot of the steps. Winifred rang the bell, and when the door was opened by the boy in brass buttons, she walked in with the air of a person very much at home. Betty followed more slowly, wondering rather uncomfortably what people who lived in such a grand-looking house would think of her faded brown dress and last year's straw hat. But all such speculations were speedily forgotten in the kind cordiality of the greeting she received. Lulu was a charming little hostess, and her mother and her blind aunt both greeted the little stranger so kindly, that they soon succeeded in making her feel almost as much at home as Winifred herself. At luncheon the ladies asked questions about Jack, and quite won Betty's heart by telling her of the many kind things the doctor had said about her little brother. Lulu had a great deal to say about the pretty seaside cottage her father had just hired for the summer. "You must come and make us a long visit, Winifred," she said decidedly, but Winifred shook her head. "I can't leave mother," she said, with equal decision on her part. "It's so perfectly beautiful to have her, I can't ever go away from her." "There is a good hotel very near us," said Mrs. Bell kindly. "Perhaps your father and mother will come there to board for a while." But Winifred still looked doubtful. She had an idea that money was not very plentiful with her family just then, and she had heard her mother say that a couple of weeks in the mountains, while father had his vacation, would probably be all they could afford that summer. [Illustration: What a delightful afternoon that was!--_Page 111._] As soon as they rose from the luncheon table Mrs. Bell and the three little girls started for the circus. What a delightful afternoon that was! Even Betty's wildest anticipations had scarcely prepared her for the blissful reality. She enjoyed every moment, and every incident, from the clown who made her laugh till she cried, to the "Battle of Santiago," which made her shiver and cling tightly to Winifred's hand. "It's been the loveliest afternoon I ever knew," she said gratefully to Mrs. Bell, when it was all over, and the little girls were saying good-bye at the door of the apartment house. "It was so kind of you to take me, and I shall have lots and lots to tell Jack." "I am very glad you could come with us, dear," said Mrs. Bell, smiling kindly, "and next year I hope we can take Jack with us too." "I suppose it isn't a very nice thing to say," Lulu whispered to Winifred, "but I can't help being a little glad Gertie has the measles. I do like Betty ever so much, and I know mamma likes her too." At the door of the Hamiltons' apartment the children separated, and Betty ran gayly upstairs, thinking of the delightful time she should have living the events of the afternoon all over again in describing them to Jack. She opened the front door with her key, and was just going to call out to her mother and Jack, when something in the unusual stillness of the place caused her to pause suddenly. "Perhaps mother's lying down," she said to herself, "and Jack doesn't like to make any noise for fear of disturbing her. I'll go in softly and see." She stole on tiptoe to the sitting room door, and peeped in. Her mother was not there, but Jack was lying on the sofa as usual. At sight of her the little fellow started up and held out his arms. One glance at his face was enough to convince Betty that something had happened. "What is it, Jack?" she whispered, running to his side, and beginning to tremble with a strange new sensation, but whether of joy or fear she did not know. "What makes you look so--so queer? Where's mother?" "Mother's in her room," said Jack; "she shut the door; she's gone to lie down, I guess." His voice trembled, and he hid his face on Betty's shoulder. "But something has happened, I know it has," persisted Betty, trembling more than ever. "Oh, Jack, what is it?" "Betty," said Jack softly, "do you remember what you said the other day, about--about the thing that would make you happier than anything else, even than mother's getting well?" "You mean the thing about you--oh, Jack, you mean about your being made to walk?" Jack nodded. "Tell me quick," gasped Betty breathlessly, the circus and everything else forgotten in the excitement of this wonderful news. "Well, Doctor Bell came this afternoon right after lunch, and there was another doctor with him. He was rather old, and not so nice as Dr. Bell, but I think he wanted to be very kind. First they went in the dining room, and talked to mother for a little while, and I think I heard mother crying. Then they came in here, and looked at me. What they did hurt a good deal, but I tried not to mind, because Dr. Bell called me a brave soldier boy. Then they went back to the dining room, and talked some more to mother, and the new doctor went away. After that mother and Dr. Bell came back here. Mother was crying a good deal, but she looked awfully glad too, and they told me what it all meant. Next week I'm to go to a hospital, and have an operation. It won't hurt, Dr. Bell says, because they'll give me something to make me go to sleep, and when I get better, they think--they're not quite sure--but they really do think, that I shall be able to walk." CHAPTER IX SUSPENSE It was very quiet in the Randalls' apartment one warm spring afternoon. For nearly two hours the only sounds to break the utter stillness had been the ticking of the clock and an occasional movement from the kitchen, where Mrs. Flynn tiptoed softly about, preparing dinner. Mrs. Randall sat in the armchair by the open window. Her face was white and set, and sometimes her lips moved, but no sound came from them. Betty felt sure that her mother was saying her prayers. It seemed to Betty as though a month must have passed since the morning. She had tried to read, to sew, to do anything to pass the terrible hours of suspense, but it was of no use, and now she sat on a stool at her mother's feet resting her head against Mrs. Randall's knee. She was trying very hard to be brave, but she knew that if she dared glance even for a moment at Jack's empty sofa, she would no longer be able to choke down the rising sobs, or keep back the tears which seemed so near the surface. Early that morning Jack had been taken away to the hospital, and even as they sat there in silence, Betty and her mother knew the work was being done which was to decide the fate of the little boy for life. The doctors had decided that it would be best to perform the operation before hot weather set in, and besides, as Dr. Bell wisely explained to Mrs. Randall, it would never do to keep the child in suspense any longer than necessary, now that he knew what was impending. Mrs. Randall was not yet strong enough to leave the house, but Dr. Bell had come himself for Jack, and Mrs. Hamilton had gone with them to the hospital, promising to remain until the operation was over. Jack had been very brave and cheerful, and the excitement had helped every one up to the last moment. Dr. Bell had told funny stories to make them all laugh, and Mrs. Hamilton had talked about the nice things they would bring Jack when they came to the hospital to see him. No one had cried, only, just as the last good-byes were being said, Jack had suddenly thrown his arms round his mother's neck and clung to her, and Mrs. Randall had clasped him close to her heart, and held him there in a silence that was far more expressive than any words. And now it was afternoon, and Betty and her mother were waiting, in silent, breathless suspense, for the news that they both knew must come before long. Mrs. Hamilton had promised to let them know the moment the operation was over. The door creaked softly and Mrs. Flynn came in with a cup of tea in her hand. "Take a drop of tea, dearie, do," she whispered soothingly, bending over Mrs. Randall's chair; "it'll put heart into ye." Mrs. Randall shook her head impatiently. "Not now, Mrs. Flynn; I couldn't touch anything now, it would choke me. Perhaps by and by----" Mrs. Flynn turned away with a sigh, and went back to the kitchen, beckoning to Betty to follow her. "Can't you do nothin' to cheer her up a bit, darlin'," she whispered, when Betty joined her in the kitchen. "Not a mouthful of anything has she touched this whole blessed day, and it's awful to see her sittin' lookin' like that, her that's just off a sick bed too." "She's thinking about Jack," said Betty sadly; "she can't eat till she knows; I couldn't eat either, Mrs. Flynn." Mrs. Flynn sighed again, and set down the teacup. "Well, you'll hear pretty soon now, I guess," she said, with an air of resignation, "and I've got some nice strong chicken soup on the stove. A cup of that'll do yez both good by and by." "Oh, Mrs. Flynn," whispered Betty, drawing close to the kind-hearted Irish-woman, "I'm so frightened. I don't know why, but I am. You don't think, do you, that anything dreadful is going to happen?" "Not a bit of it, darlin'," said Mrs. Flynn reassuringly. "Jack'll be all right, the little angel, and we'll have him back, and runnin' about like any one else in just no time at all. Why, I shouldn't wonder if we'd see him ridin' one of them bicycles on Fifth Avenue next month." "But people don't always get over operations, you know, Mrs. Flynn," said Betty, with a choke in her voice. "Nonsense," retorted Mrs. Flynn, with an indignant toss of her head. "Sure, didn't me brother-in-law's first cousin have the two legs of him took off wid a trolley-car on Lexington Avenue, and ain't he walkin' around now 'most as good as ever on two cork stumps, as they give him at the hospital? There ain't nothin' them doctors can't do, barrin' raisin' the dead." A ring at the door bell at this moment put an end to the Irish-woman's hopeful predictions. Betty uttered a little half-frightened cry, and Mrs. Flynn flew to open the door. Mrs. Randall sprang from her chair, and was in the hall before Mrs. Flynn had left the kitchen. Next moment, however, there was a little sigh of disappointment from every one; the visitor was only Winifred. "I thought I'd come to see you for a little while," she explained to Betty, who was trying to smile, and not show the disappointment she felt. "It's lonely downstairs without mother, and I've done all my lessons. I've brought Miss Mollie; I thought you might like to have her." "I am very glad to have her," said Betty, taking the doll in her arms. She was not very fond of dolls, but she wanted to show Winifred that she appreciated her kindness. "Let's go into my room, where we can talk and not disturb mother." They were moving away, but Mrs. Randall called them back. "Stay here, children," she said, and her voice sounded sharp from anxiety. "I like to hear you talk, and you don't disturb me." So the two little girls went into the parlor, and sat down side by side on Jack's sofa, Betty still holding Miss Mollie in her arms. They were both very silent at first, and Winifred kept casting sympathetic glances towards Mrs. Randall, who had now left her seat, and was standing with her back to them, looking out of the window. But after a little while they began to talk in whispers. "I guess mother will be back pretty soon now," said Winifred, giving Betty's cold little hand an encouraging squeeze. "She'll be sure to come and tell you about Jack the very first thing." Betty said nothing, and after a little pause Winifred went on. "Won't it be lovely when Jack gets well? Just think, he may be a soldier after all when he grows up. You know Dr. Bell always calls him a little soldier boy." "He'd like to be one," said Betty, brightening at the thought; "our grandfather was a general, you know." "Yes, and even if he never goes to war, I think he is much braver now than a great many real soldiers are. Father says there are not many little boys only nine years old who would be willing to go away and stay all by themselves in a big, strange hospital." "Don't let's talk about that," said Betty, beginning to cry. "I can't bear to think of his being all by himself." "Oh, but he won't be, not really. Lulu has been to that hospital to see the children and take them things, and she says the nurses are very kind. One of them took care of Lulu's aunt when she broke her knee last year, and they all liked her very much. And then, you know, Dr. Bell goes there every day, and we shall go too, just as soon as Jack is well enough to see us. Oh, Betty, dear, I'm sure God is going to let Jack get well and be just like other people. I've been saying little prayers to Him all day about it." "So have I," said Betty, who was beginning to find Winifred's society very cheering. "He'll be so happy if he can walk, and mother says Dr. Bell wants us all to go to the country as soon as Jack is strong enough." Winifred heaved a little sigh. "I think almost every one is going to the country pretty soon," she said. "School closes the end of next week, and all the girls are going away the first part of June. I shall miss them all, especially Lulu." "Dr. Bell said they were going to the seashore the first of June." "Yes, they're going to Navesink; Lulu says it's a lovely place. There's the ocean, you know, and a river, where they can fish and catch crabs. I've never seen the ocean; Aunt Estelle doesn't like sea air, so we always went to the mountains." "Wouldn't you like to go to Navesink too?" Betty asked. "I should just love it. Lulu wants me to come and visit her, but of course I can't leave mother." "New York isn't so bad in summer," said Betty cheerfully. "We were here last year. It's nice in the park and on the Riverside, but of course the real country must be much nicer." "I think any place is nice where mother is," said Winifred, with simple conviction. "Oh, Betty, there's the door bell, and it's mother's ring." Betty sprang to her feet, and darted out into the hall. Mrs. Randall took a few quick steps towards the door, but then her strength failed her, and, with a low cry, she sank on her knees on the floor beside Jack's sofa, trembling from head to foot, and covering her face with her hands. Mrs. Hamilton came straight into the room. She passed the two little girls without a word, but there was a look on her sweet face that somehow kept them both silent, eager as they were for news. For one second she paused beside the sofa, and then dropping on her own knees, took the trembling, swaying figure right into her kind arms. "Oh, my dear, my dear," she sobbed, the happy tears streaming down her cheeks, "I don't know how to tell you, but it is all as we wished. The operation is over; it was a great success, the doctors say, and--and--don't tremble so, dear--there is nothing to grieve over, but, oh, so much to make you glad. I have just come from the hospital, and Dr. Bell has sent you this message. 'Tell Mrs. Randall,' he said, and there were tears in his eyes, 'tell Mrs. Randall that everything is going on splendidly,' and--and--oh, think of it, my dear,--'that her little boy will walk.'" CHAPTER X A LETTER AND A SURPRISE "Here's a letter for you, Winnie," said Mr. Hamilton, coming into the dining room, just as his wife and little daughter were sitting down to breakfast one warm morning in the beginning of July. "It's from Lulu," exclaimed Winifred joyfully, glancing at the handwriting. "Oh, I'm so glad! I haven't had a letter from her since she went away." "This is a good fat one, at any rate," said Mr. Hamilton, smiling, and Mrs. Hamilton added: "Read it to us, dear." So Winifred opened her letter and began: "Navesink, N.J., July 6th. "Dearest Winifred: "I meant to write to you ever so long ago, but I have been so busy that I couldn't find the time. This is a lovely place, and we all like it very much. The ocean is right in front of the house, and in the big storm last week the waves came up all over the lawn. We go in bathing every day that the ocean is smooth enough, all but Aunt Daisy. She is afraid of the big waves, but papa says she wouldn't be if she would only make up her mind to go in once. On the other side of the house is the Shrewsbury River, and that is very nice too. All the Rossiters came up to spend the day last Saturday, and papa took us crabbing. I caught three, and we had them for luncheon. There is an old boat fastened to our dock. It hasn't any oars, or rudder, or anything, but it's splendid to play shipwreck in. "I see the Randalls almost every day. The house where they are boarding is only a little way from our cottage. Jack looks ever so much better than when he came, and papa says the sea air is making him stronger every day. He can stand all by himself now, and walk a little with his crutches. Papa thinks by the autumn he will be able to walk as well as anybody. Mamma has given him a go-cart, and Betty and I push him about in it. We all go down to the beach, and when we have made a nice seat in the sand for Jack, he gets out of the go-cart and sits there. I like Betty and Jack ever so much, and mamma likes to have me play with them. "Mrs. Randall has a good many pupils already, and mamma thinks she will have more by and by, when all the summer people get here. Aunt Daisy is taking music lessons from her, and says she is the best teacher she ever had. She plays beautifully too. Mamma had her come over and play for some people the other day, and they all enjoyed it very much. "I am having a lovely time, but I do miss you very much. Can't you really come and make me a visit? Mamma and Aunt Daisy would love to have you, and there are two beds in my room. I should be so very, very happy if you would only come. "My hand is getting tired, so I shall have to stop. "Betty and Jack send their love, and say they would love it if you would come. Please answer this letter right away, and believe me, with lots of love and kisses, "Your true friend, "Louise M. Bell." "That's a lovely letter," said Winifred in a tone of profound admiration. "Lulu writes beautifully, don't you think so, mother?" "She certainly expresses herself very well," said Mrs. Hamilton, smiling. "She writes stories too," Winifred went on, putting her letter carefully back into the envelope; "she intends to be an authoress when she grows up. She did think once that she would be a missionary, but now she has decided that she would rather be an authoress like her aunt." "Wouldn't you like to go to Navesink and make Lulu a visit?" Mr. Hamilton asked. Winifred looked a little wistful, but she shook her head decidedly. "Not without mother. If mother could go too, I should love it better than anything else in the world." Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton exchanged glances, but they were both silent, and nothing more was said on the subject. As soon as they rose from the breakfast table, Winifred went to put her letter away in the little box where she kept all her treasures, but before doing so she sat down on the edge of her bed, and read it all over again from beginning to end. When she had finished, her face looked even more wistful than before. "I should like to go, oh, I should like it very much," she said, with a long sigh, "but I couldn't go anywhere without mother. I suppose when people have only had mothers a little while like me, they feel differently about leaving them from the people who have had them all the time." The fact was, Winifred was feeling a little bit lonely. It was very warm in the city, and now that school was over, and all her friends had left town, she found time hang somewhat heavy on her hands. The children were a great comfort, of course, and her mother was everything to her, but she missed the work and the companionship of school, and there were times on those hot summer days when even story books seemed to have lost their charms. She and Betty had become great friends during the time when Jack was in the hospital, and when Dr. Bell had decided that the seashore was the place for Jack, and the Randalls had given up their flat, and gone for the summer to board at Navesink--the kind doctor having procured accommodation for them in a house not far from his own--Winifred, although rejoicing heartily in her friends' good fortune, could not help feeling very forlorn without them. It was two weeks now since the Randalls had gone away, and Lulu's letter was the first news Winifred had received from any of her friends. On this particular morning things were unusually dull. It was very hot, for one thing, and then her mother and Lizzie were both very busy in the kitchen, putting up strawberry preserves. Lulu's letter had suggested so many pleasant possibilities too. Certainly sea bathing and playing shipwreck in a real boat sounded much more attractive than reading story books in a hot little bedroom on the second floor of a New York apartment house. She did her duty faithfully by the children; dressed them all; set Lord Fauntleroy, Rose-Florence, and Lily-Bell at their lessons, arranged Miss Mollie's hair in the latest fashion, and gave Violet-May a dose of castor oil. Then when there was really nothing more to be done for her family, and she had learned from her mother that her services were not desired in the kitchen, she took up "Denise and Ned Toodles," and settling herself in the coolest spot she could find, tried to forget other things in the interest of a new story. "Well, mousie, here you are; deep in a story book as usual." At the sound of the familiar voice, Winifred dropped her book, and sprang up with an exclamation of pleasure. "Oh, Aunt Estelle, I am glad to see you!" she cried joyfully, running to greet the tall, bright-faced young lady who was standing in the doorway. "How did you get in? I never heard the bell." "I didn't ring, the door was open," said her aunt, laughing and kissing her. "I've been here for some time, talking to your mother in the kitchen, and now I've come to have a little talk with you." "Won't you sit down?" said Winifred, hospitably drawing forward the comfortable rocker in which she had been sitting. "You look awfully warm. You sit here, and I'll fan you; that'll be nice." "What have you been reading?" Mrs. Meredith asked, as her little niece perched herself on the arm of her chair, and began swaying a large palm-leaf fan back and forth. "'Denise and Ned Toodles.' It's a very nice story. Mother got it out of the library for me yesterday. It's all about a little girl who lived in the country and had a pony." "Do you think you would like to live in the country?" her aunt asked, smiling. "Yes, I think so; I should like it in the summer, at any rate. Oh, Aunt Estelle, I had such a lovely letter from Lulu this morning. Would you like to see it?" "Yes, very much, but not just now, for I am in a hurry. I am going downtown to do some errands, and then I am coming back here, and, Winnie, I want you to be ready to go home with me to spend the night." "To spend the night?" Winifred repeated, looking very much surprised. "Yes; Uncle Will was grumbling this morning, because he says he never sees anything of you nowadays. We are going to the country on Saturday, you know, and this will be our last chance of having you with us for ever so long." "I'd like to go if mother says so," said Winifred, rather pleased at the prospect of this little change. "Oh, that's all right; everything is arranged, and here comes your mother to speak for herself." Winifred turned eagerly to Mrs. Hamilton, who had just entered the room. "Mother, Aunt Estelle wants me to go home with her to spend the night. May I go?" "Yes, dear," said her mother, smiling, "I should like to have you go. I expect to be very busy this afternoon, and Aunt Estelle says Uncle Will wants to see you very much." "Norah is cleaning silver to-day," Mrs. Meredith said, as she rose to go. "You should have seen her face when I told her I was coming for you." Winifred looked flattered. "I always helped Norah clean silver," she said, "and sometimes I used to read to her. I'll take 'Denise and Ned Toodles' and read this afternoon." The matter having been thus arranged, Mrs. Meredith hurried away to do her errands, promising to return for Winifred in a couple of hours. "You're sure you won't miss me very much, mother," Winifred said anxiously, as she was bidding her mother good-bye. "It's only for one night, you know, and that is quite different from going away for a real visit." "Of course it is," said Mrs. Hamilton, laughing. "Now run along with Aunt Estelle, sweetheart, and have a good time. I will come for you early to-morrow morning." "Mother does seem very busy to-day," remarked Winifred, rather wonderingly, as she walked along by her aunt's side. "I wonder what she's going to do this afternoon. It can't be the preserves, because they're 'most done." Mrs. Meredith made no answer, and Winifred soon forgot her curiosity in the interest of other subjects. But she would have wondered a good deal more if she could have heard the words her mother was at that moment saying to Lizzie, for no sooner had the door closed behind Winifred and her aunt than Mrs. Hamilton hurried back to the kitchen. "We can begin right away now, Lizzie," she said, laughing; "the darling is safely out of the way for the rest of the day, and we shall have to work like beavers to accomplish all we have to do. In the first place, I want you to come with me to the storeroom, and help me to get out that big trunk." Winifred had a very pleasant afternoon. She helped Norah with the silver, and read aloud to her, and then there were Hannah, the German cook, and Josephine, the French maid, to be talked to, and they both seemed much pleased to see her. In the evening Uncle Will and Aunt Estelle made much of her, and when bedtime came, although she missed her mother's good-night kiss, still it seemed so natural to be going to bed in the old familiar nursery, where she had spent so many nights, that she could almost fancy the past happy months were all a dream, and that her mother had never come back from California at all. "Only no dream could possibly be so lovely as it really is," she said to herself, settling herself comfortably on her pillow when Aunt Estelle had put out the light and gone away. "Oh, I am glad it isn't a dream, but something really true. I was a wicked girl to wish I could go to the country and do something different, when I've got such lots and lots of things to be happy about." "This is the very perfection of a summer's day," Mr. Meredith remarked at the breakfast table next morning. "I wish I were not obliged to spend it cooped up in my office. A trip to the seaside now would be very much to my liking." "We're going to take excursions sometimes this summer," said Winifred brightly. "Father says perhaps we may go down to Manhattan Beach for a Sunday. Did you ever go to Manhattan Beach, Uncle Will?" "Yes, several times. I have been to Navesink too. Isn't that where your friends, the Bells, are spending the summer?" "Yes; Lulu says it's a beautiful place. She asked me to come for a visit, but I can't leave mother." "Too bad, isn't it?" observed Mr. Meredith, with his eyes on his plate. "Halloo, there's the door bell; I wonder who can be coming to see us so early in the morning." "Why, it's father and mother," exclaimed Winifred joyfully, springing down from her chair, and darting out into the hall as Norah opened the front door. "Oh, mother, dear, you are early. We've only just finished breakfast." "It is such a lovely morning," said Mrs. Hamilton, returning her little daughter's rapturous embrace, "that your father and I thought we would take a trip down the bay." "Oh, how nice," cried Winifred, clapping her hands. "And isn't it funny? Uncle Will and I have just been talking about trips. Are you sure you can really get away for a whole day, father?" "I think I can manage it," said Mr. Hamilton, laughing. "Now run and get ready, little one, for our boat leaves at ten, and it's after nine already." Winifred flew upstairs for her belongings, told the good news to Josephine, and was back again in less than five minutes. She found her father and mother in the dining room with Uncle Will and Aunt Estelle. They had evidently been talking about something which amused them, for every one was smiling, but as soon as Winifred came in Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton rose to go. "Good-bye, Winnie darling," said Mrs. Meredith, kissing her little niece affectionately, "it has been like a bit of old times having you back with us. You won't forget to write, Mollie?" she added in a lower tone to Mrs. Hamilton, as the two ladies went out into the hall together. "Good-bye, mousie, and don't forget us," said Uncle Will, as Winifred lifted her face for his good-bye kiss. "I don't know how we shall manage to get on without you all summer." "Why, mother," said Winifred, looking puzzled, as they hurried away towards the elevated railroad station, "Uncle Will and Aunt Estelle said good-bye just as if they weren't going to see us again, and they're not going to the country till Saturday." "Perhaps they were afraid something might prevent our meeting again before they leave," said Mrs. Hamilton, rather evasively. That sail down the bay was a new and very delightful experience to Winifred. She had never traveled much, and every new object of interest was a delight to her. The big, crowded steamboat, the beautiful bay, the Statue of Liberty, and the other interesting sights made the little girl feel as if she could not take in so many new wonders all at once, and she asked innumerable questions about everything, all of which her father and mother answered readily. [Illustration: That sail down the bay was a new and delightful experience.--_Page 136._] "What are we going to do when we get to the place where the boat stops?" she inquired anxiously, as they passed the Floating Hospital. "Must we go right back to New York again?" "Well, I think we will go a little way in a train first," said Mr. Hamilton, trying to look grave, although his eyes twinkled. "It would be rather a pity to go so far without seeing the ocean, don't you think so?" "Oh, are we really going to see the ocean?" cried Winifred joyfully. "I think this is one of the nicest things that ever happened." At the Atlantic Highlands they left the boat, and got into a train, which they found waiting at the pier. There were several trains, in fact, and a great many people seemed to be getting into them. Winifred wondered where they were all going, and if any of the other children she saw were having half as good a time as she was. "Look, Winnie, there is the ocean," her mother said eagerly, as the train rushed across a long bridge, and a whiff of sea air blew in their faces. "Where, where?" gasped Winifred, stretching her neck out of the car window. "Oh, I see. Why, how big it is. I never saw water like that before. Do you suppose it looks like this at Navesink?" "I should not be at all surprised if it looked very much like it," said Mrs. Hamilton, laughing. At that moment the train began to slacken speed. "Navesink, Navesink," shouted the brakeman, putting his head in at the car door. "Isn't it the very loveliest surprise you ever had?" demanded Lulu Bell, dancing up and down on the platform, and hugging Winifred tight. "I never knew a single thing about it till last night, but mamma has known for ever so long, and papa engaged the rooms at the hotel for you. Why, Winifred, don't look as if you were just waking up. It's the nicest thing in the world. You're all going to stay at the hotel for a month, and your father's going to town every day the same as papa does. They wanted it to be a surprise for you. See, here's Betty, and Jack's right over there in the go-cart. We all came down to the station to meet you, and it seemed as if the train would never come, we were so excited." "Oh," gasped Winifred, finding her voice at last, "it's the very most beautiful thing that could possibly have happened. Are you quite sure it's all true, and not a dream?" CHAPTER XI AT NAVESINK "I think the sea is the most beautiful thing in the world," said Jack, laying down his drawing pencil, and settling himself comfortably in the warm sand. "I could just sit and look at it all day long." "Is your sketch finished?" inquired Winifred, looking up from the sand fort she was building. "Yes, do you want to see it?" And Jack held out a sheet of foolscap for his friend's inspection. Jack was a very different-looking boy from the pale little cripple of two months before. There was a light in his eyes and a color in his cheeks that no one had ever seen there since the day of his babyhood. The healthy outdoor life in the bracing sea air was doing wonders for him. Winifred examined the sketch admiringly. "It's perfectly lovely," she announced. "That fishing boat with the man in it looks as natural as can be. I think you will be a splendid artist when you grow up, Jack." Jack flushed with pleasure at this frank praise. "I hope I shall," he said, "I want to be. You know my father was an artist." "You will be an artist and Lulu will be an authoress," said Winifred reflectively. "I wish Betty and I could both be something nice too." "I'm afraid I shall never be anything in particular, unless it's a housekeeper," remarked Betty from her seat on the bathing house steps. "I like to sweep and dust and cook better than anything else." "You'll be a greater sewer, I think," said Winifred, with an admiring glance at the stocking her friend was darning. "Mother says she never saw a little girl who could sew as well as you can." "Perhaps I shall be a trained nurse. I think I should like being a comfort to sick people. I heard Lulu's aunt say the nurse she had when she broke her knee was a great comfort to her." "Miss Clark was a great comfort to us when mother was ill," said Betty; "mother had a letter from her yesterday. What's the matter, Jack--are mosquitoes biting?" "No," said Jack, frowning, "it isn't the mosquitoes, it's only I don't like to have you talk about being things when you grow up." "Why not?" inquired Betty in astonishment. "Because if I'm an artist I can take care of you and mother. I want you just to be ladies." "Well, mother's a lady, isn't she? and she works; and Lulu's aunt writes books." Jack looked puzzled. "I don't know quite how to say it," he said slowly, "but I want you to be the kind of ladies that mother was when she lived in England; the kind that live in castles, and have parks and things. They never work, do they?" Both little girls laughed, and Betty said practically: "I guess even queens work sometimes, but I know what you mean, Jack, only I think I'd like to be a housekeeper better." "Here comes Lulu," exclaimed Winifred, rising to meet her friend, who came hurrying along the sand from the direction of her own home. "I've brought some ginger-snaps," announced Lulu, when she had greeted the others, and seated herself beside Betty on the bathing house steps. "I thought we might be hungry before luncheon time. I could have come before, but I was very busy writing my story. Is yours done yet, Winifred?" "No," said Winifred, blushing; "I don't think I can write stories very well. When I get the ink and paper, and everything ready, I never can think of anything to say." "Oh, but you must go on trying," urged Lulu. "It's the easiest thing in the world when you once get started. Does Betty know about what we're doing?" "No," said Betty, looking interested, "tell me about it." "Why, you see," Lulu explained, "Aunt Daisy is writing a book, and in it two little girls have to write compositions, and she thought it would be so nice to have original ones written by real little girls. So she asked Winifred and me to write some for her, and if she likes them well enough, she will put them in her book, and they will be published. Won't that be fun?" Betty and Jack were both much impressed, and Winifred, who did not find authorship come at all easy, was struck with a bright idea. "I don't suppose your aunt cares who writes the stories, so long as she gets them, does she, Lulu?" "Why, no, I don't suppose so," Lulu admitted, "but you really must try, Winnie. Think how grand it will be to have something published." "I was only thinking that perhaps Betty or Jack could do it better," said Winifred, with an appealing glance at her two little friends, both of whom, however, declined to enter the compact, declaring that they couldn't write a story to save their lives. "I can't see why you all find it so hard," said Lulu a little patronizingly; "it seems very easy to me. I was only five when I made up my first story, and Aunt Daisy wrote it down on her typewriter. It wasn't very long, only 'Two little girls went to see two little boys. They played hide and seek and blindman's buff. Then they had ice cream, and went home again.' Aunt Daisy said it was a beginning, and I've been writing stories ever since. Oh, by the way, Aunt Daisy says if you'll come over this afternoon she'll tell us all stories on the piazza." The children looked pleased, and accepted the invitation with alacrity, for Lulu's blind aunt was a famous story-teller and a great favorite with them all. "Papa and mamma have gone to the city for the day," said Lulu, "and Aunt Daisy's very busy this morning, writing on her story, but she's promised to devote the whole afternoon to us." The conversation drifted to other things, and the next hour passed very pleasantly in building sand forts, making mud pies, and doing other delightful things only possible at the sea shore. The ocean was very calm, and the little girls took off their shoes and stockings, and let the little waves splash over their feet. Jack lay on the sand, watching them and making sketches by turns. Some of the people from the hotels and cottages came down to the beach to bathe, and almost every one had a pleasant word for the little boy. At last the ginger-snaps were produced, and they all sat down to enjoy them before going home. "I wonder what makes people so dreadfully hungry at the sea shore," remarked Jack, helping himself to his third ginger-snap. "At home I never used to eat very much." "It's because you're so much better than you used to be," said Betty, regarding her brother with happy, loving eyes. "What's the matter, Lulu? you've dropped your cake." "My goodness," exclaimed Lulu, clasping her hands in dismay. "I declare I forgot all about telling you the most important thing. A lord is coming to stay with us." "A what?" inquired Betty and Winifred both together. "A lord," repeated Lulu impressively, "a real live English lord. He's coming on his yacht. Papa got a letter from him yesterday, and he's on his way now." "Where is he coming from?" Winifred asked. "I don't know, but he's traveling in his yacht. He has a castle in England, and he's awfully rich. Mamma thinks he will bring a valet with him." "How did your family happen to know him?" inquired Betty, much interested. "He and papa went to college together in England. He wasn't a lord then, though; he only got to be one about a year ago, papa says, because his uncle and his cousin, who were lords, both died, and he inherited the title." "Just like Little Lord Fauntleroy," said Winifred; "I wonder if he minded it the way Fauntleroy did at first." "Of course not," said Lulu, with superior wisdom. "Fauntleroy was only a silly little boy. I guess every man would like to be a lord if he had the chance. He and papa were great friends at college, and papa says he used to be very jolly and full of fun. I think he must really be rather nice, for when I asked papa whether I should say 'my lord' or 'your lordship' when I spoke to him, he only laughed, and said he didn't believe it would make much difference. I always thought a lord would be very angry if people didn't say 'my lord' or 'your lordship' whenever they spoke to him." "Perhaps it's because he's such a new one that he isn't so very particular," Winifred suggested. "What made him come over to this country?" "I don't know; I suppose because he wants to see it. He cruises about in his yacht, and mamma doesn't think he will stay very long with us, though she hopes he will on account of papa's being so fond of him. I hope he won't make a very long visit, for I suppose it can't help being rather solemn having a lord in the house." "Lords in books are just like other people," Betty remarked practically. "Perhaps you'll like him ever so much, and be sorry when he goes away." "I hope I shall see him," observed Jack, with unusual animation. "What for?" inquired Betty, with some scorn. "I don't believe he looks a bit different from any one else." "Well, we're English, you know," Jack explained, "and I should like to see a real English nobleman. It would be the next best thing to seeing the queen." "I don't think I should be so very anxious to see the queen," declared democratic Betty. "I don't believe she's any different looking from other old ladies." "Mother says we're subjects of the queen," Jack maintained, "and ought to love her, and you know if you have to love a person you would naturally like to see her. I don't know whether we have to love lords or not, but I should like to see one any way." "There's mother on the bluff," said Winifred. "She's beckoning to us; I guess it must be time to go in." The children scrambled hastily to their feet, Jack was helped into the go-cart, and the little party started in a homeward direction. "Oh, mother, dear, we've had a lovely time this morning," exclaimed Winifred enthusiastically, as they joined Mrs. Hamilton on the bluff, "and Lulu has asked us all over to her house this afternoon. Her aunt is going to tell us stories." "That will be very nice," said Mrs. Hamilton, smiling. "One of the ladies at the hotel has asked me to drive with her this afternoon, and I was rather doubtful about leaving you at home alone, but if Miss Warren wants you it will be all right." "Mamma has gone to New York," Lulu explained, "but Aunt Daisy wants them all. I must run home now, for it's nearly one. Be sure you all come by half-past three. I have to do my lessons right after lunch, but I shall be all through by then." "Jack and I have to do some lessons too," said Betty, "but we'll be at your house by half-past three. We'll stop for you, Winifred, as we pass the hotel." Mrs. Randall was standing on the piazza of the boarding-house as Betty and Jack approached, and her tired face brightened wonderfully at sight of the two children. Betty was pushing the go-cart, and Jack waved his hand joyfully to his mother. Both little faces were radiant. "Aren't you back earlier than usual, mother?" Betty asked, as they went into the house together, Jack moving slowly and cautiously on his crutches, but walking as neither his mother or Betty had ever expected to see him walk. "Yes, rather earlier. Miss Leroy was going to a luncheon, and didn't take her full time. I shall be busy all the afternoon until six o'clock, though, for I begin with two new pupils to-day." "Lulu Bell has asked us over to her house," said Betty; "her aunt is going to tell us stories. You don't mind our going, do you?" "Oh, no, indeed, only don't tire poor Miss Warren out telling you stories, and if you get home before six, you may take Jack down on the beach for a little while. Dr. Bell wants him to be in the open air as much as possible." "Mother," said Jack suddenly, as his mother was making him comfortable in the big wicker armchair by the window of their pleasant room on the ground floor, "did you ever see a lord when you were in England?" "I think I have seen several in my life," said Mrs. Randall, smiling; "why do you want to know?" "Because one is coming to stay at Lulu Bell's house, and I want to see him very much." "Lords don't look any different from other people, do they, mother?" questioned Betty. "Not in the least. I have an uncle who is a lord." Mrs. Randall spoke rather absently, as though she were thinking of something else, but the astonished exclamations from both children quickly recalled her thoughts. "You haven't really, have you, mother?" gasped Jack. Betty's eyes grew big and round with astonishment. "Yes, my father's older brother was a lord, or is one if he is still alive. We never knew him very well, for his place was in a different county, and he and your grandfather were not good friends. I don't want you to mention this to any one, though," she added, flushing; "it would sound like bragging, and you know it is never right to do that." "I always knew we had ancestors," said Betty thoughtfully, "but I never supposed any of them were lords. Is that the reason why you hate to accept things from people, mother?" "I scarcely think that has much to do with it," Mrs. Randall said, laughing in spite of herself. "Is your lord uncle in England now, mother?" Jack asked. "I suppose so if he is still alive. He must be a very old man now, for he was several years older than your grandfather." "And if he is dead, who is the lord now?" "The title would naturally descend to his only son, my cousin. I never saw him, but I remember hearing that he was a rather promising boy. There is the bell for luncheon. Remember, children, you are not to mention this subject to any one, not even to Winifred or Lulu. I shall be displeased with you if you do." Both children promised readily, but all through luncheon they were unusually silent, and when they had gone back to their room, and Mrs. Randall had started out on her afternoon rounds, Jack remarked suddenly, as he was turning over the pages in his English history: "Now, Betty, you know the kind of lady I want you to be. I don't believe lords' relations ever work; not the lady relations, I mean, of course the men do." "I don't see any use in being related to people if we don't even know them," said Betty, a little discontentedly. "Anyhow, I don't want to think about it, because if I do I shall forget and tell people, and then mother will be displeased. I don't care anything about lords, but if we could find Uncle Jack, that's what I should like." "Don't you think mother might write to him some time?" Jack inquired wistfully. "I know she won't, not unless she should be ill again, and I don't want that to happen. Now let's hurry and do our lessons, or we sha'n't be through in time to go to Lulu's house with Winifred." CHAPTER XII DRIFTING Lulu was standing on the piazza, as the three other children approached the Bells' cottage, Winifred pushing the go-cart this time, and Betty holding a parasol over Jack's head. Instead of calling out a cheerful greeting as usual, however, she ran hastily and silently down the steps, and met them halfway across the lawn. "We mustn't make any more noise than we can help," she said softly. "Poor Aunt Daisy has a dreadful headache. It came on all of a sudden, and she's gone to lie down. She says it may go away by and by if she can get a nap. Her room is right over the piazza, so we mustn't disturb her." The children all expressed their sympathy and regret. "Shall we go down on the beach and play?" Betty suggested. Lulu looked doubtful. "It's pretty hot down there," she objected, "and besides, we were there all the morning. We might go for a drive, only Thomas is so fussy, he never will harness the horses unless somebody grown up tells him to. Jane's ironing, so she can't take us anywhere. I'll tell you what we might do though"--with a sudden inspiration--"we might go down to the river and play shipwreck. That old boat that's fastened to the dock is just great to play shipwreck in. It's quite easy to get into it, even Jack could manage it all right, and I'd bring one of the cushions off the piazza to make him comfortable." "Are you sure it's quite safe?" inquired cautious Betty, looking doubtful. "Oh, yes, it's all right. We were in it the day the Rossiters were here, and papa saw us. It's fastened to the dock by a chain. Nothing could possibly happen. Come along; it's lovely and cool down there by the river, and if we stay here we shall be sure to forget and talk loud, and that will disturb Aunt Daisy." "Oughtn't we ask some one first?" Winifred suggested. "There isn't any one to ask. Papa and mamma are in New York, and Aunt Daisy's asleep. Jane wouldn't know, and she always makes a fuss about things she doesn't understand. If it hadn't been all right, papa would have said so when the Rossiters were here." This seemed a practical argument, and although Betty still felt a little uncomfortable about the wisdom of the proceeding, she made no further objections, and five minutes later the little party were standing on the dock. It was, as Lulu had said, very easy to step into the old rowboat, which, indeed, looked safe enough even to Betty, being fastened to the dock by a long chain. With a little help from the girls, Jack succeeded in crawling over the side, and was made comfortable in the stern, while the others settled themselves on the benches. "Isn't it perfectly lovely here?" cried the little boy enthusiastically, dabbling his hands in the cool water. "I was never in a boat like this before." "Of course it's lovely," said Lulu in a tone of unqualified satisfaction; "I told you it would be. It's much nicer than on that hot piazza, or on the beach either." "There are mosquitoes," Winifred remarked, flapping vigorously about her head with her handkerchief. "Mosquitoes always do bite me most dreadfully." "That's because you're so sweet," said Lulu. "Try not to think about them, and then you won't mind. Aunt Daisy says if only people wouldn't think about disagreeable things, they would be a great deal happier." "Look, look; I can make the boat rock," cried the excited Jack. "Oh, isn't it fun?" "Now," said Lulu, as usual taking the initiative; "we are a party of shipwrecked people, escaping in a lifeboat from a sinking ship. We are away out in the middle of the ocean. All the other people in the ship have been drowned, and we have escaped in the only boat there was. I am a widow lady traveling with my little boy. You are my little boy, Jack, and you are very ill. You must put your head in my lap, and keep your eyes shut as if you were suffering a great deal. Winifred is our faithful maid, who has been everywhere with us, and has divided her last ship biscuit with us." "And what am I?" inquired Betty, beginning to enter the spirit of the new game. "Don't make the boat rock quite so hard, Jack, dear, please." "You are the kind old sailor, who has saved us all. Some bad men on the ship wanted to take this lifeboat, and leave us to drown, but you shot them all down, and now you are taking us to an inhabited island you know about. We have been three days without food, and without seeing a sail, but I have promised that if you will bring us safely to land I will make you very rich." "Are you very rich yourself?" inquired Betty. "Of course, I'm a very great lady. No, I think I will be a princess; that will be nicer, and when people do brave things I make them my knights." "But there aren't any knights now," Winifred objected. "Well, then, it isn't now; it's a long time ago, about the time of Queen Elizabeth, I guess. Now come on, let's begin." The next half-hour was one of the most delightfully exciting periods the children had ever enjoyed. Lulu's vivid imagination carried them all along with it, and even practical Betty forgot everything else in the interest of the shipwreck. Jack played the suffering child to perfection; moaned pitiously, and implored his mother in feeble whispers for a crust of bread or a drop of water. The food was all gone, Lulu said, but Winifred endeavored to procure the desired water by dipping her hands in the river, and splashing salt water over Jack's face. Some of it ran into his eyes, which was not pleasant, but Jack was too polite to complain. Betty spoke words of encouragement and cheer, while she scanned the horizon through an imaginary telescope. Lulu hung over her suffering child, soothing his woes by the tenderest caresses and promising innumerable purses filled with gold to Betty and Winifred, as rewards for their faithful services, if ever they should reach the shore alive. "There's a dreadful storm coming up," announced Lulu, suddenly glancing up at the cloudless blue sky, and beginning to wave her arms frantically. "We shall be drowned, I know we shall. Make the boat rock as much as you can, Betty, so it will seem as if the sea was getting rough. Oh, what will become of us? Do you think we shall all perish, sailor?" "Can't say; hope not," said Betty, who had an idea that all sailors spoke in short, jerky sentences. "You'll save us if you possibly can, won't you?" said Winifred, who was playing so hard that she was almost frightened. "Will if I can," returned Betty in the deepest growl she could assume. "Oh, Lulu, please let us see a sail pretty soon," urged Jack. "I'm getting so tired of keeping my eyes shut, and it seems so dreadfully real." [Illustration: "There aren't any oars, and we're drifting."--_Page 159_.] "Oh, yes, we shall see one before long," said Lulu reassuringly. "It'll come just at the last awful moment; it always does in books." At that moment a sudden burst of sunshine dazzled all their eyes. "Why, how funny," exclaimed Betty, forgetting her nautical manner, and speaking in her natural voice; "I wonder what makes it sunny all at once. It was nice and shady a minute ago." A shrill scream from Winifred brought Betty's wonder to an abrupt end. "Look, oh look!" shrieked the little girl, pointing with a shaking finger towards the shore; "the boat's moving, it's moving all by itself." Every one followed the direction of Winifred's terrified gaze. Sure enough; several feet of water already separated the boat from the shore. "The chain's broken," gasped Betty, growing very white. "It must have broken when we made the boat rock so hard. There aren't any oars, and we're drifting. Oh, what shall we do?" Winifred began to cry. "It's all your fault, Lulu," she wailed; "you said it was safe, and now we shall be drowned, and what will mother do. Oh, oh, oh!" Lulu was shaking from head to foot, but realizing the truth of her friend's accusation, she made an effort to think of some way of escape. "Couldn't we jump out and wade ashore?" she suggested desperately. "Of course not," said Betty, with prompt decision; "we don't know how deep the water is, and besides we couldn't leave Jack." Poor little Jack lifted his white face from his sister's shoulder, where he had hidden it in the first moment of terror. His eyes were big with fright, and his lips trembled pitifully. "Never mind about me," he faltered. "Maybe if you get ashore you can send some one after me. I'm a boy, you know; I ought to be able to take care of myself." "You're the bravest boy I ever knew," sobbed impulsive Lulu, throwing her arms around Jack's neck, "and we wouldn't leave you for the whole world, would we, girls?" "Of course we wouldn't," said Winifred emphatically. Betty said nothing, but hugged her brother tight in wordless love and admiration. "We sha'n't be drowned, any way, I know we sha'n't," said Lulu, her courage beginning to rise. "There are so many boats on the river that some one will be sure to see us pretty soon." "There's a man over there fishing on that dock," cried Winifred hopefully. "He isn't looking this way, but maybe if we shout very loud he'll hear us." The four little voices were accordingly raised, and shout succeeded shout till the opposite bank sent back the echoes, but the fisherman never turned his head. Perhaps he was deaf, or possibly he was accustomed to hear children shouting in that way, merely for the sake of amusement. Not another human being was in sight. "He won't see us, oh, he won't look," moaned Winifred, once more beginning to cry. "See how far away from the shore we are getting. Oh, we shall be drowned, I know we shall." Betty and Lulu had also noticed how fast the boat was drifting. "The tide's going out," whispered Betty, with white lips. "Where does this river go to, Lulu?" "Into the ocean, I think," said Lulu, shivering. "It has to go round Sandy Hook first, though," she added more hopefully, "and somebody will be sure to see us before we get there." "Are you very frightened, Jack, dear?" Betty whispered, nestling close to her little brother. "N--no, not so very," returned Jack tremulously; "only--only, if anything does happen think how unhappy mother will be, and--and, I did hope I should be able to walk just like other people." This was too much for Betty, and she promptly burst into tears. "Oh, we must do something, we must," cried Lulu, almost beside herself with anxiety. "It's all my fault, I know, but I really did think it was safe. I didn't mean to be naughty, I truly didn't, Winifred." "I know you didn't," sobbed Winifred, hugging her friend in a burst of remorse. "I didn't mean what I said, not a single word of it, only I was so dreadfully frightened." "Perhaps if we keep on shouting all the time, and waving our handkerchiefs, some one will notice us," Betty suggested. This seemed a good idea, and was promptly acted upon, but though they shouted till their throats were sore, and waved till their arms ached, no friendly face appeared, and faster and faster drifted the little boat away from home and friends. "I wonder what time it is," said Winifred, when they had at last left off shouting, in order to gain a little breath. "It seems as if we had been out on the river for hours and hours." "We can't have been as long as that," said Betty, "because the sun is just as bright as it was when we started. I guess the time seems longer than it really is." "I wonder where our mothers are now," remarked Lulu mournfully. "Mine must be on the boat coming home from the city." "And mine is driving with Mrs. Martin," said Winifred. "Oh, what will they all do when they get home and we're not there." The picture called up by this remark was too dreadful to be borne with fortitude, and all four children simultaneously burst into tears. Suddenly Jack's voice broke in upon the wails of the three little girls. "Look, oh, look! there's a steamboat; it's coming this way." Every eye was turned in the direction Jack pointed. Sure enough, a large steam yacht was coming rapidly down the river, her head pointed straight towards them. "Wave, keep waving as hard as you can," cried Betty excitedly. "Let's all shout together again, and perhaps they'll hear us." "Wait till they get a little nearer, they couldn't hear us yet," advised Jack. "Oh, do you really think they'll save us?" "Of course they will," said Lulu confidently. "Oh, look, look, they see us already; there's a man waving back to us. Maybe they think we're only doing it for fun. How shall we let them know we want them to help us?" "We must shout," said Betty, and she set the example by raising her voice to its highest pitch. "Please, please help us! Our boat's drifting, and we haven't got any oars. Oh, please, do come and help us!" "They understand us!" cried Lulu joyfully. "See, the man's nodding his head. Why, they're stopping! Oh, don't you believe they're going to help us after all?" For the next few moments the children waited in breathless suspense, almost too excited to speak. Then Jack announced: "They're getting into a rowboat. See those two men? That's the one that nodded to us; I guess he's the captain. Let's shout again." So again the four little voices were raised in agonized appeal, and this time there came an answering shout from the other boat. "Don't be frightened, children, you're all right. We're coming to you as fast as we can." The wind brought the cheery, encouraging words straight across the water to the terrified children, and oh! the relief of that comforting assurance to each wildly beating little heart. The men in the boat rowed fast, and soon the splash of approaching oars was heard. Lulu and Winifred began to cry again, but it was for joy this time, not sorrow. Betty and Jack clung to each other in speechless relief. In a few moments the two boats were side by side; a rope was thrown securely around the oarless craft, and the children were safe. "And now, my little friends, you must let us take you on board the yacht," said the man whom Jack had concluded to be the captain. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a rather handsome face, and it seemed to the children as though his cheery voice was the pleasantest sound they had ever heard in their lives. He and his companion--who appeared to be one of the sailors--began at once rowing back towards the yacht, keeping the children's boat in tow. A sudden fit of shyness had fallen upon the party, and nobody spoke until the stranger inquired, regarding the solemn little faces rather quizzically: "How did it happen?" "We were playing in the boat," Betty explained. "It was fastened to the dock, and we thought it was safe. The chain broke and we hadn't any oars." "Have you been drifting long? Were you very much frightened?" "It seemed like a long time," said Betty, "and we were pretty frightened. It was very kind of you to come and help us." The gentleman smiled. He was a gentleman, the children all felt sure of that, and Lulu afterwards remarked that he had the most beautiful smile she had ever seen. Nothing more was said until they reached the side of the yacht. Several men, evidently members of the crew, were standing on the deck, watching with interest the approach of the two boats. "Now," said the gentleman, rising, "do you think you can manage to climb this ladder? It's perfectly safe, and I will help you." Lulu and Winifred rose promptly, but Betty remained seated, her arm around her little brother. "Don't be afraid," said the gentleman encouragingly; "it's quite easy." "Oh, I'm not afraid," said Betty, her lip beginning to quiver, "but I can't leave my brother. He can't climb. He has always been a cripple until this summer, and he's only just beginning to walk now. We'll have to stay here till we get to the landing." While Betty was speaking the stranger's face had softened wonderfully, and he looked at Jack with an expression of increased interest. Without a word he stepped to the side of his own boat, and, leaning over, lifted the little boy in his arms. "Now I fancy we can manage it, my little man," he said kindly, and in another moment he had lifted Jack up to one of the men on the yacht, who in turn had placed the child in safety on the deck. The little girls were then carefully helped up the ladder, and in less than three minutes the whole party was standing, safe and dry, on the deck of what they afterwards learned to be one of the finest steam yachts in the world. "And now I shall have to take you all as far as the steamboat landing," said the stranger, as he placed Jack comfortably in a steamer chair. "It will not take more than half an hour, and from there we can easily send word to your friends. Where do you live, by the way?" "We live at Navesink," said Lulu, suddenly recovering her speech and her manners now that the danger was over, and remembering all at once that she had always been considered a very polite little girl. "My papa has a cottage there, and the others all came over to spend the afternoon with me. It was my fault about the boat, but I thought it was safe. I think we must have made it rock too much when we were playing shipwreck." "Very possibly," said the gentleman, who looked considerably amused by this explanation. "It is never a very wise plan to make boats rock too much. But now let me see"--glancing at his watch--"it is only a little after five, and we shall be at the landing by half-past. Do you think your friends will be very much frightened about you?" "I don't think so," said Lulu. "My mother has gone to the city for the day; Winifred's mother is out driving, and Betty and Jack say their mother told them they needn't come home before six. My papa has a telephone, and we can let them know as soon as we get to the landing." "Not at all a bad idea, and in the meantime won't you make yourselves at home on board my yacht? By the way, I think shipwrecked people are apt to be hungry." "We are not very hungry, thank you," said Lulu politely; "you see, we didn't start until half-past three." The stranger smiled again, and said something in a low tone to the steward, who immediately disappeared. "We've none of us ever been on a yacht before," said Lulu, feeling that it was her duty to keep up the conversation, as none of the others seemed inclined to talk. "I think it's a very nice place." "I have crossed the Atlantic in this yacht," the gentleman said pleasantly. "Have you really?" exclaimed Lulu, looking very much surprised. "I didn't know people ever did that, except perhaps lords." "And why lords in particular?" the stranger inquired, smiling. "I don't know, only a lord is coming to stay with us, and papa says he has crossed the ocean in his yacht." "Indeed! and may I ask what your name is?" "Lulu Bell. My father is Dr. Bell, and we live in New York in winter." "Well, this is a coincidence, I declare," exclaimed the gentleman, looking really quite excited. "I had no idea that one of the children in that rowboat would prove to be the little daughter of my old friend. Have you ever heard your father speak of Lord Carresford?" "Why, yes," said Lulu, her eyes opening wide in astonishment; "he's the lord that's coming to stay with us to-morrow." "I am Lord Carresford," said the gentleman, laughing and holding out his hand. "Children," gasped Lulu, turning to her three companions, who had been whispering together at a little distance from their rescuer and herself, and who had not paid much attention to the conversation, "oh, children, the very most wonderful thing has happened. This really is a lord's yacht, and this gentleman is--'His Lordship.'" CHAPTER XIII "HIS LORDSHIP" Before the children had fully recovered from the amazement caused by Lulu's announcement the steward reappeared bearing a tray containing lemonade and cake, and Lord Carresford requested them to take some refreshments. Although not in a starving condition, they were all blessed with healthy appetites, and the cake and lemonade disappeared very rapidly. While they ate their host talked to them, and he was so pleasant and merry, and, in fact, talked so much like any other gentleman, that Winifred whispered to Jack: "Betty was right, wasn't she? A lord isn't a bit different from anybody else," to which Jack replied, "No, only rather nicer than most people, don't you think so?" By the time the impromptu repast was finished the yacht had reached the steamboat landing, and Lord Carresford hurried away to the telephone office to inform Dr. and Mrs. Bell of their little daughter's whereabouts. During his absence the steward--who appeared to be a very agreeable person--showed the children over the yacht, carrying Jack in his arms almost as tenderly and carefully as his master had done. "I think a yacht is the most interesting place I have ever been in," Lulu informed "his lordship" on his return from the telephone office. "I should like very much indeed to cross the ocean in one. We went to Europe once, and I liked the steamer very much, but mamma and Aunt Daisy were seasick." "If you please, sir," interrupted Betty--"I mean, your lordship--do you know whether our families have been very much worried about us?" "I think not," said "his lordship," smiling kindly at the earnest little face. "Dr. Bell himself came to the telephone, and seemed greatly surprised to learn of the state of affairs. He and his wife have just returned from the city, and had not yet discovered that their little girl was missing. He says he will drive over to the landing for you at once." Betty drew a long breath of relief. "I'm so glad," she said; "I was afraid mother might be frightened. She was very ill last spring, and we shouldn't like to have her worried about anything." After that Lord Carresford took them down into the cabin and showed them some interesting shells and other curious things which he had collected during his wanderings. He had been nearly all over the world, it seemed, and was certainly one of the most fascinating "grown-ups" the children had ever met. So the moments flew, and almost before any one could have believed such a thing possible, Dr. Bell arrived with the carriage. At sight of her father Lulu suddenly burst into tears again and flung herself impulsively into his arms. "I wasn't naughty, papa, I really wasn't," she sobbed. "I did think the boat was safe or I wouldn't have asked the others in. Oh, papa, dear, you won't be angry, will you?" "No, no, little woman," Dr. Bell said, kissing her. "I am only angry with myself for not having been more careful. If anything had happened--Jack, old fellow, how can I thank you?" And the doctor wrung Lord Carresford's hands in gratitude too deep for words. The greeting between the two old friends was a very hearty one, and Dr. Bell would have insisted on Lord Carresford's returning with them at once to Navesink, but the latter explained that he had promised to dine with some friends at the Highlands that evening, and would consequently be unable to arrive at the Bells' before the following day. It was getting late, and as Dr. Bell was anxious to get his party home as soon as possible, the good-byes and thanks were quickly said and the four children were packed into the Bells' comfortable depot wagon. Lord Carresford insisted on carrying Jack to the carriage. "Good-bye, my small friend," he said kindly, as he tucked the laprobe about the little boy's feet. "I shall see you again, I hope, when I come to Navesink." "Good-bye, sir, and thank you very much," said Jack, holding out his hand. "I am very glad I met you. I have wanted for a long time to meet a lord, but I didn't really believe I ever should." It was nearly eight o'clock before the party reached home, and Dr. Bell drove at once to the boarding-house to leave Betty and Jack. Mrs. Randall was standing on the piazza gazing anxiously out into the gathering dusk. "Here we are, mother," called Betty, as the carriage drew up before the door; "we're all right, and I'm sure Jack hasn't taken cold." Mrs. Randall hurried down the steps, and took Jack in her arms. "Let me carry him," she said almost sharply to the doctor, who would have lifted the child from the carriage. "Oh, my little boy, were you very, very much frightened?" "I was pretty frightened at first," Jack admitted, with his arms clasped tight around his mother's neck, "but afterwards, when the yacht came, and the lord was so kind, I liked it, and then it was a great comfort to know you weren't frightened about us." "Are you sure you were warm enough all the time?" Mrs. Randall questioned anxiously. "Oh, yes, as warm as toast," said Jack, laughing. "They wrapped me all up in the laprobe driving home--and see this pretty silk handkerchief. The lord tied it around my neck for fear I should be cold." "The lord?" repeated Mrs. Randall, looking very much puzzled. "Why, yes, the lord that owns the yacht--and isn't it funny, mother, he's the same lord that's coming to stay at Dr. Bell's. He said he hoped he should see me again, and I hope so too, for he is the nicest gentleman I ever met." "Mother," said Jack an hour later, when his mother was putting him to bed, "do you know, I'm more glad than I ever was before that I'm an English boy." "Why?" his mother asked, smiling. "Because when I grow up I shall be an Englishman, and I do think Englishmen are very splendid. I like Dr. Bell, and Mr. Hamilton, and a good many other American gentlemen, but I never saw any one quite so splendid as that lord." Mrs. Randall laughed. "You enthusiastic little hero worshiper," she said. "What was the lord's name, by the way?" "I don't know," said Jack; "Lulu just called him 'your lordship.' They might have names like other people, I suppose." "Yes, of course, and it isn't customary to address a lord as 'your lordship' either, at least not among people of our class." "That must be why he laughed when Lulu did it," said Betty reflectively, "but she only wanted to be very respectful. Dr. Bell called him Jack." "Betty," whispered Jack, when their mother had left the room, and the two children were alone together, "do you suppose we shall ever see Uncle Jack?" "I don't know," said Betty sadly. "I'm sure mother never will write to him, and of course he wouldn't be likely to come to America." "You don't know where he lives in England, do you?" "Mother told me once, but I forget the name of the place. Why do you want to know?" "Because," said Jack slowly, raising himself on his elbow as he spoke, "if I knew it, I think I would write him a letter myself." "Oh, Jack, you wouldn't dare?" "Yes, I think I would," said Jack, "and I think if he really came, mother would love it." "She would love to see him," Betty admitted, "but she doesn't like to write, for fear he might think she wanted money or something like that." "I want to see him too," said Jack; "I want it very much indeed." "Why? You never seemed to care so much before." "No, I didn't, not till to-day, but then you see I had never talked to an Englishman before." "And does that make a difference?" Betty asked, somewhat puzzled. "Of course it does. Uncle Jack is an Englishman too, and perhaps--I don't really suppose he is--but he might be just a little bit like the lord." "You are a funny boy," said Betty, laughing. "The lord was very kind, and ever so good to us, but then----" "He was the most splendid man I ever saw," interrupted Jack, "and I wish--I do wish--that when I grow up I might be just exactly like him." The Randalls was not the only household in which Lord Carresford was the subject of conversation that evening. "Your friend has certainly succeeded in captivating the children's affections, Charlie," said Mrs. Bell to her husband, as she joined him and her sister on the piazza after having seen Lulu safely tucked up in bed. "Lulu has talked of nothing else since she came home, and I have just been talking to Mrs. Hamilton at the telephone. She says her little girl is of the opinion that 'his lordship' is the most delightful person she has ever encountered." "That was always the way with old Jack," said the doctor, smiling. "There was never a man, woman, or child who had not something to say in his praise. He was the most popular man in his class." "I declare I can hardly wait till to-morrow to make his acquaintance," laughed Miss Warren. "Did you ever know any of his people, Charlie?" "No, I never met any of them. I fancy his father was a rather eccentric old gentleman, who did not encourage visitors. There was a sister he used to talk about a good deal, but I never met her. I left college the year before he did, and I have a vague recollection of having heard that the sister made an unfortunate marriage, but I have forgotten the circumstances." "I hope that poor little Randall boy won't be any the worse for his adventure of this afternoon," Mrs. Bell said, a little anxiously. "Oh, no, I think not; we wrapped him up well coming home, and he seemed as happy as possible. Indeed, I have an idea that he rather enjoyed the whole adventure, for he is a true boy, after all." "I like Mrs. Randall very much," remarked Miss Warren. "She is an excellent teacher, and a thoroughly cultivated woman. I wish I knew more of her history, and could do something to help her, for I am sure she has had a hard time. Don't you know anything about her family, Charlie?" "Nothing whatever. Betty once told me that their only relative is an uncle in England, whom she has never seen." "Lulu says Jack's grandfather was a general," said Mrs. Bell. "They are certainly a most interesting family, and I wish we could manage to do something for that poor Mrs. Randall. There is a tragedy of some kind written plainly on her face." CHAPTER XIV JACK'S NEW FRIEND "May I inquire what you are thinking of so intently, Miss Lulu?" Lulu gave a little start, and glanced up from her seat on the piazza steps, into Lord Carresford's kind, amused face. "His lordship," stretched comfortably in the hammock, with book and cigar, had been regarding her in silence for several minutes. "I was thinking," said Lulu slowly, "how differently things generally happen from the way you expect them to." "I thought it must be something rather absorbing," said "his lordship" with a smile, "you looked so very serious. What has put that particular thought into your head just now, I wonder." "Why, it was you," said Lulu, flushing a little. "I began by thinking how different you were from what we thought you were going to be. When papa said a lord was coming to stay with us, I was really quite uncomfortable. I thought it would be such a dreadfully solemn thing to have one in the house." Lord Carresford laughed. "And you have since discovered that I am not such a very solemn person after all, is that it?" "Yes," said Lulu; "you're not the least bit solemn, you know, but much nicer than any other gentleman who ever came to stay with us. It's only two days since you came, but it seems as if we'd all known you a long time. Betty said she didn't believe lords were any different from other people, but the rest of us all thought they must be." "Good for Betty. How did she obtain her superior knowledge about lords?" "She said the lords in books were just like other people, and then I suppose being English made her know a little more about such things, though she's never been in England herself." "English," repeated Lord Carresford in surprise; "I did not know that the Hamiltons were English." "They're not, but Betty isn't Mrs. Hamilton's little girl. Did you think she was Winifred's sister?" "Yes, I did think so; and the little lame boy--isn't he a Hamilton either?" "Oh, no," said Lulu, laughing; "Winifred hasn't any brothers or sisters at all. She and I are great friends, but we haven't known Betty and Jack very long. They lived in the same apartment house with Winifred in New York, and she got acquainted with them in the spring. Their mother was very ill, and papa attended her. Jack couldn't walk at all then, but papa thought he might be cured, so he went to a hospital, and had an operation. They came down here, because papa thought the sea air would do Jack good. They're staying at Mrs. Wilson's boarding house, and their mother gives music lessons. We're growing very fond of Betty and Jack, and I mean to have them for my friends always." "I took quite a fancy to Jack myself," said Lord Carresford; "he struck me as a rather remarkable little fellow." Lulu's face brightened. "I'm very glad," she said, "because Jack is so anxious to know you. Betty says he thinks you are the loveliest gentleman he has ever seen. He talks about you all the time and when he and Betty came over here yesterday, and I told him you had gone driving with papa, he looked dreadfully disappointed." Lord Carresford seemed both pleased and amused. "I must make a point of looking up my young friend, and having a little talk with him then," he said. "Do you suppose he is to be found on the beach this afternoon?" "Yes, I know he is; I saw Betty wheeling him down a little while ago. I'm waiting for Winifred, and then we're going too. I suppose you wouldn't care to go with us? It's very nice and cool down there." "I think I should like it very much," said Lord Carresford, smiling. "Your father will not be at home before six, I believe." "No, and mamma and Aunt Daisy have gone to a tea. Don't you like teas, Lord Carresford?" "Not very much. I prefer sitting here and watching the ocean. Do you enjoy teas yourself?" "I think I should like them," said Lulu reflectively; "I like most grown-up things. Betty says she wants to be a housekeeper when she grows up, but I should much rather be an authoress. Aunt Daisy is an authoress, you know, and people always like to talk to her. Jack is going to be an artist when he grows up, and he doesn't want Betty to be a housekeeper, because he says English ladies never work. Jack is really a very unselfish little boy. That day in the boat he wanted us all to wade ashore and leave him alone. He said he was a boy, and ought to be able to take care of himself. We think him very brave, and papa calls him a little soldier. Oh, here comes Winifred." And Lulu sprang to her feet, and hurried across the lawn to greet her friend. Winifred was very much impressed when her friend informed her in a whisper that "his lordship" was actually going to the beach with them, and the three were soon on their way. "Lord Carresford," said Lulu rather timidly, as they passed out of the gate, and turned in the direction of the board walk, "would you mind very much if I asked you a question?" "Not in the least." "Do you like being a lord?" "Well, I can scarcely say that I dislike it," said "his lordship," laughing. "The fact is, I don't think I have quite recovered from the surprise of the whole thing as yet." "Why were you surprised? Didn't you always expect to be one?" "I never even dreamed of such a thing until about a year ago. My uncle was Lord Carresford as long as he lived, and when he died the title naturally descended to his son, my cousin. He had always been very strong and well, but he died suddenly of pneumonia a year ago last spring, and as he was not married, and I was the nearest male relative, the title and estates came to me." "That's just the way it was with little Lord Fauntleroy," said Winifred, much struck by the coincidence, "and he didn't think he was going to like it at first, but afterwards he didn't mind so much. Have you got a beautiful castle in England, like the one Fauntleroy had?" "I have several rather nice places. If you ever come to England you must make me a visit at Carresford Towers. You would like that, I think; it is very pretty." "We should like it very much," said Winifred politely. "I wish Jack could go to England some time; he's so much interested in all English things. Have you got a park with deer in it?" "Yes, a very nice one." "And who will be Lord Carresford when you--after you get through?" Lulu inquired, finding some difficulty in framing her question in the most delicate manner. Lord Carresford laughed. "That depends upon circumstances," he said. "If I should happen to marry and have a son, he would naturally take my place. Otherwise the title would go to one of my nephews, if I had any." "Have you got any nephews now?" Lulu asked. "No, at least none that I know of. I have two married sisters in England, but their children all happen to be girls." "It's all very interesting," said Lulu; "it sounds just like a thing out of a book. There are Betty and Jack sitting on the bathing house steps. Won't they be surprised when they see who is with us?" "Well, my boy, and how have you been amusing yourself to-day?" Lord Carresford asked kindly, seating himself beside Jack on the steps, as the three little girls strolled away in search of other amusements. "I've been having a very pleasant time, sir," said Jack, whose heart was beating faster than was quite comfortable, and whose cheeks were flushing and paling by turns. To find himself actually alone with "the lord," engaged in familiar conversation with him, was an honor he had never even dreamed of. "Betty and I were on the beach all the morning. I like it better than any other place." "You are fond of the sea, then?" "Oh, yes, indeed, I love just to sit and look at it. It's very interesting to look at things, don't you think so?" "Well, yes, I suppose it is, though I can't say I have ever thought very much on the subject." "Well, you see, it's rather different with me," Jack explained in his odd, old-fashioned way, "because until this summer I never saw many things. I hardly ever went out, and you know one can't see very much from back windows, especially when one lives on the top floor." "I should not imagine the view could have been very interesting," said Lord Carresford, smiling; "but how did it happen that you so seldom went out?" "Why, you see, I was too heavy to carry, and of course we couldn't afford to have a carriage. I did go in a carriage once, though; I saw Central Park." And Jack launched forth into a description of Winifred's invitation, and his birthday treat. Lord Carresford began to look really interested. "And how did you amuse yourself all day in the house?" he inquired, rather curiously, when Jack had finished his story. "Oh, I got on very well. I read a good deal, and drew pictures, and then Betty was always there, and mother came home in the afternoons. You never heard my mother play on the piano, did you?" "No, I have never had the pleasure of meeting your mother." "I think she plays better than any one else in the world," said Jack simply. "She used to play for me every evening, because she knew I loved it, though sometimes she was dreadfully tired. Oh, I had very good times, though of course it is much nicer here." "Did you say you drew pictures?" Lord Carresford asked. "Yes, I like to draw better than almost anything else, but I don't suppose I do it at all right. I've been making a picture this afternoon." "May I look at it? I am very much interested in pictures." Jack produced a folded paper from his pocket, which he handed to Lord Carresford. "I was going to take it home to mother," he explained; "she likes to keep all my pictures." Lord Carresford unfolded the paper, and glanced, at first rather carelessly, at the rough little sketch. Then suddenly his expression changed, and when he again turned to the little boy there was a new interest in his manner. [Illustration: "It is very good," said Lord Carresford.--_Page 189_.] "Who taught you to draw?" he asked rather abruptly. "No one," said Jack; "I just did it. My father was an artist, and mother thinks that may be the reason why I can do it. Please, sir, would you mind telling me if it's very bad?" "It is very good," said Lord Carresford heartily; "remarkably good for a boy of your age. You will be an artist when you grow up, or I am much mistaken." Jack's face was radiant. "Do you really think so?" he asked breathlessly. "Oh, I'm so glad. I should like so very, very much to be an artist." "Why are you so anxious on the subject?" Lord Carresford asked, with a kindly glance at the flushed, eager little face. "I think it's partly because my father was one, but mostly because I want to make money," said Jack. "You want to make money, eh? and what will you do with the money when it is made?" "Why, take care of mother and Betty, of course," said Jack, surprised at the question. "Isn't that what men always do with the money they make?--take care of their families, I mean." "Well, I am afraid not always," said Lord Carresford, laughing; "don't you think that you may need a share for yourself?" "Oh, not much," said Jack confidently. "You see, I shall always live with mother and Betty, and if they have things, why, of course I shall have them too. I don't want mother to give music lessons when I grow up, and Betty mustn't be a housekeeper, though she says she would like to be one." "Have you a particular objection to housekeepers, then?" "Oh, no, it isn't that, only I don't think--Lord Carresford, would you mind telling me something?" "Not at all; what is it?" "It's about ladies," said Jack, flushing; "English ladies I mean. They never work, do they?" "Many of them do when it is necessary. There is nothing to be ashamed of in honest work, you know." "Oh, I know there isn't. Mother works, and Lulu's aunt writes books. But I mean the kind of ladies who have lords for their relations--do they ever work?" "Well, they are not very often obliged to, but I have known of cases where even ladies of title have supported themselves. I see your point, though; you don't want your sister to be obliged to work." "No," said Jack; "not if I can take care of her. I want her to live in a beautiful place, with a park, like mother--I mean like some people--and never have to do anything she doesn't want to." "Well," said Lord Carresford, smiling, "I am not certain about the park, but you ought to be able to make a comfortable home for your mother and sister. You have talent, my boy, and it should be cultivated. You must have lessons." Jack's bright face clouded. "Don't lessons cost a good deal, sir?" he asked anxiously. "Yes, but in a case like yours I don't think the expense of the thing should be taken into consideration. A boy who can draw as well as you can without ever taking a lesson, ought to have every advantage for improving his talent. Your mother should place you under one of the very best teachers in New York, and then when you are older you will be able to make good use of the advantages you have received." "But if it costs a good deal of money I'm afraid mother couldn't possibly afford it," said Jack mournfully. "I shouldn't like to speak to her about it either, because it might worry her. When mother's worried about things she doesn't sleep, and then her eyes look so tired." Lord Carresford was silent. There was something rather pathetic in the sight of the little patient face, that but a moment before had been so bright and hopeful. This small boy was interesting him very much. He thought of his own great wealth, and of how easy it would be to him to give the child the help he needed. And yet, as he told himself, it would not do to be too hasty. He really knew nothing whatever about this family. So when he spoke again, it was on a different subject. The little girls soon returned, and Lulu requested Lord Carresford to tell them a story. "His lordship's" powers in that direction had already been discovered by the little girl. He complied very willingly with the request, and soon had the whole party listening in breathless interest to an account of some of his experiences when hunting big game in India. So Dr. Bell, coming down to the beach on his return from town, found a very happy little group gathered about his friend, and it was not without considerable regret that the children bade good-bye to their fascinating entertainer, and watched him and the doctor walking away together. "That little boy interests me very much," Lord Carresford remarked, pausing to light a cigar, when they had reached the board walk, "and do you know that he has a great deal of talent?" "Talent for what?" the doctor inquired in surprise. "Have you never happened to see any of his sketches?" "No, never; are they worth anything?" "My dear fellow, the child is a genius. He tells me he has never had a drawing lesson in his life, and yet, I assure you, his drawings are better than many I have seen made by students who have been at work for years. He ought to have the best teaching that can be procured." Dr. Bell looked interested. "I am afraid there may be difficulties in the way," he said. "The mother is a music teacher, and I am sorry to say is far from strong. I fancy she has a rather uphill road to travel." "Well, she ought to be told of her boy's talent at any rate," said Lord Carresford, rather impatiently. "The raising of sufficient money for lessons ought not to be difficult. I am sure I should be very glad to contribute myself to so good a cause." "It might not be difficult in some cases," said the doctor, laughing, "but I am afraid that in that particular case there would be a good deal of trouble. The mother has the airs and manner of a queen. I should like to see her expression if any one were to propose to her that a fund should be raised in order to give her small boy drawing lessons. I have never yet been able to muster sufficient courage to explain to her that I do not intend sending in a bill for professional services. She was laid up with a sharp attack of pneumonia this spring. When she was taken ill she told her children she could not afford to have a doctor sent for. Fortunately Hamilton's little girl, who happened to be a friend of theirs, took matters into her own hands, in the absence of her mother, and came for me. The poor woman was delirious when I reached there, and we had a hard time to pull her through. I believe that if it were not for the children she would starve rather than accept a penny from any one. She adores them, though, especially the boy, and no wonder, for he is one of the finest little fellows I have ever seen." "Poor soul," said Lord Carresford, with a sigh. "Well, she must be told of her boy's prospects, and then she can do as she likes about accepting the necessary aid." CHAPTER XV SOMETHING HAPPENS "Is it finished, Winifred?" "Ye--yes," said Winifred slowly, laying down her pencil, and surveying rather ruefully the large sheet of foolscap in her lap. "It's finished, but it isn't any good; I know your aunt won't like it." "Oh, yes, she will," said Lulu encouragingly, coming over to her friend's side, and surveying the result of her labors with evident satisfaction. The two little girls were together in Lulu's room, and for the past half-hour Winifred had been making a desperate effort to finish her story. "It isn't as long as mine," Lulu went on, "But I think it's a very pretty story. 'The Indian' is a nice name, isn't it? I've called mine 'The Discovery of New Haven.' Of course I don't mean the New Haven where the Boston trains stop. It's just an imaginary place, you know. We must go and read our stories to Aunt Daisy now. I'm just crazy to know how she will like them." Winifred hesitated. "I know she'll think mine dreadfully silly," she said. "Don't you think you could possibly read it to her after I go home?" "Of course not," said Lulu with decision; "you must read it to her yourself, the same as I do. Come along." Winifred rose rather reluctantly, and the two little girls went downstairs, and out on the piazza, where they found Lord Carresford and Miss Warren sitting together. "His lordship" was reading aloud to the blind lady, but at the children's approach he laid down his book. "Well, young ladies," he said pleasantly, "and what have you been doing all the morning?" "Winifred has been finishing her story," said Lulu, "and I've been making a bureau cover for the fair. We came down to read our stories to Aunt Daisy, but if you're reading to her now we can go away, and do it another time." "No, indeed," said Lord Carresford, "I am sure Miss Warren would much prefer your reading to mine, but may I not be permitted to hear the stories too?" Lulu hesitated, and glanced at Winifred. "We don't usually like to have grown-up people read our things," she said doubtfully, "but you've been so very kind to us--shall we do it, Winifred?" "I'd rather go home, and let you read them both," said Winifred, with a rather wistful glance in the direction of the distant hotel. "I guess I'd better go home, any way. Mother's very busy sewing for the fair, and she might want me to help her, you know." "No, she won't," said Lulu confidently; "mamma is with her, and grown-up ladies always like to be by themselves when they sew, don't they, Aunt Daisy?" "I don't know, I am sure," said Miss Warren, laughing, "but I really think Winifred had better stay here. You ought not to mind letting Lord Carresford hear your story, Winnie; think of all the stories he has told you himself." "Yes, and remember how kind he was that day on the yacht," put in Lulu. "If he hadn't come to help us we might have all been drowned. I think we each ought to do something to give him pleasure." "But it wouldn't give him pleasure to hear my silly old story," Winifred protested, blushing. Lord Carresford insisted, however, that nothing could possibly give him greater pleasure at that moment, and Winifred, being a very good-natured, obliging little girl, made no further objections, only begging that Lulu's story might be read first. So the two little girls settled themselves comfortably on the piazza steps, and their elders prepared to listen. "My story is called 'The Discovery of New Haven,'" remarked Lulu, with an air of pride, as she unfolded her manuscript. "Shall I begin now, Aunt Daisy?" Miss Warren nodded; Lord Carresford lighted a cigar, and Lulu began. "THE DISCOVERY OF NEW HAVEN "Once there were two little girls, whose names were Lillie and Violet. Their home was in a beautiful country place called Haven. Lillie and Violet each had a pony of her own, besides a great many other wonderful things, including gardens, rabbits, and beautiful toys. Their father and mother were very good, religious people, and though they were rich themselves, they were not forgetful of the poor. They wished their little girls to grow up to be noble women. "One evening after Lillie and Violet had gone to bed, and their father and mother--whose names were Mr. and Mrs. Lafayette--were sitting together in their beautiful parlor all furnished in velvet and gold, Mr. Lafayette suddenly paused in the middle of a piece he was playing on the pianola, and said: "'My dear, I have thought of a most beautiful plan. Let us go to the city to-morrow, and look for two little poor children, and bring them home with us to be companions to our little girls. It is time they began to learn to make other people happy.' "Mrs. Lafayette was delighted with this suggestion, and the next morning they started for the city. "The scene now changes to a dirty, crowded city street---- * * * * * "Don't you think that's a nice expression, Aunt Daisy, 'the scene now changes'? I got it out of 'Tales from Scott.'" "It sounds a little like Scott, I think," Miss Warren said, smiling, and Lulu went on. * * * * * "The scene now changes to a dirty, crowded city street, where Joe and Nannie, two poor little beggar children, were busily engaged in selling matches and shoe lacings. Joe and Nannie were very poor indeed. Their father and mother were dead, and ever since they were two and three years old they had been obliged to take care of themselves. They did not even sleep in a house, but generally passed their nights in areas with their heads pillowed on the cold stone steps. It was often very uncomfortable, especially in winter, but they were very brave, cheerful children, and no one had ever heard one word of complaint from their lips. They were also very clean, and would often go to the free baths without being told. "One very hot day in summer, when Joe and Nannie were standing on a corner, wishing most earnestly that some one would stop and buy their matches and shoe lacings a car suddenly stopped just in front of them and an elegantly dressed lady and gentleman got out." * * * * * "Don't you think it was rather poor taste in the lady and gentleman to be so elegantly dressed under the circumstances?" Aunt Daisy asked, with difficulty restraining a desire to laugh. Lulu looked a little discomfited. "It sounds pretty," she said. "I really don't think it matters, Aunt Daisy, as it's only a story." * * * * * "The children went up to them and asked them to please buy some of their things, but the lady, with a most beautiful smile, said: "'Come with us, dear children, and we will take you to a much nicer place than you have ever seen in your poor, forsaken little lives.' "Joe and Nannie, wondering very much, followed the elegant lady and gentleman, for they trusted them at once. When they came to the station, Mr. Lafayette bought tickets, and then they all got into the train that was to take them to Haven. The children had never been in a train before, and at first they were very much frightened, but their kind new friends smiled reassuringly upon them, and their fears were soon calmed. "Lillie and Violet were very much surprised when they saw their father and mother returning from the city with two strange, ragged children, but matters were quickly explained to them, and then Mrs. Lafayette said: "'We will first take your new companions upstairs, and dress them in some of your clothes, and then you may take them for a walk, and show them some of the beauties of the country they have come to live in.' "So when Joe and Nannie had been neatly dressed, the children all went out together, each rich child holding the hand of a poor one. Everything was a joy and a wonder to Joe and Nannie, and they had never been so happy in their lives. They walked a long distance, much further than even Lillie or Violet had ever been before, and at last they came to a great forest. It was very beautiful, and so wild that the children loved it, and they all sat down to rest. "Suddenly they heard a strange sound; it was the distant roar of a lion. Lillie and Violet were frightened, and wanted to run home, but Joe and Nannie looked at each other with shining eyes, and Joe cried joyfully: "'That is the roar of a lion, so this must be an uncivilized country. Perhaps it has never before been discovered, and if so we have discovered it, and it will belong to us.' "Then Joe and Nannie embraced each other, and they all hurried home. "When Mr. Lafayette heard of the adventure, he told them that they had indeed made a great discovery, for no one had ever before taken possession of that wild tract of country. "After that they all went to Washington, and the President gave Joe a claim to the undiscovered country. * * * * * "I don't know just what a claim is, but I read about it in a book. * * * * * "Then they came back again, and Joe and Nannie took possession of their vast domain, and because they wanted to show the Lafayettes how grateful they were for all their kindness, they christened their new kingdom, 'New Haven.' In time they became very rich and powerful, and Joe married an Indian princess, and Nannie married a great duke." * * * * * "You ought to have had Joe marry one of the Lafayette girls," Lord Carresford said, laughing, as Lulu paused, and began folding up her manuscript. "It would have been another little proof of his gratitude, you know." "I thought of that," said Lulu, "but an Indian princess sounded so pretty. Now, Winifred, it's your turn." "My story isn't nearly as nice as yours," said Winifred modestly; "are you sure you really want me to read it?" "Quite sure," said Lord Carresford and Miss Warren both together. Winifred's cheeks were hot, and her heart was beating uncomfortably, but she made a mighty effort to steady her voice, and unfolding her paper, began to read very fast indeed. "THE INDIAN "Once upon a time there was a little girl named Rosalie. She had an older brother named John, and she had a father but not a mother. "One day she was in the garden playing with her brother, when she suddenly saw a very curious-looking figure coming towards them through the trees. She paused for a moment in amazement, and then called, 'Brother.' "'What is it, Rosalie?' said her brother. "'What is that, Brother? Look at that awful thing coming towards us across the field.' "'That is an Indian, Rosalie. Let us run to the house, and tell father.' "They ran to the house as fast as they could, and told their father. When their father came out he said in a stern tone. 'Where is that strange figure that you saw, Rosalie?' "Rosalie looked all around, and then said: 'There, father; he is up in that tree. I see his red blanket.' "'That is an Indian, Rosalie, coming here to camp. I will get rid of him. Go into the house, and do your lessons.' "So Rosalie went into the house and did her lessons. When her father came in she asked, 'How did you get rid of him, father?' "Then her father answered: 'I did not get rid of him, Rosalie. He was John, the coachman, coming home from the village with some red blankets. Neither was it an Indian you saw in the tree, but only a red heron, and remember, I do not want you ever again to tell me a thing until you are quite sure it is true. Now, run off and play.'--THE END." * * * * * "A very nice little story," said Miss Warren, smiling approvingly, as Winifred paused; "I shall certainly use it in my book." "I wanted her to make it longer," observed Lulu regretfully, "but she said she couldn't possibly think of another word to say." [Note.--The above stories were written word for word by two little girls eight and ten years of age.] "It has a good moral at any rate," laughed Lord Carresford, "and that is more than can be said for every story. Are you going in, Miss Warren?" "I have a little writing to do this morning," the blind lady explained, rising, and folding up her knitting as she spoke, "and Mrs. Randall is coming in half an hour for my music lesson. Are you going to the beach, Lulu?" "No; mamma thinks it too hot on the beach to-day, and Mrs. Hamilton doesn't want Winifred to go either. We've asked Betty and Jack over here, and mamma says we may have lemonade and cookies by and by." "Lulu," said Lord Carresford, as the screen door closed behind Miss Warren, "who is Mrs. Randall?" "Why, don't you know? She's Betty and Jack's mother, and she gives Aunt Daisy music lessons. She's a splendid music teacher, every one says so." "I did not know their name was Randall," said Lord Carresford, looking interested, though a little troubled as well. "They are English, are they not?" "Mrs. Randall is, but Betty and Jack were born in this country. Their father died when Jack was only two, and they were very poor. Mrs. Randall doesn't like to have them talk about it; she's a very proud lady." At that moment Winifred announced that the Randalls were approaching, and the two little girls ran off across the lawn to meet their friends. "Jack," said Lord Carresford, sitting down beside the little boy, when he had assisted in placing him comfortably in the big steamer chair, "did you say anything to your mother about what I told you yesterday afternoon?" Jack's eyes fell, and the color rose in his cheeks. "N--no, sir," he faltered; "I told Betty, and we decided it would be better not to say anything to mother about it. You see, she'd be so very sorry not to be able to let me have the lessons." "And have you no relations who could afford to help you--no uncles or aunts, for instance?" Jack shook his head. "We haven't any relations at all," he said mournfully, "only an uncle in England, and we don't know him." "Don't know him, eh; but your mother knows him, doesn't she?" "Oh, yes, at least she used to; he's her brother, you know, but we've never seen him, and mother doesn't like to have us talk much about him, because it makes her sad." "What is your uncle's name?" Lord Carresford spoke quickly, and there was a kind of suppressed excitement in his manner, which surprised Jack very much. "His name is Mr. John Stanhope," said Jack proudly; "I am named for him. My grandfather was General Stanhope, and we have another uncle, who is a--but, oh, I forgot; mother said we mustn't talk about him." Lord Carresford rose hurriedly. He had suddenly grown very pale. "Is your mother at home now?" he asked in a voice so odd and unsteady that Jack stared at him in growing bewilderment. "Yes, I think she is," he said slowly; "she's coming over here pretty soon to give Miss Warren her music lesson. Don't you feel very well, sir?" "Yes, yes, my boy, I am all right. I must see your mother, that is all. I--I think I used to know her long ago in England." "Did you really?" inquired Jack, his face brightening. "Oh, I'm very glad. Perhaps you knew our Uncle Jack too, and can tell us where he lives." At that moment Betty's voice was heard from the other end of the piazza. "Here comes mother, Jack." Lord Carresford turned his head; took a few hurried steps forward, and then stood still, gazing at the figure of the tall lady rapidly approaching across the lawn. He was very white, but there was a strange, glad light in his eyes. All unconscious of the stranger's eager scrutiny the lady had almost reached the piazza steps before the sound of Betty's voice caused her to raise her eyes. Then suddenly her glance met that of Lord Carresford, and, with a low cry, she started forward with both hands outstretched. "Jack," she gasped, "oh, Jack!" And then all at once her strength seemed to fail her, and she sank down on the lowest step, shaking from head to foot, while every particle of color went out of her face. Ten minutes later Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Hamilton, who were spending a pleasant morning together in the latter's room at the hotel, were startled by the sudden and violent opening of the door, and the precipitate entrance of Lulu and Winifred, both hatless, breathless, and almost beside themselves with excitement. "Oh, mamma, mamma," cried Lulu, flinging herself upon her astonished mother, "the most wonderful, exciting, extraordinary thing has happened! Lord Carresford is kissing Mrs. Randall on our piazza, and she's got her arms round his neck, and is laughing and crying both at the same time. We don't know what it all means, but we told Aunt Daisy, and she said we'd better come for you." CHAPTER XVI UNCLE JACK "I think it's the most interesting thing that ever happened in all our lives," remarked Lulu in a tone of conviction. "To think of Lord Carresford's turning out to be Betty's own uncle, and we never knowing a thing about it." It was late in the afternoon, and the two little girls were sitting in their favorite spot on the bathing house steps, discussing the events of the day. "It is very interesting," said Winifred, with a little sigh of content. "It's really quite like a book thing; don't you think so?" "Just as interesting things happen really as they do in books," said Lulu with superior wisdom. "Aunt Daisy says truth is stranger than fiction, and she ought to know, because she writes books herself. Lots of interesting things have happened to us, but I don't think anything was ever quite so wonderful as this one." "I should think Betty and Jack would be just crazy. I know I should be if a lord turned out to be my uncle, especially if he were as nice as Lord Carresford." "Just think," said Winifred reflectively, "the Rossiters said their mother was surprised we were allowed to be so intimate with Betty, because we didn't know anything about her family. Won't they be surprised when they hear all about it. I don't suppose the Randalls will be any different now they know they've got a lord for a relation, though it would be enough to make some people rather stuck up; don't you think it would? You remember how stuck up Elsie Carleton was that time her uncle's sister-in-law married a duke's son." "Bother Elsie Carleton," retorted Lulu with scorn. "Betty isn't that kind of a person, or Jack either." "Do you suppose they'll go to England and live in a castle?" Winifred inquired in a rather awestruck tone. "I suppose so; Lord Carresford is dreadfully rich, you know, and if he shouldn't ever happen to get married, why, Jack would inherit his title, and be a lord too." "He'd rather be an artist, I think," said Winifred, "or a general, like his grandfather. Oh, here they come; now they'll tell us all about it." There was certainly no appearance of lofty superiority about the Randalls, as they came hurrying along the sand, Betty pushing Jack's go-cart as usual, and their greeting to their friends was very much as it had been that morning, before they had, as Lulu expressed it, "found out they had a lord for a relation." "We're so awfully glad you've come," said Lulu joyfully, helping Jack out of the go-cart, while Winifred hastily improvised a seat for him in the sand. "We wanted to go over to see you, but mamma and Mrs. Hamilton said we mustn't. They thought your mother and Lord Carresford might have a great many things to talk about, and wouldn't want us around." "They've been talking all the afternoon in mother's room," said Betty, "and Jack and I stayed out on the piazza, but a little while ago they called us in, and told us about everything. You can't think how pretty mother looks; her eyes are just shining, and she's got such a lovely color in her cheeks." "I should think she would be glad," said Lulu comprehendingly. "Does it feel funny to be so very rich, Betty?" Betty laughed and blushed. "We're not so very rich," she said modestly. "We shouldn't have been rich at all, only that our grandfather was sorry just before he died, and wanted to make another will, and leave some of his money to mother. He told Uncle Jack, and he was very glad, and sent right off for a lawyer, but our grandfather, who was very ill, didn't live till the lawyer came. But Uncle Jack promised he would try to find mother, and make it all right about the money. That's what he came to this country for, but, you see, the trouble was he didn't know what part of America father and mother had come to. He didn't even know that father was dead. Mother never heard Lord Carresford's name until she saw him, standing on your piazza, but even if she had she wouldn't have known he was Uncle Jack, because she had never heard of the other two Lord Carresfords being dead." "I think it's the loveliest thing I ever heard of," said Winifred, "just think, Jack, you'll live in a castle with a park, like little Lord Fauntleroy." "And mother won't have to work any more," said Jack, with sparkling eyes, "and Betty will be a lady when she grows up, the kind of lady I wanted her to be. Oh, I'm so happy, I feel as if I should like to fly." "When father and mother first came home from California I used to think it must be a dream," said Winifred, "but it was all true, and so is this lovely thing about your Uncle Jack." And Winifred slipped her kind little hand lovingly into that of her friend. Jack gave the small fingers an appreciative squeeze. "There's only one thing I'm sorry about," he whispered shyly, "and that is that when we go to England to live we won't see you any more, not unless you come over there to see us some time." "Perhaps we shall," said Winifred hopefully. "If we do will you ask us to stay at your castle?" "Of course, and--I say, Winnie, when I grow up--I shall be able to walk like other people then, you know--I'll come over here to see you, and--and I'll marry you if you want me to. I like you better than any other girl in the world except Betty." "There's mother beckoning to me; I must go right away," exclaimed Winifred, starting to her feet, and looking extremely red. "Good-night, Jack; good-night, Betty and Lulu." And away flew the little girl, never pausing or looking back until she was safely at her mother's side. "I wonder what made Winifred leave in such a hurry," remarked Lulu, looking after her friend in some surprise, but Jack did not offer any explanation. "Well, Jack, my boy," said Lord Carresford, joining his little nephew on the boarding house piazza that evening after dinner, and laying his hand affectionately on his shoulder, "what makes you look so serious? No more difficulties about drawing lessons, eh?" "Oh, Uncle Jack, I'm so very happy; I was just thinking how beautiful everything is, and I was wishing----" "Well, what were you wishing?" his uncle asked smiling, as Jack paused. "Only that everybody else in the world might be happy too." "Rather a big wish, isn't it, my boy? but your mother and I have been talking things over just now, and we have a plan, which I think may give some of your little friends pleasure. You know you are to leave this house the day after to-morrow; now where should you like best to go?" "On board the yacht," said Jack unhesitatingly. "Well, that is just where we are thinking of going. I want to take your mother for a short cruise to the coast of Maine, and I propose that we invite the Bells and Hamiltons to go with us. I believe Dr. Bell and Mr. Hamilton both talk of taking vacations next week." Jack's eyes danced with delight. "I think," he said, with a sigh of deep content, "that it would be the very nicest thing that could possibly happen." That evening Lord Carresford had a long talk with his friends Dr. and Mrs. Bell, the result of which was that three days later "his lordship's" yacht was gliding smoothly out of the harbor, bound for the coast of Maine, and carrying on board four very happy children. "When I said I wished I could go to sea in a yacht the day we were shipwrecked, I never dreamed it would really happen," remarked Lulu, surveying her new surroundings with an expression of intense satisfaction. "I think it's really quite remarkable the way things happen sometimes." "I wish your mother and aunt could have come too," said Winifred a little regretfully. "I don't believe anybody could really be seasick in this lovely place." "It isn't always as smooth as this," returned Lulu, remembering past experiences of Father Ocean. "You see it isn't very comfortable for people to go on yachts when they are apt to be seasick. Mamma and Aunt Daisy were both dreadfully seasick when we went to Europe." "I hope you won't be homesick," said Betty anxiously. "You haven't ever been away from your mother before, have you?" "No, but I sha'n't be, I know. It's only for a week, and I'm going to write her a letter every day, and one to Aunt Daisy too. Then I've got papa, you know, and Mrs. Hamilton is going to take care of me." "And no one could possibly be homesick with my mother," added Winifred, with an adoring glance at Mrs. Hamilton, who was sitting near by, chatting with Mrs. Randall. "Well, young people, are you having a good time?" Lord Carresford inquired, sauntering up to the group. "Yes, indeed we are," came in chorus from all four voices. "Come with me to the other side of the boat, and we'll have a last look at Sandy Hook. Do you want to come too, Jack?" "No, thank you," said the little boy, smiling happily; "I'd rather sit here; it's so comfortable." [Illustration: "I'm the happiest boy in the world," said Jack.--_Page 219_.] Lord Carresford and the three little girls moved away to the other side of the yacht, and were soon joined by Dr. Bell and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton. "Are you happy, Jack, darling?" Mrs. Randall whispered, bending down to kiss the radiant little face, when the two were left alone together. "Oh, mother, I'm the happiest boy in the world," said Jack, softly stroking his mother's hand, and laying his cheek against it. "All the beautiful things I've ever dreamed about have come true. I used to think that if I could only walk I would never wish for anything else, and now that's happened, and such lots and lots of other nice things too. We've found Uncle Jack, and I'm going to be an Englishman and an artist; and Betty's going to be a lady. Oh, mother, dear, doesn't it all seem just like a fairy story that's come true?" THE END +Only Dollie+ By Nina Rhoades Illustrated by Bertha Davidson Square 12mo Cloth $1.00 This is a brightly written story of a girl of twelve, who, when the mystery of her birth is solved, like Cinderella, passes from drudgery to better circumstances. There is nothing strained or unnatural at any point. All descriptions or portrayals of character are life-like, and the book has an indescribable appealing quality which wins sympathy and secures success. [Illustration] "It is delightful reading at all times."--_Cedar Rapids (Ia.) Republican_. "It is well written, the story runs smoothly, the idea is good, and it is handled with ability."--_Chicago Journal_. +The Little Girl Next Door+ By Nina Rhoades Large 12mo Cloth Illustrated by Bertha Davidson $1.00 A delightful story of true and genuine friendship between an impulsive little girl in a fine New York home and a little blind girl in an apartment next door. The little girl's determination to cultivate the acquaintance, begun out of the window during a rainy day, triumphs over the barriers of caste, and the little blind girl proves to be in every way a worthy companion. Later a mystery of birth is cleared up, and the little blind girl proves to be of gentle birth as well as of gentle manners. +Winifred's Neighbors+ By Nina Rhoades Illustrated by Bertha G. Davidson Large 12mo Cloth $1.00 [Illustration] Little Winifred's efforts to find some children of whom she reads in a book lead to the acquaintance of a neighbor of the same name, and this acquaintance proves of the greatest importance to Winifred's own family. Through it all she is just such a little girl as other girls ought to know, and the story will hold the interest of all ages. +The Children on the Top Floor+ By Nina Rhoades Large 12mo Cloth Illustrated by Bertha Davidson $1.00 [Illustration] In this book little Winifred Hamilton, the child heroine of "Winifred's Neighbors," reappears, living in the second of the four stories of a New York apartment house. On the top floor are two very interesting children, Betty, a little older than Winifred, who is now ten, and Jack, a brave little cripple, who is a year younger. In the end comes a glad reunion, and also other good fortune for crippled Jack, and Winifred's kind little heart has once more indirectly caused great happiness to others. +How Barbara Kept Her Promise+ By Nina Rhoades Large 12mo Cloth Illustrated by Bertha Davidson $1.00 Two orphan sisters, Barbara, aged twelve, and little Hazel, who is "only eight," are sent from their early home in London to their mother's family in New York. Faithful Barbara has promised her father that she will take care of pretty, petted, mischievous Hazel, and how she tries to do this, even in the face of great difficulties, forms the story which has the happy ending which Miss Rhoades wisely gives to all her stories. +Little Miss Rosamond+ By Nina Rhoades Illustrated by Bertha G. Davidson Large 12mo Cloth $1.00 [Illustration] Rosamond lives in Richmond, Va., with her big brother, who cannot give her all the comfort that she needs in the trying hot weather, and she goes to the seaside cottage of an uncle whose home is in New York. Here she meets Gladys and Joy, so well known in a previous book, "The Little Girl Next Door," and after some complications are straightened out, bringing Rosamond's honesty and kindness of heart into prominence, all are made very happy. _For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers_ LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON 
20071	----	SUE A LITTLE HEROINE by L. T. MEADE Author of "A Girl from America," "The Princess of the Revels," "Polly, a New-Fashioned Girl," "A Sweet Girl Graduate," etc. New York The New York Book Company 1910 BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY L. T. Meade (Mrs. Elizabeth Thomasina Smith), English novelist, was born at Bandon, County Cork, Ireland, 1854, the daughter of Rev. R. T. Meade, Rector of Novohal, County Cork, and married Toulmin Smith in 1879. She wrote her first book, _Lettie's Last Home_, at the age of seventeen and since then has been an unusually prolific writer, her stories attaining wide popularity on both sides of the Atlantic. She worked in the British Museum, living in Bishopsgate Without, making special studies of East London life which she incorporated in her stories. She edited _Atlanta_ for six years. Her pictures of girls, especially in the influence they exert on their elders, are drawn with intuitive fidelity; pathos, love, and humor, as in _Daddy's Girl_, flowing easily from her pen. She has traveled extensively, being devoted to motoring and other outdoor sports. Among more than fifty novels she has written, dealing largely with questions of home life, are: _David's Little Lad_; _Great St. Benedict's_; _A Knight of To-day_ (1877); _Miss Toosey's Mission_; _Bel-Marjory_ (1878); _Laddie; Outcast Robbin, or, Your Brother and Mine_; _A Cry from the Great City_; _White Lillie and Other Tales_; _Scamp and I_; _The Floating Light of Ringfinnan_; _Dot and Her Treasures_; _The Children's Kingdom: the Story of Great Endeavor_; _The Water Gipsies_; _A Dweller in Tents_; _Andrew Harvey's Wife_; _Mou-setse: A Negro Hero_ (1880); _Mother Herring's Chickens_ (1881); _A London Baby: the Story of King Roy_ (1883); _Hermie's Rose-Buds and Other Stories_; _How it all Came Round_; _Two Sisters_ (1884); _Autocrat of the Nursery_; _Tip Cat_; _Scarlet Anemones_; _The Band of Three_; _A Little Silver Trumpet_; _Our Little Ann_; _The Angel of Love_ (1885); _A World of Girls_ (1886); _Beforehand_; _Daddy's Boy_; _The O'Donnells of Inchfawn_; _The Palace Beautiful_; _Sweet Nancy_ (1887); _Deb and the Duchess_ (1888); _Nobody's Neighbors_; _Pen_ (1888); _A Girl from America_ (1907). CONTENTS I. BIG BEN'S VOICE. 1 II. A SERVANT OF GOD. 3 III. GOOD SECURITY. 7 IV. SOLITARY HOURS. 9 V. EAGER WORDS. 10 VI. DIFFERENT SORT OF WORK. 12 VII. SHOPPING. 21 VIII. COMPARISONS. 26 IX. A TRIP INTO THE COUNTRY. 31 X. THE RETURN TO LONDON. 35 XI. A NEW DEPARTURE. 44 XII. LEFT ALONE. 48 XIII. PETER HARRIS. 60 XIV. THE SEARCH. 66 XV. CONCENTRATION OF PURPOSE. 69 XVI. PICKLES. 74 XVII. CINDERELLA. 78 XVIII. THE METROPOLITAN FIRE BRIGADE. 79 XIX. A SAINTLY LADY. 83 XX. CAUGHT AGAIN. 87 XXI. SAFE HOME AT LAST. 94 XXII. NEWS OF SUE. 105 XXIII. AMATEUR DETECTIVE. 109 XXIV. MOTHER AND SON. 112 XXV. ABOUT RONALD. 113 XXVI. TWO CUPS OF COFFEE. 124 XXVII. DELAYED TRIAL. 127 XXVIII. CINDERELLA WOULD SHIELD THE REAL THIEF. 130 XXIX. A LITTLE HEROINE. 132 XXX. WHAT WAS HARRIS TO HER? 134 XXXI. A STERN RESOLVE. 136 XXXII. AN UNEXPECTED ACCIDENT. 137 XXXIII. A POINTED QUESTION. 138 XXXIV. PICKLES TO THE FORE AGAIN. 141 XXXV. THE WINGS ARE GROWING. 142 XXXVI. A CRISIS. 143 XXXVII. THE HAPPY GATHERING. 151 SUE: A LITTLE HEROINE. CHAPTER I. BIG BEN'S VOICE. Sue made a great effort to push her way to the front of the crowd. The street preacher was talking, and she did not wish to lose a word. She was a small, badly made girl, with a freckled face and hair inclined to red, but her eyes were wonderfully blue and intelligent. She pushed and pressed forward into the thick of the crowd. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and looking up, saw a very rough man gazing at her. "Be that you, Peter Harris?" said Sue. "An' why didn't yer bring Connie along?" "Hush!" said some people in the crowd. The preacher raised his voice a little higher: "'Tell His disciples and Peter that He goeth before you into Galilee.'" Peter Harris, the rough man, trembled slightly. Sue found herself leaning against him. She knew quite well that his breath was coming fast. "His disciples and Peter," she said to herself. The street preacher had a magnificent voice. It seemed to roll above the heads of the listening crowd, or to sink to a penetrating whisper which found its echo in their hearts. The deep, wonderful eyes of the man had a power of making people look at him. Sue gazed with all her might and main. "Father John be a good un," she said to herself. "He be the best man in all the world." After the discourse--which was very brief and full of stories, and just the sort which those rough people could not help listening to--a hymn was sung, and then the crowd dispersed. Sue was amongst them. She was in a great hurry. She forgot all about John Atkins, the little street preacher to whom she had been listening. She soon found herself in a street which was gaily lighted; there was a gin-palace at one end, another in the middle, and another at the farther end. This was Saturday night: Father John was fond of holding vigorous discourses on Saturday nights. Sue stopped to make her purchases. She was well-known in the neighborhood, and as she stepped in and out of one shop and then of another, she was the subject of a rough jest or a pleasant laugh, just as the mood of the person she addressed prompted one or other. She spent a few pence out of her meager purse, her purchases were put into a little basket, and she found her way home. The season was winter. She turned into a street back of Westminster; it went by the name of Adam Street. It was very long and rambling, with broken pavements, uneven roadways, and very tall, narrow, and dirty houses. In a certain room on the fourth floor of one of the poorest of these houses lay a boy of between ten and eleven years of age. He was quite alone in the room, but that fact did not at all insure his being quiet. All kinds of sounds came to him--sounds from the street, sounds from below stairs, sounds from overhead. There were shrieking voices and ugly laughter, and now and then there were shrill screams. The child was accustomed to these things, however, and it is doubtful whether he heard them. He was a sad-looking little fellow, with that deadly white complexion which children who never go into the fresh air possess. His face, however, was neither discontented nor unhappy. He lay very still, with patient eyes, quite touching in their absolute submission. Had any one looked hard at little Giles they would have noticed something else on his face--it was a listening look. The sounds all around did not discompose him, for his eyes showed that he was waiting for something. It came. Over and above the discord a Voice filled the air. Nine times it repeated itself, slowly, solemnly, with deep vibrations. It was "Big Ben" proclaiming the hour. The boy had heard the chimes which preceded the hour; they were beautiful, of course, but it was the voice of Big Ben himself that fascinated him. "Ain't he a real beauty to-night?" thought the child. "How I wishes as Sue 'ud hear him talk like that! Sometimes he's more weakly in his throat, poor fellow! but to-night he's in grand voice." The discord, which for one brief moment was interrupted for the child by the beautiful, harmonious notes, continued in more deafening fashion than ever. Children cried; women scolded; men cursed and swore. In the midst of the din the room door was opened and a girl entered. "Sue!" cried Giles. "Yes," answered Sue, putting down her basket as she spoke. "I'm a bit late; there wor a crowd in the street, and I went to hear him. He wor grand." "Oh, worn't he?" said Giles. "I never did know him to be in such beautiful voice." Sue came up and stared at the small boy. Her good-natured but somewhat common type of face was a great contrast to his. "Whatever are you talking about?" she said. "You didn't hear him; you can't move, poor Giles!" "But I did hear him," replied the boy. "I feared as I'd get off to sleep, but I didn't. I never did hear Big Ben in such voice--he gave out his text as clear as could be." "Lor', Giles!" exclaimed Sue, "I didn't mean that stupid clock; I means Father John. I squeezed up as close as possible to him, and I never missed a word as fell from his lips. Peter Harris were there too. I wonder how he felt. Bad, I 'spect, when he remembers the way he treated poor Connie. And oh, Giles! what do yer think? The preacher spoke to him jest as clear as clear could be, and he called him by his name--Peter. 'Tell His disciples and Peter,' Father John cried, and I could feel Peter Harris jump ahind me." "Wor that his text, Sue?" "Yes, all about Peter. It wor wonnerful." "Well, my text were, 'No more pain,'" said the boy. "I ache bad nearly always, but Big Ben said, 'No more pain,' as plain as he could speak, poor old fellow! It was nine times he said it. It were werry comforting." Sue made no reply. She was accustomed to that sort of remark from Giles. She busied herself putting the kettle on the fire to boil, and then cleaned a little frying-pan which by-and-by was to toast a herring for Giles's supper and her own. "Look what I brought yer," she said to the boy. "It were turning a bit, Tom Watkins said, and he gave it me for a ha'penny, but I guess frying and a good dash of salt 'ull make it taste fine. When the kettle boils I'll pour out your tea; you must want it werry bad." "Maybe I do and maybe I don't," answered Giles. "It's 'No more pain' I'm thinking of. Sue, did you never consider that maybe ef we're good and patient Lord Christ 'ull take us to 'eaven any day?" "No," answered Sue; "I'm too busy." She stood for a minute reflecting. "And I don't want to go to 'eaven yet," she continued; "I want to stay to look after you." Giles smiled. "It's beautiful in 'eaven," he said. "I'd like to go, but I wouldn't like to leave you, Sue." "Take your tea now, there's a good fellow," answered Sue, who was nothing if not matter-of-fact. "Aye, dear!" she continued as she poured it out and then waited for Giles to raise the cup to his lips, "Peter Harris do look bad. I guess he's sorry he was so rough on Connie. But now let's finish our supper, and I'll prepare yer for bed, Giles, for I'm desp'rate tired." CHAPTER II. A SERVANT OF GOD. John Atkins, the street preacher, was a little man who led a wonderful life. He was far better educated than most people of his station, and in addition his mind was tender in feeling and very sensitive and loving. He regarded everybody as his brothers and sisters, and in especial he took to his heart all sorrowful people. He never grumbled or repined, but he looked upon his life as a pilgrimage to a better country, and did not, therefore, greatly trouble if things were not quite smooth for him. This little man had a very wide circle of friends. The fact is, he had more power of keeping peace and order in the very poor part of London, back of Westminster, where he lived, than had any dignitary of the Church, any rector, any curate, or any minister, be he of what persuasion he might. Father John was very humble about himself. Indeed, one secret of his success lay in the fact that he never thought of himself at all. Having preached on this Saturday evening, as was his wont, to a larger crowd than usual, he went home. As he walked a passer-by could have seen that he was lame; he used a crutch. With the winter rain beating on him he looked insignificant. Presently he found the house where he had a room, went up the stairs, and entered, opening the door with a latch-key. A fire was burning here, and a small paraffin lamp with a red shade over it cast a warm glow over the little place. The moment the light fell upon Father John his insignificance vanished. That was a grand head and face which rose above the crippled body. The head was high and splendidly proportioned. It was crowned with a wealth of soft brown hair, which fell low on the shoulders. The forehead was lofty, straight, and full; the mouth rather compressed, with firm lines round it; the eyes were very deep set--they were rather light gray in color, but the pupils were unusually large. The pupils and the peculiar expression of the eyes gave them a wonderful power. They could speak when every other feature in the face was quiet. "I don't like them--I dread them," said Peter Harris on one occasion. "Aye, but don't I love 'em just!" remarked little Giles. Giles and Sue were special friends of John Atkins. They had, in fact, been left in his care by their mother three years before this story begins. This was the way they had first learned to know Father John. The man had a sort of instinct for finding out when people were in trouble and when they specially needed him. There was a poor woman lying on her dying bed, and a boy and a girl were kneeling close to her. "Keep a good heart up, Giles," she said to the boy. "I know I'm goin' to leave yer, and you're as lame as lame can be, but then there's Sue. Sue has a deal o' gumption for such a young un. Sue won't let yer want, Giles, lad; you need never go to the workhouse while Sue's alive." "No, that he needn't, mother," answered Sue. "Can't yer get back on to yer sofa, Giles?" she added, turning to the boy. "You'll break your back kneeling by mother all this time." "No, I won't; I'd rather stay," answered the boy. His eyes were full of light; he kept on stroking his mother's hand. "Go on, mother," he said. "Tell us more. You're goin' to 'eaven, and you'll see father." A sob strangled his voice for a minute. "Yes, I'll see my good 'usband--that is, I hope so; I can but trust--I allus have trusted, though often, ef I may say the truth, I couldn't tell what I were a-trusting to. Somehow, whatever folks say, there _is_ a Providence." "Oh, mother!" said Giles, "God is so beautiful--when you see father again you'll know that." "Mother," interrupted Sue, "does yer think as Providence 'ull get me constant work at the sewing, enough to keep Giles and me?" "I dunno, Sue," answered the woman. "I've trusted a good bit all my life, and more specially since your father was took, and somehow we haven't quite starved. Happen it'll be the same with Giles and you." The boy sighed. His back was aching terribly. His heart was breaking at the thought of losing his mother; he struggled to continue kneeling by the bedside, but each moment the effort became greater. The children were kneeling so when a quick, light step was heard on the stairs, and a little man entered. It was too dark in the room for the children to see his face; they heard, however, a very pleasant voice. It said in cheerful tones: "Why haven't you fire here, and a candle? Can I help you?" "There ain't much candle left," answered Giles. "And mother's dying," continued Sue. "She don't mind the dark--do yer, mother?" The little man made no reply in words, but taking some matches from his pocket, and also a candle, he struck a light. He placed the candle in a sconce on the wall, and then turned to the three. "Be yer a parson?" asked the woman. "I am a servant of God," answered Atkins. "I'm real glad as you're a parson," she answered; "you can make it all right between Almighty God and me." "You are mistaken; I can't do that. That is Jesus Christ's work. But I will pray with you--let me hold your hand, and we will pray together." Then and there in the dismal attic Father John spoke out his heart in the following simple words. Even Sue never forgot those words to the latest day she lived: "Lord God Almighty, look down upon this dying woman. Thy Son died for her and she knows it not. Lord, she is in great darkness, and she is so near death that she has no time to learn the truth in its fullness; but Thou who art in the light can show some of Thy light to her. Now, in her dying hour, reveal to her Thyself." The dying woman fixed her glittering eyes on the strange man. When he ceased speaking she smiled; then she said, slowly: "I allus felt that I could trust in Providence." She never spoke after that, and half an hour afterwards she died. This was the beginning of Father John's friendship with Giles and Sue. The next day Sue, by dint of many and anxious inquiries, found him out, and put her queer little unkempt head into his room. "Ef yer please, parson, may I speak to yer 'bout Giles and me?" "Certainly, my little girl. Sit down and tell me what I can do for you." "Parson," said Sue, with much entreaty in her voice and many a pucker on her brow, "what I wants to say is a good deal. I wants ter take care o' Giles, to keep up the bit o' home and the bit o' victual. It 'ud kill Giles ef he wor to be took to the work'us; and I promised mother as I'd keep 'im. Mother wor allers a-trustin', and she trusted Giles ter me." Here Sue's voice broke off into a sob, and she put up her dirty apron to her eyes. "Don't cry, my dear," answered Atkins kindly; "you must not break your word to your mother. Will it cost you so much money to keep yourself and Giles in that little attic?" "It ain't that," said she, proudly. "It ain't a bit as I can't work, fur I can, real smart at 'chinery needlework. I gets plenty to do, too, but that 'ere landlady, she ain't a bit like mother; she'd trusten nobody, and she up this morning, and mother scarce cold, and says as she'd not let her room to Giles and me 'cept we could get some un to go security fur the rent; and we has no un as 'ud go security, so we must go away the day as mother is buried, and Giles must go to the work'us; and it 'ull kill Giles, and mother won't trust me no more." "Don't think that, my child; nothing can shake your mother's trust where God has taken her now. But do you want me to help you?" Sue found the color mounting to her little, weather-beaten face. A fear suddenly occurred to her that she had been audacious--that this man was a stranger, that her request was too great for her to ask. But something in the kindness of the eyes looking straight into hers brought sudden sunshine to her heart and courage to her resolve. With a burst, one word toppling over the other, out came the whole truth: "Please, sir--please, sir, I thought as you might go security fur Giles and me. We'd pay real honest. Oh, sir, will you, jest because mother did trusten so werry much?" "I will, my child, and with all the heart in the world. Come home with me now, and I will arrange the whole matter with your landlady." CHAPTER III. GOOD SECURITY. John Atkins was always wont to speak of Sue and Giles as among the successes of his life. This was not the first time he had gone security for his poor, and many of his poor had decamped, leaving the burden of their unpaid rent on him. He never murmured when such failures came to him. He was just a trifle more particular in looking not so much into the merits as the necessities of the next case that came to his knowledge. But no more, than if all his flock had been honest as the day, did he refuse his aid. This may have been a weakness on the man's part; very likely, for he was the sort of man whom all sensible and long-headed people would have spoken about as a visionary, an enthusiast, a believer in doing to others as he would be done by--a person, in short, without a grain of everyday sense to guide him. Atkins would smile when such people lectured him on what they deemed his folly. Nevertheless, though he took failure with all resignation, success, when it came to him, was stimulating, and Giles and Sue he classed among his successes. The mother died and was buried, but the children did not leave their attic, and Sue, brave little bread-winner, managed not only to pay the rent but to keep the gaunt wolf of hunger from the door. Sue worked as a machinist for a large City house. Every day she rose with the dawn, made the room as tidy as she could for Giles, and then started for her long walk to the neighborhood of Cheapside. In a room with sixty other girls Sue worked at the sewing-machine from morning till night. It was hard labor, as she had to work with her feet as well as her hands, producing slop clothing at the rate of a yard a minute. Never for an instant might her eyes wander from the seam; and all this severe work was done in the midst of an ear-splitting clatter, which alone would have worn out a person not thoroughly accustomed to it. But Sue was not unhappy. For three years now she had borne without breaking down this tremendous strain on her health. The thought that she was keeping Giles in the old attic made her bright and happy, and her shrill young voice rose high and merry above those of her companions. No; Sue, busy and honest, was not unhappy. But her fate was a far less hard one than Giles's. Giles had not always been lame. When first his mother held him in her arms he was both straight and beautiful. Though born of poor parents and in London, he possessed a health and vigor seldom bestowed upon such children. In those days his father was alive, and earning good wages as a fireman in the London Fire Brigade. There was a comfortable home for both Sue and Giles, and Giles was the very light and sunshine of his father's and mother's life. To his father he had been a special source of pride and rejoicing. His beauty alone would have made him so. Sue was essentially an everyday child, but Giles had a clear complexion, dark-blue eyes, and curling hair. Giles as a baby and a little child was very beautiful. As his poor, feeble-looking mother carried him about--for she was poor and feeble-looking even in her palmy days--people used to turn and gaze after the lovely boy. The mother loved him passionately, but to the father he was as the apple of his eye. Giles's father had married a wife some degrees below him both intellectually and socially. She was a hard-working, honest, and well-meaning soul, but she was not her husband's equal. He was a man with great force of character, great bravery, great powers of endurance. Before he had joined the Fire Brigade he had been a sailor, and many tales did he tell to his little Giles of his adventures on the sea. Sue and her mother used to find these stories dull, but to Giles they seemed as necessary as the air he breathed. He used to watch patiently for hours for the rare moments when his father was off duty, and then beg for the food which his keen mental appetite craved for. Mason could both read and write, and he began to teach his little son. This state of things continued until Giles was seven years old. Then there came a dreadful black-letter day for the child; for the father, the end of life. Every event of that torturing day was ever after engraved on the little boy's memory. He and his father, both in high spirits, started off for their last walk together. Giles used to make it a practice to accompany his father part of the way to his station, trotting back afterwards safely and alone to his mother and sister. To-day their way lay through Smithfield Market, and the boy, seeing the Martyrs' Monument in the center of the market-place, asked his father eagerly about it. "Look, father, look!" he said, pointing with his finger. "What is that?" "That is the figure of an angel, lad. Do you see, it is pointing up to heaven. Do you know why?" "No, father; tell us." "Long ago, my lad, there were a lot of brave people brought just there where the angel stands; they were tied to stakes in the ground and set fire to and burned--burned until they died." "Burned, father?" asked little Giles in a voice of horror. "Yes, boy. They were burned because they were so brave they would rather be burned than deny the good God. They were called martyrs, and that angel stands there now to remind people about them and to show how God took them straight to heaven." "I think they were grand," answered the boy, his eyes kindling. "Can't people be like that now?" "Any one who would rather die than neglect a duty has, to my mind, the same spirit," answered the man. "But now, lad, run home, for I must be off." "Oh, father, you are going to that place where the wonderful new machinery is, and you said I might look at it. May I come?" The father hesitated, finally yielded, and the two went on together. But together they were never to come back. That very day, with the summer sun shining, and all the birds in the country far away singing for joy, there came a message for the brave father. He was suddenly, in the full prime of his manly vigor, to leave off doing God's work down here, doubtless to take it up with nobler powers above. A fireman literally works with his life in his hands. He may have to resign it at any moment at the call of duty. This trumpet-call, which he had never neglected, came now for Giles Mason. A fire broke out in the house where little Giles watched with keen intelligence the new machinery. The machinery was destroyed, the child lamed for life, and the brave father, in trying to rescue him and others, was so injured by falling stones and pieces of woodwork that he only lived a few hours. The two were laid side by side in the hospital to which they were carried. "Father," said the little one, nestling close to the injured and dying man, "I think people _can_ be martyrs now!" But the father was past words, though he heard the child, for he smiled and pointed upwards. The smile and the action were so significant, and reminded the child so exactly of the angel who guards the Martyrs' Monument, that ever afterwards he associated his brave father with those heroes and heroines of whom the sacred writer says that "the world is not worthy." CHAPTER IV. SOLITARY HOURS. Giles was kept in the hospital for many weeks, even months. All that could be done was done for him; but the little, active feet were never to walk again, and the spine was so injured that he could not even sit upright. When all that could be done had been done and failed, the boy was sent back to his broken-down and widowed mother. Mrs. Mason had removed from the comfortable home where she lived during her husband's lifetime to the attic in a back street of Westminster, where she finally died. She took in washing for a livelihood, and Sue, now twelve years old, was already an accomplished little machinist.[1] They were both too busy to have time to grieve, and at night were too utterly worn-out not to sleep soundly. They were kind to Giles lying on his sick-bed; they both loved him dearly, but they neither saw, nor even tried to understand, the hunger of grief and longing which filled his poor little mind. His terrible loss, his own most terrible injuries, had developed in the boy all that sensitive nerve organism which can render life so miserable to its possessor. To hear his beloved father's name mentioned was a torture to him; and yet his mother and Sue spoke of it with what seemed to the boy reckless indifference day after day. Two things, however, comforted him--one the memory of the angel figure over the Martyrs' Monument at Smithfield, the other the deep notes of Big Ben. His father, too, had been a martyr, and that angel stood there to signify his victory as well as the victory of those others who withstood the torture by fire; and Big Ben, with its solemn, vibrating notes, seemed to his vivid imagination like that same angel speaking. Though an active, restless boy before his illness, he became now very patient. He would lie on his back, not reading, for he had forgotten what little his father taught him, but apparently lost in thought, from morning to night. His mother was often obliged to leave him alone, but he never murmured at his long, solitary hours; indeed, had there been any one by to listen to all the words he said to himself at these times, they would have believed that the boy enjoyed them. Thus three years passed away. In those three years all the beauty had left little Giles's face; all the brightness had fled from his eyes; he was now a confirmed invalid, white and drawn and pinched. Then his poor, tired-out mother died. She had worked uncomplainingly, but far beyond her strength, until suddenly she sickened and in a few days was dead. Giles, however, while losing a mother, had gained a friend. John Atkins read the sensitive heart of the boy like a book. He came to see him daily, and soon completed the reading-lessons which his father had begun. As soon as the boy could read he was no longer unhappy. His sad and troubled mind need no longer feed on itself; he read what wise and great men thought, for Atkins supplied him with books. Atkins's books, it is true, were mostly of a theological nature, but once he brought him a battered Shakespeare; and Sue also, when cash was a little flush, found an old volume of the _Arabian Nights_ on a book-stall. These two latter treasures gave great food to the active imagination of little Giles. FOOTNOTE [1] In July 1877 arrangements were made to provide for the families of firemen who were killed in the performance of their duty, but nothing was done for them before that date. CHAPTER V. EAGER WORDS. When John Atkins was quite young he was well-to-do. His father and mother had kept a good shop, and not only earned money for their needs but were able to put by sufficient for a rainy day. John was always a small and delicate child, and as he grew older he developed disease of the spine, which not only gave him a deformed appearance but made him slightly lame. Nevertheless, he was an eager little scholar, and his father was able to send him to a good school. The boy worked hard, and eagerly read and learned all that came in his way. Thus life was rather pleasant than otherwise with John Atkins up to his fifteenth year, but about then there came misfortunes. The investment into which his father had put all his hard-won earnings was worthless; the money was lost. This was bad enough, but there was worse to follow. Not only had the money disappeared, but the poor man's heart was broken. He ceased to attend to his business; his customers left him to go elsewhere; his wife died suddenly, and he himself quickly followed her to the grave. After these misfortunes John Atkins had a bad illness himself. He grew better after a time, took to cobbling as a trade, and earned enough to support himself. How he came to take up street preaching, and in consequence to be much beloved by his neighbors, happened simply enough. On a certain Sunday evening he was walking home from the church where he attended, his heart all aglow with the passionate words of the preacher he had been listening to. The preacher had made Bunyan the subject of his discourse, and the author of the _Pilgrim's Progress_ was at that time the hero of all heroes in the mind of Atkins. He was thinking of his wonderful pilgrimage as he hurried home. He walked on. Suddenly, turning a corner, he knocked up against a man, who, half-reeling, came full-tilt against him. "Aye, Peter," he said, knowing the man, and perceiving that he was far too tipsy to get to his home with safety, "I'll just walk home with you, mate. I've got an apple in my pocket for the little wench." The man made no objection, and they walked on. At the next corner they saw a crowd, all listening eagerly to the words of a large, red-faced man who, mounted on a chair, addressed them. On the burning, glowing heart of John Atkins fell the following terrible words: "For there be no God, and there be nothing before us but to die as the beasts die. Let us get our fill of pleasure and the like of that, neighbors, for there ain't nothing beyond the grave." "It's a lie!" roared Atkins. The words had stung him like so many fiery serpents. He rushed into the midst of the crowd; he forgot Peter Harris; he sprang on to the chair which the other man in his astonishment had vacated, and poured out a whole string of eager, passionate words. At that moment he discovered that he had a wonderful gift. There was the message in his heart which God had put there, and he was able to deliver it. His words were powerful. The crowd, who had listened without any great excitement to the unbeliever, came close now to the man of God, applauding him loudly. Atkins spoke of the Fatherhood of God and of His love. "Ain't that other a coward?" said two or three rough voices when Atkins ceased to speak. "And he comes here talking them lies every Sunday night," said one poor woman. "Come you again, master, and tell us the blessed truth." This decided Atkins. He went to his parish clergyman, an overworked and badly paid man, and told him the incident. He also spoke of his own resolve. He would go to these sheep who acknowledged no Shepherd, and tell them as best he could of a Father, a Home, a Hope. The clergyman could not but accept the services of this fervent city missionary. "Get them to church if you can," he said. "Aye, if I can," answered Atkins; "but I will compel them to enter the Church above--that is the main thing." Soon he began to know almost all the poor folks who crowded to hear him. In their troubles he was with them; when joy came he heard first about it, and rejoiced most of all; and many a poor face of a tired woman or worn-out man, or even a little child, looking into his, grew brighter in the presence of death. CHAPTER VI. DIFFERENT SORT OF WORK. Connie was a very pretty girl. She was between thirteen and fourteen years of age, and very small and delicate-looking. Her hair was of a pale, soft gold; her eyes were blue; she had a delicate complexion, pink and white--almost like a china figure, Sue said; Giles compared her to an angel. Connie was in the same trade that Sue earned her bread by; she also was a machinist in a large warehouse in the City. All day long she worked at the sewing-machine, going home with Sue night after night, glad of Sue's sturdy support, for Connie was much more timid than her companion. Connie was the apple of Harris's eye, his only child. He did everything he could for her; he lived for her. If any one could make him good, Connie could; but she was sadly timid; she dreaded the terrible moments when he returned home, having taken more than was good for him. At these times she would slink away to visit Giles and Sue, and on more than one occasion she had spent the night with the pair rather than return to her angry father. Some months, however, before this story begins, a terrible misfortune had come to Peter Harris. He had come home on a certain evening worse than usual from the effects of drink. Connie happened to be in. She had dressed herself with her usual exquisite neatness. She always kept the place ship-shape. The hearth was always tidily swept. She managed her father's earnings, which were quite considerable, and the wretched man could have had good food and a comfortable home, and been happy as the day was long, if only the craze for drink had not seized him. Connie was very fond of finery, and she was now trimming a pretty hat to wear on the following Sunday. Not long ago she had made a new friend, a girl at the warehouse of the name of Agnes Coppenger. Agnes was older than Connie. She was the kind of girl who had a great admiration for beauty, and when she saw that people turned to look at pretty Connie with her sweet, refined face and delicate ways, she hoped that by having such a pleasant companion she also might come in for her share of admiration. She therefore began to make much of Connie. She praised her beauty, and invited her to her own home. There Connie made companions who were not nearly such desirable ones as Sue and Giles. She began to neglect Sue and Giles, and to spend more and more of her time with Agnes. On a certain day when the two girls were working over their sewing-machines, the whir of the numerous machines filling the great warehouse, Agnes turned to Connie. "When we go out at morning break I 'ave a word to say to yer." Connie's eyes brightened. "You walk with me," whispered Agnes again. An overseer came round. Talking was forbidden in the great room, and the girls went on with their mechanical employment, turning out long seam after long seam of delicate stitches. The fluff from the work seemed to smother Connie that morning. She had inherited her mother's delicacy. She coughed once or twice. There was a longing within her to get away from this dismal, this unhealthy life. She felt somehow, down deep in her heart, that she was meant for better things. The child was by nature almost a poet. She could have worshiped a lovely flower. As to the country, what her feelings would have been could she have seen it almost baffles description. Now, Sue, working steadily away at her machine a little farther down the room, had none of these sensations. Provided that Sue could earn enough money to keep Giles going, that was all she asked of life. She was as matter-of-fact as a young girl could be; and as to pining for what she had not got, it never once entered her head. At twelve o'clock there was a break of half-an-hour. The machinists were then turned out of the building. It did not matter what sort of day it was, whether the sun shone with its summer intensity, or whether the snow fell in thick flakes--whatever the condition of the outside world, out all the working women had to go. None could skulk behind; all had to seek the open air. Connie coughed now as the bitter blast blew against her cheeks. "Isn't it cold?" she said. She expected to see Agnes by her side, but it was Sue she addressed. "I've got a penny for pease-pudding to-day," said Sue. "Will you come and have a slice, Connie? Or do yer want somethin' better? Your father, Peter Harris, can let yer have more than a penny for yer dinner." "Oh, yes," answered Connie; "'tain't the money--I 'aven't got not a bit of happetite, not for nothing; but I want to say a word to Agnes Coppenger, and I don't see her." "Here I be," said Agnes, coming up at that moment. "Come right along, Connie; I've got a treat for yer." The last words were uttered in a low whisper, and Sue, finding she was not wanted, went off in another direction. She gave little sighs as she did so. What was wrong with pretty Connie, and why did she not go with her? It had been her custom to slip her hand inside Sue's sturdy arm. During the half-hour interval, the girls used to repair together to the nearest cheap restaurant, there to secure what nourishing food their means permitted. They used to chatter to one another, exchanging full confidences, and loving each other very much. But for some time now Connie had only thought of Agnes Coppenger, and Sue felt out in the cold. "Can't be helped," she said to herself; "but if I am not mistook, Agnes is a bad un, and the less poor Connie sees of her the better." Sue entered the restaurant, which was now packed full of factory girls, and she asked eagerly for her penn'orth of pease-pudding. Meanwhile Connie and Agnes were very differently employed. When the two girls found themselves alone, Agnes looked full at Connie and said: "I'm going to treat yer." "Oh, no, you ain't," said Connie, who was proud enough in her way. "Yes, but I be," said Agnes; "I ha' lots o' money, bless yer! Here, we'll come in here." An A.B.C. shop stood invitingly open just across the road. Connie had always looked at these places of refreshment with open-eyed admiration, and with the sort of sensation which one would have if one stood at the gates of Paradise. To enter any place so gorgeous as an A.B.C., to be able to sit down and have one's tea or coffee or any other refreshment at one of those little white marble tables, seemed to her a degree of refinement scarcely to be thought about. The A.B.C. was a sort of forbidden fruit to Connie, but Agnes had been there before, and Agnes had described the delight of the place. "The quality come in 'ere," said Agnes, "an' they horders all sorts o' things, from mutton-chops to poached heggs. I am goin' in to-day, and so be you." "Oh, no," said Connie, "you can't afford it." "That's my lookout," answered Agnes. "I've half-a-crown in my pocket, and ef I choose to have a good filling meal, and ef I choose that you shall have one too, why, that is my lookout." As Agnes spoke she pulled her companion through the swinging door, and a minute later the two young girls had a little table between them, not far from the door. Agnes called in a lofty voice to one of the waitresses. "Coffee for two," she said, "and rolls and butter and poached heggs; and see as the heggs is well done, and the toast buttered fine and thick. Now then, look spruce, won't yer?" The waitress went off to attend to Agnes's requirements. Agnes sat back in her chair with a sort of lofty, fine-lady air which greatly impressed poor Connie. By-and-by the coffee, the rolls and butter, and the poached eggs appeared. A little slip of paper with the price of the meal was laid close to Agnes's plate, and she proceeded to help her companion to the good viands. "It's this sort of meal you want hevery day," she said. "Now then, eat as hard as ever you can, and while you're eating let me talk, for there's a deal to say, and we must be back in that factory afore we can half do justice to our wittles." Connie sipped her coffee, and looked hard at her companion. "What is it?" she asked suddenly. "What's all the fuss, Agnes? Why be you so chuff to poor Sue, and whatever 'ave you got to say?" "This," said Agnes. "You're sick o' machine-work, ain't you?" "Oh, that I be!" said Connie, stretching her arms a little, and suppressing a yawn. "It seems to get on my narves, like. I am that miserable when I'm turning that horrid handle and pressing that treadle up and down, up and down, as no words can say. I 'spect it's the hair so full of fluff an' things, too; some'ow I lose my happetite for my or'nary feed when I'm working at that 'orrid machine." "I don't feel it that way," said Agnes in a lofty tone. "But then, _I_ am wery strong. I can heat like anything, whatever I'm a-doing of. There, Connie; don't waste the good food. Drink up yer corffee, and don't lose a scrap o' that poached egg, for ef yer do it 'ud be sinful waste. Well, now, let me speak. I know quite a different sort o' work that you an' me can both do, and ef you'll come with me this evening I can tell yer all about it." "What sort of work?" asked Connie. "Beautiful, refined--the sort as you love. But I am not going to tell yer ef yer give me away." "What do you mean by that, Agnes?" "I means wot I say--I'll tell yer to-night ef yer'll come 'ome with me." "Yer mean that I'm to spend all the evening with yer?" asked Connie. "Yes--that's about it. _You_ are to come 'ome with me, and we'll talk. Why, bless yer! with that drinkin' father o' yourn, wot do you want all alone by yer lonesome? You give me a promise. And now I must pay hup, and we'll be off." "I'll come, o' course," said Connie after brief reflection. "Why shouldn't I?" she added. "There's naught to keep me to home." The girls left the A.B.C. shop and returned to their work. Whir! whir! went the big machines. The young heads were bent over their accustomed toil; the hands on the face of the great clock which Connie so often looked at went on their way. Slowly--very slowly--the time sped. Would that long day ever come to an end? The machinists' hours were from eight o'clock in the morning to six in the evening. Sometimes, when there were extra lots of ready-made clothes to be produced, they were kept till seven or even eight o'clock. But for this extra work there was a small extra pay, so that few of them really minded. But Connie dreaded extra hours extremely. She was not really dependent on the work, although Peter would have been very angry with his girl had she idled her time. She herself, too, preferred doing this to doing nothing. But to-night, of all nights, she was most impatient to get away with Agnes in order to discover what that fascinating young person's secret was. She looked impatiently at the clock; so much so that Agnes herself, as she watched her eyes, chuckled now and then. "She'll be an easy prey," thought Agnes Coppenger. "I'll soon get 'er into my power." At six o'clock there was no further delay; no extra work was required, and the machinists poured into the sloppy, dark, and dreary streets. "Come along now, quickly," said Agnes. "Don't wait for Sue; Sue has nothing to do with you from this time out." "Oh dear! oh dear!" said Connie. "But I don't want to give up Sue and Giles. You ha' never seen little Giles Mason?" "No," replied Agnes, "and don't want to. Wot be Giles to me?" "Oh," said Connie, "ef yer saw 'im yer couldn't but love 'im. He's the wery prettiest little fellow that yer ever clapped yer two eyes on--with 'is delicate face an' 'is big brown eyes--and the wonnerful thoughts he have, too. Poetry ain't in it. Be yer fond o' poetry yerself, Agnes?" "I fond o' poetry?" almost screamed Agnes. "Not I! That is, I never heerd it--don't know wot it's like. I ha' no time to think o' poetry. I'm near mad sometimes fidgeting and fretting how to get myself a smart 'at, an' a stylish jacket, an' a skirt that hangs with a sort o' swing about it. But you, now--you never think on yer clothes." "Oh yes, but I do," said Connie; "and I ha' got a wery pwitty new dress now as father guv me not a fortnight back; and w'en father don't drink he's wery fond o' me, an' he bought this dress at the pawnshop." "Lor', now, did he?" said Agnes. "Wot sort be it, Connie?" "Dark blue, with blue velvet on it. It looks wery stylish." "You'd look like a lydy in that sort o' dress," said Agnes. "You've the face of a lydy--that any one can see." "Have I?" said Connie. She put up her somewhat roughened hand to her smooth little cheeks. "Yes, you 'ave; and wot I say is this--yer face is yer fortoon. Now, look yer 'ere. We'll stand at this corner till the Westminster 'bus comes up, and then we'll take a penn'orth each, and that'll get us wery near 'ome. Yer don't think as yer father'll be 'ome to-night, Connie?" "'Tain't likely," replied Connie; "'e seldom comes in until it's time for 'im to go to bed." "Well then, that's all right. When we get to Westminster, you skid down Adam Street until yer get to yer diggin's; an' then hup you goes and changes yer dress. Into the very genteel dark-blue costoom you gets, and down you comes to yer 'umble servant wot is waitin' for yer below stairs." This programme was followed out in all its entirety by Connie. The omnibus set the girls down not far from her home. Connie soon reached her room. No father there, no fire in the grate. She turned on the gas and looked around her. The room was quite a good one, of fair size, and the furniture was not bad of its sort. Peter Harris himself slept on a trundle-bed in the sitting-room, but Connie had a little room all to herself just beyond. Here she kept her small bits of finery, and in especial the lovely new costume which her father had given her. She was not long in slipping off her working-clothes. Then she washed her face and hands, and brushed back her soft, glistening, pale-golden hair, and put on the dark-blue dress, and her little blue velvet cap to match, and--little guessing how lovely she appeared in this dress, which simply transformed the pretty child into one of quite another rank of life--she ran quickly downstairs. A young man of the name of Anderson, whom she knew very slightly, was passing by. He belonged to the Fire Brigade, and was one of the best and bravest firemen in London. He had a pair of great, broad shoulders, and a very kind face. It looked almost as refined as Connie's own. Anderson gave her a glance, puzzled and wondering. He felt half-inclined to speak, but she hurried by him, and the next minute Agnes gripped her arm. "My word, ain't you fine!" said that young lady. "You _be_ a gel to be proud of! Won't yer do fine, jest! Now then, come along, and let's be quick." Connie followed her companion. They went down several side-streets, and took several short cuts. They passed through the roughest and worst part of the purlieus at the back of Westminster. At last they entered a broader thoroughfare, and there Agnes stopped. "Why, yer never be livin' here?" asked Connie. "No, I bean't. You'll come to my 'ome afterwards. I want to take yer to see a lydy as maybe'll take a fancy to yer." "Oh!" said Connie, feeling both excited and full of wonder. The girls entered a side passage, and presently Connie, to her astonishment, found herself going upwards--up and up and up--in a lift. The lift went up as far as it would go. The girls got out. Agnes went first, and Connie followed. They walked down the passage, and Agnes gave a very neat double knock on the door, which looked like an ordinary front door to a house. The door was opened by a woman rather loudly dressed, but with a handsome face. "How do you do, Mrs. Warren?" said Agnes. "I ha' brought the young lydy I spoke to yer about. Shall us both come in?" "Oh, yes, certainly," said Mrs. Warren. She stood aside, and Connie, still following her companion, found herself at the other side of the neat door. The place inside was bright with electric light, and the stout, showily dressed lady, going first, conducted the girls into a room which Agnes afterwards spoke of as the dining-room. The lady sat down in a very comfortable arm-chair, crossed her legs, and desired Connie to come forward and show herself. "Take off yer 'at," she said. Connie did so. "You're rather pretty." Connie was silent. "I want," said the stout woman, "a pretty gel, something like you, to come and sit with me from ten to two o'clock hevery day. Yer dooties'll be quite light, and I'll give yer lots o' pretty clothes and good wages." "But what'll I have to do?" asked Connie. "Jest to sit with me an' keep me company; I'm lonesome here all by myself." Connie looked puzzled. "You ask wot wages yer'll get," said Agnes, poking Connie on the arm. Connie's blue eyes looked up. The showy lady was gazing at her very intently. "I'll give yer five shillin's a week," she said, "and yer keep, and some carst-off clothes--my own--now and again; and ef that bean't a bargain, I don't know wot be." Connie was silent. "You 'ad best close with it," said Agnes. "It's a charnce once in a 'undred. Yer'll be very 'appy with Mrs. Warren--her's a real lydy." "Yes, that I be," said Mrs. Warren. "I come of a very hold family. My ancestors come hover with William the Conqueror." Connie did not seem impressed by this fact. "Will yer come or will yer not?" said Mrs. Warren. "I'll take yer jaunts, too--I forgot to mention that. Often on a fine Saturday, you an' me--we'll go to the country together. You don't know 'ow fine that 'ull be. We'll go to the country and we'll 'ave a spree. Did yer never see the country?" "No," said Connie, in a slow voice, "but I ha' dreamt of it." "She's the sort, ma'am," interrupted Agnes, "wot dreams the queerest things. She's hall for poetry and flowers and sech like. She's not matter-o'-fack like me." "Jest the sort I want," said Mrs. Warren. "I--I loves poetry. You shall read it aloud to me, my gel--or, better still, I'll read it to you. An' as to flowers--why, yer shall pluck 'em yer own self, an' yer'll see 'em a-blowin' an' a-growin', yer own self. We'll go to the country next Saturday. There, now--ain't that fine?" Connie looked puzzled. There certainly was a great attraction at the thought of going into the country. She hated the machine-work. But, all the same, somehow or other she did not like Mrs. Warren. "I'll think o' it and let yer know," she said. But when she uttered these words the stately dressed and over-fine lady changed her manner. "There's no thinking now," she said. "You're 'ere, and yer'll stay. You go out arter you ha' been at my house? You refuse my goodness? Not a bit o' it! Yer'll stay." "Oh, yes, Connie," said Agnes in a soothing tone. "But I don't want to stay," said Connie, now thoroughly frightened. "I want to go--and to go at once. Let me go, ma'am; I--I don't like yer!" Poor Connie made a rush for the door, but Agnes flew after her and clasped her round the waist. "Yer _be_ a silly!" she said. "Yer jest stay with her for one week." "But I--I must go and tell father," said poor Connie. "You needn't--I'll go an' tell him. Don't yer get into such a fright. Don't, for goodness' sake! Why, think of five shillin's a week, and jaunts into the country, and beautiful food, and poetry read aloud to yer, and hall the rest!" "I has most select poetry here," said Mrs. Warren. "Did yer never yere of a man called Tennyson? An' did yer never read that most touching story of the consumptive gel called the 'May Queen'? 'Ef ye're wakin' call me hearly, call me hearly, mother dear.' I'll read yer that. It's the most beauteous thing." "It sounds lovely," said Connie. She was always arrested by the slightest thing which touched her keen fancy and rich imagination. "And you 'ates the machines," said Agnes. "Oh yes, I 'ates the machines," cried Connie. Then she added after a pause: "I'm 'ere, and I'll stay for one week. But I must go back first to get some o' my bits o' duds, and to tell father. You'd best let me go, ma'am; I won't be long away." "But I can't do that," said Mrs. Warren; "it's a sight too late for a young, purty gel like you to be out. Agnes, now, can go and tell yer father, and bring wot clothes yer want to-morrow.--Agnes, yer'll do that, won't yer?" "Yes--that I will." "They'll never let me stay," said Connie, reflecting on this fact with some satisfaction. "We won't ax him, my dear," said Mrs. Warren. "I must go, really, now," said Agnes. "You're all right, Connie; you're made. You'll be a fine lydy from this day out. And I'll come and see yer.--W'en may I come, Mrs. Warren?" "To-morrer evenin'," said Mrs. Warren. "You and Connie may have tea together to-morrer evenin', for I'm goin' out with some friends to the thayertre." Poor Connie never quite knew how it happened, but somehow she found herself as wax in the strong hands of Mrs. Warren. Connie, it is true, gave a frightened cry when she heard Agnes shut the hall door behind her, and she felt positive that she had done exceedingly wrong. But Mrs. Warren really seemed kind, although Connie could not but wish that she was not quite so stout, and that her face was not of such an ugly brick red. She gave the girl a nice supper, and talked to her all the time about the lovely life she would have there. "Ef I takes to yer I'll maybe hadopt yer as my own daughter, my dear," she said. "You're a wery purty gel. And may I ax how old you are, my love?" Connie answered that she was fourteen, and Mrs. Warren remarked that she was small for her age and looked younger. She showed the girl her own smart clothing, and tried the effect of her bit of fur round Connie's delicate throat. "There," she said; "you can keep it. It's only rabbit; I can't afford no dearer. But yer'll look real foine in it when we goes out for our constooshionul to-morrow morning." Connie was really touched and delighted with the present of the fur. She got very sleepy, too, after supper--more sleepy than she had ever felt in her life--and when Mrs. Warren suggested that her new little handmaid should retire early to bed, the girl was only too glad to obey. CHAPTER VII. SHOPPING. Connie slept without dreams that night, and in the morning awoke with a start. What was the matter? Was she late? It was dreadful to be late at the doors of that cruel factory. Those who were late were docked of their pay. Peter Harris was always very angry when his daughter did not bring in her full earnings on Saturday night. Connie cried out, "Father, father!" and then sat up in bed and pushed her golden hair back from her little face. What was the matter? Where was she? Why, what a pretty room! There was scarcely any light yet, and she could not see the different articles of furniture very distinctly, but it certainly seemed to her that she was in a most elegant apartment. Her room at home was--oh, so bare! just a very poor trundle-bed, and a little deal chest of drawers with a tiny looking-glass on top, and one broken chair to stand by her bedside. This was all. But her present room had a carpet on the floor, and there were pictures hanging on the walls, and there were curtains to the windows, and the little bed on which she lay was covered with a gay counterpane--soft--almost as soft as silk. Where could she be? It took her almost a minute to get back the memory of last night. Then she shuddered with the most curious feeling of mingled ecstasy and pain. She was not going to the factory to-day. She was not going to work at that horrid sewing-machine. She was not to meet Sue. She was not to be choked by the horrid air. She, Connie, had got a new situation, and Mrs. Warren was a very nice woman, although she was so fat and her dress was so loud that even Connie's untrained taste could not approve of it. Just then a voice called to her: "Get up, my dear; I'll have a cosy breakfast ready for yer by the time yer've put yourself tidily into yer clothes." "Yes," thought Connie to herself, "I've done well to come. Agnes is right. I wonder what she'll say when she comes to tea this evening. I wonder if she met father. I do 'ope as father won't find me. I'd real like to stay on here for a bit; it's much, much nicer than the cruel sort of life I 'ave to home." Connie dressed by the light which was now coming in more strongly through the window. Mrs. Warren pushed a can of hot water inside the door, and the girl washed with a strange, unwonted sense of luxury. She had no dress but the dark-blue, and she was therefore forced to put it on. When she had completed her toilet she entered the sitting-room. Mrs. Warren, in her morning _déshabille_, looked a more unpleasing object than ever. Her hair was in tight curl-papers, and she wore a very loose and very dirty dressing-gown, which was made of a sort of pattern chintz, and gave her the effect of being a huge pyramid of coarse, faded flowers. There was coffee, however, which smelled very good, on the hearth, and there was some toast and bacon, and some bread, butter, and jam. Connie and Mrs. Warren made a good meal, and then Mrs. Warren began to talk of the day's programme. "I have a lot of shopping to do this morning," she said, "and we'll go out not later than ten o'clock sharp. It's wonderful wot a lot o' things I has to buy. There's sales on now, too, and we'll go to some of 'em. Maybe I'll get yer a bit o' ribbon--you're fond o' blue ribbon, I take it. Well, maybe I'll get it for yer--there's no saying. Anyhow, we'll walk down the streets, and wot shops we don't go into we'll press our noses against the panes o' glass and stare in. Now then, my dear, yer don't s'pose that I'll allow you to come out walking with the likes o' me with yer 'air down like that." "Why, 'ow is it to be done?" said Connie. "I take it that it's beautiful; I ha' done it more tidy than ever." "But I don't want it tidy. Now then, you set down yere close to the fire, so that you can toast yer toes, and I'll see to yer 'air." Connie was forced to obey; more and more was she wax in the hands of her new employer. Mrs. Warren quickly took the hair-pins out of Connie's thick plait. She let it fall down to her waist, and then she unplaited it and brushed out the shining waves of lovely hair, and then said, with a smile of satisfaction: "Now, I guess there won't be anybody prettier than you to walk abroad to-day." "But I can't," said Connie--"I don't ever wear my 'air like that; it's only young lydies as does that." "Well, ain't you a lydy, and ain't I a lydy? You're going out with one, and yer'll wear yer 'air as I please." Connie shivered; but presently the little dark-blue cap was placed over the masses of golden hair, the gray fur was fastened round the slender throat, and Connie marched out with Mrs. Warren. Mrs. Warren's own dress was in all respects the reverse of her pretty young companion's. It consisted of a very voluminous silk cloak, which was lined with fur, and which gave the already stout woman a most portly appearance. On her head she wore a bonnet covered with artificial flowers, and she enveloped her hands in an enormous muff. "Now, off we go," said Mrs. Warren. "You'll enjoy yerself, my purty." It is quite true that Connie did--at least, at first. This was the time of day when, with the exception of Sundays, she was always buried from view in the ugly warehouse. She was unaccustomed to the morning sunshine, and she was certainly unaccustomed to the handsome streets where Mrs. Warren conducted her. They walked on, and soon found themselves in crowded thoroughfares. At last they stopped before the doors of a great shop, into which crowds of people were going. "Oh, what a pretty girl!" said Connie to her companion. A young girl, very like Connie herself--so like as to make the resemblance almost extraordinary--was entering the shop, accompanied by an old gentleman who was supporting himself by the aid of a gold-headed stick. The girl also had golden hair. She was dressed in dark blue, and had gray fur round her neck. But above the fur there peeped out a little pale-blue handkerchief made of very soft silk. "That's purty," whispered Mrs. Warren to Connie. "Yer'd like a 'andkercher like that--yer shall 'ave one. Get on in front o' me; you're slimmer nor me; I want to push into the shop." Connie obeyed. As she passed the fair young girl, the girl seemed to notice the extraordinary likeness between them, for she turned and looked at Connie and smiled. She also said something to her companion, who also stared at the girl. But stout Mrs. Warren poked Connie from behind, and she had to push forward, and presently found herself in the shop. There it seemed to her that Mrs. Warren did very little buying. It is true she stopped at several counters, always choosing those which were most surrounded by customers; it is true she pulled things about, poking at the goods offered for sale, and making complaints about them, but always keeping Connie well to the fore. A delicate color had sprung into the girl's cheeks, and almost every one turned to look at her. The shopmen turned; the shopgirls gazed; the customers forgot what they wanted in their amazement at Connie's beauty. Her hair, in especial, was the subject of universal admiration--its thickness, its length, its marvelous color. The girl herself was quite unconscious of the admiration which her appearance produced, but Mrs. Warren knew well what a valuable acquisition she had made in little Connie. When they left the shop she seemed to be in high good-humor. But, lo and behold! a change had taken place in the outside world. The sun, so bright and glorious, had hidden himself behind a murky yellow fog, which was coming up each moment thicker and thicker from the river. "Oh dear!" said Mrs. Warren. "Oh dear!" cried Connie too. "We won't get lost, will us, ma'am?" "Lost?" cried Mrs. Warren, with a sniff. "Now, I call this fog the most beautiful fortunation thing that could have 'appened. We'll have a real jolly morning now, Connie. You come along o' me. There, child--walk a bit in front. Why, ye're a real, real beauty. I feel sort of ashamed to be walkin' with yer. Let folks think that you're out with yer nurse, my pretty. Yes, let 'em think that, and that she's screening yer from misfortun' wid her own ample person." Thus Connie walked for several hours that day. In and out of crowded thoroughfares the two perambulated. Into shops they went, and out again they came. Everywhere Connie went first, and Mrs. Warren followed very close behind. At last the good lady said that she had done her morning's shopping. Connie could not well recall what she had bought, and the pair trudged soberly home. When they got there Mrs. Warren went straight to her own bedroom, and Connie sat down by the fire, feeling quite tired with so much exercise. Presently Mrs. Warren came out again. She had changed her dress, and had put on an ample satin gown of black with broad yellow stripes. She was in high good-humor, and going up to Connie, gave her a resounding smack on the cheek. "Now," she said, "yer won't think 'ard of poor Mammy Warren. See wot I've gone an' got an' bought for yer." Connie turned quickly. A soft little blue handkerchief, delicately folded in tissue-paper, was laid on the table by the girl. "Why--why--that ain't for me!" said Connie. "Yes, but it be! Why shouldn't it be for you? I saw yer lookin' at that purty young lydy who was as like yer as two peas. I watched 'ow yer stared at the blue 'andkercher, and 'ow yer sort o' longed for it." "But indeed--indeed I didn't." "Anyhow, here's another, and yer can have it, and wear it peeping out among yer fur. I take it that yer blue 'andkercher'll take the cake." "Then you've bought it for me?" said Connie. "Yus--didn't I zay so?" "But I never seen yer do it," said Connie. "Seen me do it?" said Mrs. Warren, her eyes flashing with anger. "You was too much taken up with yer own conceits, my gel--hevery one staring at yer, 'cos poor old Mammy Warren 'ad made yer so beautiful. But though you was full to the brim o' yourself, I warn't so selfish; I were thinkin' o' you--and yere's yer 'andkercher." Connie took up the handkerchief slowly. Strange as it may seem, it gave her no pleasure. She said, "Thank you, Mrs. Warren," in a subdued voice, and took it into her little bedroom. Connie felt that she did not particularly want to wear the handkerchief. She did not know why, but a trouble, the first of the many troubles she was to undergo in the terrible society of Mrs. Warren, came over her. She went back again and sat down by the fire. During the greater part of the afternoon the stout woman slept. Connie watched her furtively. A strong desire to get up and run away seized her. Could she not get out of that house and go back to Sue and Giles? How happy she would feel in Giles's bare little room! How she would enjoy talking with the child! With what wonder they would both listen to Big Ben as he spoke in that voice of his the number of the hours! Giles would make up fairy-tales for Connie to listen to. How Connie did love the "wonnerful" things he said about the big "Woice"! One day it was cheerful, another day sad, another day very encouraging, another day full of that noble influence which the child himself so largely exercised. At all times it was an angel voice, speaking to mankind from high above this sordid world. It helped Giles, and it helped Connie too. She sat by the fire in this well-furnished room and looked anxiously towards the door. Once she got up on tiptoe. She had almost reached the door, but had not quite done so, when Mrs. Warren turned, gave a loud snore, and opened her eyes. She did not speak when she saw Connie, but her eyes seemed to say briefly, "Well, don't you go any farther"; and Connie turned back into her small bedroom. Sharp at four o'clock Mrs. Warren started up. "Now then," she said, "I'm goin' to get the tea ready." "Can I help you, ma'am?" asked Connie. "Shall I make you some toast, ma'am?" "Toast?" cried Mrs. Warren. "Toast? Do you think I'd allow yer to spile yer purty face with the fire beatin' on it? Not a bit o' it! You set down there--it's a foine lydy you be, and I ha' to take care of yer." "But why should yer do that, ma'am? I ain't put into the world to do naught. I ha' always worked 'ard--father wanted me to." "Eh?" said Mrs. Warren. "But I'm yer father and mother both now, and I don't want yer to." "Don't yer?" said Connie. She sank down and folded her hands in her lap. "I must do summut to whiten them 'ands o' yours," said Mrs. Warren; "and I'm goin' to get yer real purty stockings an' boots to wear. You must look the real lydy--a real lydy wears neat boots and good gloves." "But I ain't a lydy," said Connie; "an' wots more," she added, "I don't want to be." "You be a lydy," said Mrs. Warren; "the Halmighty made yer into one." "I don't talk like one," said Connie. "No; but then, yer needn't speak. Oh lor'! I suppose that's Agnes a-poundin' at the door. Oh, stand back, child, and I'll go to her." Mrs. Warren opened the door, and Agnes stepped in. "I ha' took French leave," she said. "I dunno wot they'll say at the factory, but yere I be. You promised, you know, Mrs. Warren, ma'am, as I shouldn't 'ave naught to do with factory life, niver no more." "You needn't," said Mrs. Warren. "I ha' a deal o' work for yer to get through; but come along into my bedroom and we'll talk over things." Mrs. Warren and Agnes disappeared into the bedroom of the former, Mrs. Warren having first taken the precaution to lock the sitting-room door and put the key into her pocket. Poor Connie felt more than ever that she was a prisoner. More than ever did she long for the old life which she had lived. Notwithstanding her father's drinking bouts, notwithstanding his cruelty and neglect, the free life, the above-board life--even the dull, dull factory life--were all as heaven compared to this terrible, mysterious existence in Mrs. Warren's comfortable rooms. CHAPTER VIII. COMPARISONS. Mrs. Warren and Agnes talked together for quite three quarters of an hour. When they came out of the bedroom, Mrs. Warren was wearing a tight-fitting cloth jacket, which made her look more enormous even than the cloak had done. She had a small black bonnet on her head, over which she had drawn a spotted net veil. Her hands were encased in decent black gloves, her skirt was short, and her boots tidy. She carried in her hand a fair-sized brown leather bag; and telling Connie that she was "goin' out," and would be back when she saw her and not before, left the two girls alone in the little sitting-room. After she had shut the door behind her, Agnes went over to it, and possessing herself of the key, slipped it into her pocket. Then she stared hard at Connie. "Well," she said, "an' 'ow do yer like it?" "I don't like it at all," answered Connie, "I want to go--I will go. I'd rayther a sight be back in the factory. Mrs. Warren--she frightens me." "You be a silly," said Agnes. "You talk like that 'cos you knows no better. Why, 'ere you are as cosy and well tended as gel could be. Look at this room. Think on the soft chair you're sittin' upon; think on the meals; think on yer bedroom; think on the beautiful walk you 'ad this morning. My word! you be a silly! No work to do, and nothing whatever to trouble yer, except to act the lydy. My word! ef _you're_ discontent, the world'll come to an end. Wish I were in your shoes--that I do." "Well, Agnes, get into them," said Connie. "I'm sure you're more than welcome. I'm jest--jest pinin' for wot you thinks naught on. I want to see Giles and Sue and--and--father. You git into my shoes--you like it--I don't like it." Agnes burst into a loud laugh. "My word!" she said, "you're be a gel and a 'arf. Wouldn't I jest jump at gettin' into your shoes if I could? But there! yer shoes don't fit me, and that's the truth." "Don't fit yer, don't they?" exclaimed Connie. "Wot do yer mean by that?" "Too small," said Agnes, sticking out her ugly foot in its broken boot--"too genteel--too neat. No one could make a lydy o' me. Look at my 'ands." She spread out her coarse, stumpy fingers. "Look at my face. Why, yere's a glass; let's stand side by side, an' then let's compare. Big face; no nose to speak of; upper lip two inches long; mouth--slit from ear to ear; freckles; eyes what the boys call pig's eyes; 'air rough and coarse; figure stumpy. Now look at you. Face fair as a lily; nose straight and small; mouth like a rosebud; eyes blue as the sky. No, Connie, it can't be done; what with that face o' yourn, and that gold 'air o' yourn, you're a beauty hout and hout. Yer face is yer fortoon', my purty maid." "My face ain't my fortune." "Things don't fit, Connie. You ha' got to stay yere--and be a fine lydy. That's the way you works for yer livin'--I ha' to work in a different sort." "What sort? Oh, do tel me!" "No; that's my secret. But I've spoke out plain with the old woman, and I'm comin' yere Saturday night--not to stay, bless yer! no, but to do hodd jobs for her; for one thing, to look arter you when she's out. I 'spect she'll get Ronald back now you ha' come." "Ronald!" cried Connie. "Who's he?" "Never you mind; you'll know when yer see of 'im." "Then I'm a prisoner," said Connie--"that's what it means." "Well, well! take it like that ef yer like. Ain't it natural that Mrs. Warren should want yer to stay now she ha' got yer? When yer stays willin'-like, as yer will all too soon, then yer'll 'ave yer liberty. Hin an' out then yer may go as yer pleases; there'll be naught to interfere. Yer'll jest do yer dooty then, and yer dooty'll be to please old Mammy Warren." "Has my father missed me?" asked Connie, who saw by this time that she could not possibly cope with Agnes; if ever she was to effect her escape from this horrible place, it must be by guile. "'Ow is father?" she asked. "'Ave he missed me yet?" "Know nothing 'bout him. Don't think he have, for the boys, Dick and Hal, was 'ome when I come back. They 'ad no news for me at all." "You saw Sue to-day?" "Yus, I saw her, an' I kep' well away from her." "Agnes," said Connie in a very pleading voice, "ef I must stay 'ere--an' I don't know wot I ha' done to be treated like this--will yer take a message from me to little Giles?" "Wot sort?" asked Agnes. "Tell 'im straight from me that I can't come to see 'im for a few days, an' ax him to pray for me; an' tell him that I 'ears the Woice same as he 'ears the Woice, and tell 'im as it real comforts me. Wull yer do that, Agnes--wull yer, now?" "Maybe," said Agnes; then after a pause she added, "Or maybe I won't. I 'ates yer Methody sort o' weak-minded folks. That's the worst o' you, Connie; you're real weak-minded, for all ye're so purty, what wid yer 'prays' an' yer Woice, indeed!" "Hark! it's sounding now," said Connie. She raised her little delicate hand, and turned her head to listen. The splendid notes filled the air. Connie murmured something under her breath. "I know wot Giles 'ud say 'bout the Woice to-night," she murmured. But Agnes burst into a loud laugh. "My word!" she said. "You 're talkin' o' Big Ben. Well, you be a caution." "_He that shall endure_," whispered Connie; and then a curious hidden sunshine seemed to come out and radiate her small face. She folded her hands. The impatience faded from her eyes. She sat still and quiet. "Wot hever's the matter with yer?" asked Agnes. "Naught as yer can understand, Aggie." "Let's get tea," said Agnes. She started up and made vigorous preparations. Soon the tea was served and placed upon the little centre-table. It was an excellent tea, with shrimps and bread-and-butter, and cake and jam. Agnes ate enormously, but Connie was not as hungry as usual. "Prime, I call it!" said Agnes. "My word! to think of gettin' all this and not workin' a bit for it! You be in luck, Connie Harris--you be in luck." When the meal was over, and Agnes had washed up and made the place tidy, she announced her intention of going to sleep. "I'm dead-tired," she said, "and swallerin' sech a fillin' meal have made me drowsy. But I ha' the key in my pocket, so don't you be trying that little gime o'running away." Agnes slept, and snored in her sleep, and Connie restlessly walked to the window and looked out. When Big Ben sounded again her eyes filled with tears. She had never spent such a long and dismal evening in her life. Mammy Warren did not return home until between ten and eleven o'clock. Immediately on her arrival, Agnes took her departure. Mammy Warren then locked the door, and having provided herself with a stiff glass of whisky-and-water, desired Connie to hurry off to bed. "Yer'll be losing yer purty sleep," she said, "and then where'll yer be?" The next day Connie again walked abroad with Mrs. Warren. Once more she was dressed in the dark-blue costume, with her golden hair hanging in a great fleece down her back. But when she made her appearance without the little blue handkerchief, Mrs. Warren sent her back for it. "I know wot I'm about," she said. "The blue in the 'andkercher'll add to the blue in yer eyes. Pop it on, gel, and be quick." Connie obeyed. "I don't--want to," she said. "And _w'y_ don't yer?" The woman's voice was very fierce. "I'm somehow sort o' feared." "Take that for bein' sort o' feared," said Mrs. Warren; and she hit the child so fierce a blow on the arm that Connie cried out from the pain. Poor Connie was a very timorous creature, however, and the effect of the blow was to make her meek and subservient. The blue handkerchief was tied on and arranged to Mrs. Warren's satisfaction, and they both went out into the open air. They went by 'bus to quite a different part of the town on this occasion, and Mrs. Warren again assured her little companion that she had a great deal of shopping to get through. "That is why I wear this cloak," she said; "I ha' bags fastened inside to hold the things as I buy." Once again they got into a crowd, and once again Connie was desired to walk on a little way in front, and once again people turned to look at the slim, fair child with her beautiful face and lovely hair. Once more they entered several shops, and invariably chose the most crowded parts--so crowded that Mrs. Warren whispered to Connie: "We must wait till our turn, honey. We must ha' patience, dearie." They had patience. Mrs. Warren did absolutely purchase half-a-dozen very coarse pocket-handkerchiefs, keeping Connie close to her all the time. One of these she straightway presented to the girl, saying in a loud voice as she did so to the attendant: "I'm out with the purty dear to give her exercise. I am her nurse. She mustn't walk too far. No, thank you, mum, I'll carry the 'andkerchers 'ome myself; I won't trouble yer to send them to Portland Mansions.--Now, come along, my dear; we mustn't waste our time in this 'ot shop. We must be hout, taking of our exercise." They walked a very, very long way that morning, and Mrs. Warren, contrary to her yesterday's plan, did now and then expend a few pence. Whenever she did so she drew the shop people's attention to Connie, speaking of her as her charge, and a "dear, delicate young lydy," and begging of the people to be quick, as "'ot air" was so bad for the dear child; and invariably she refused to allow a parcel to be sent to Portland Mansions, saying that she preferred to carry it. At last, however, she seemed to think that Connie had had sufficient exercise, and they went home from the corner of Tottenham Court Road on the top of a 'bus. On their way Connie turned innocently to her companion and said: "Why ever did yer say as we lived in Portland Mansions?" But a sharp pinch on the girl's arm silenced her, and she felt more nervous and frightened than ever. The moment they got home, Mrs. Warren again returned to her bedroom, and came back neatly dressed in a black and yellow silk, with a keen appreciation of roast pork and apple sauce, which had been preparing in the oven all the morning. Connie too was hungry. When the meal came to an end Mrs. Warren said: "More like a lydy you grows each minute. But, my dear, I must thank yer nivver to open yer mouth when you're out, for yer ain't got the accent. Yer must niver do it until yer has acquired the rightful accent." "Was that why yer pinched me so 'ard when I axed why yer spoke o' Portland Mansions?" asked Connie. Mrs. Warren burst into a loud laugh. "Course it were," she said. "Don't yer nivver do nothing o' that sort agin." "But we don't live in Portland Mansions. Why did yer say so?" asked Connie. "Ax no questions and yer'll be told no lies," was Mrs. Warren's response. She accompanied this apparently innocent speech with a look out of her fierce black eyes which caused poor Connie's heart to sink into her shoes. After a minute Mrs. Warren said: "To-morrer's Saturday; we'll go out a bit in the morning, and then we'll take train into the country. I promised yer a jaunt, and yer shall 'ave it. I'm thinking a lot o' yer, my dear, and 'ow I can best help such a beautiful young gel. Yer accent must be 'tended to, and the best way to manage that is for you to have a refoined sort o' companion. Ronald is that sort. We'll go and fetch 'im 'ome to-morrer." "Whoever is Ronald?" asked Connie. "Do tell me, please," she added in an interested voice, "for Agnes spoke of him yesterday." "You wait till yer see," said Mrs. Warren. She nodded good-humoredly. The rest of the day passed very much like the day before. It was again intensely dull to poor Connie. She had nothing whatever to do but to feed and sit still. Again Mrs. Warren slept until tea-time. Then Agnes made her appearance, and Mrs. Warren went out in a tight-fitting coat, and with a leather bag in her hand. Agnes made tea and scolded Connie; and Connie grumbled and cried, and begged and begged to be given back her liberty. Mrs. Warren returned a little later than the night before. Agnes went away; Mrs. Warren drank whisky-and-water, and Connie was sent to bed. Oh, it was a miserable night! And would her own people ever find her? Would Sue be satisfied that Connie was not quite lost? And would Father John look for her? Dear, kind, splendid Father John! What would she not give to hear his magnificent voice as he preached to the people once again? Would not her own father search heaven and earth to find his only child? He was so good to Connie when he was not drunk--so proud of her, too, so glad when she kissed him so anxious to do the best he could for her! Would he give her up for ever? "Oh dear, dear!" thought the poor child, "if it was not for the Woice I believe I'd go mad; but the Woice--it holds me up. I'm 'appy enough w'en I 'ears it. Oh, little Giles, thank yer for telling me o' the wonnerful Woice!" CHAPTER IX. A TRIP INTO THE COUNTRY. Saturday dawned a very bright and beautiful day. Mrs. Warren got up early, and Connie also rose, feeling somehow or other that she was going to have a pleasanter time than she had yet enjoyed since her imprisonment. Oh yes, she was quite certain now that she was imprisoned; but for what object it was impossible for her even to guess. Mrs. Warren bustled out quite an hour earlier than usual. She did not go far on this occasion. She seemed a little anxious, and once or twice, to Connie's amazement, dodged down a back street as though she were afraid. Her red face turned quite pale when she did this, and she clutched Connie's arm and said in a faltering voice: "I'm tuk with a stitch in my side! Oh, my poor, dear young lydy, I'm afeered as I won't be able to take yer for a long walk this blessed morning." But when Connie, later on, inquired after the stitch, she was told to mind her own business, and she began to think that Mrs. Warren had pretended. They reached Waterloo at quite an early hour, and there they took third-class tickets to a part of the country about thirty miles from London. It took them over an hour to get down, and during that time Connie sat by the window wrapped in contemplation. For the first time she saw green grass and hills and running water, and although it was midwinter she saw trees which seemed to her too magnificent and glorious for words. Her eyes shone with happiness, and she almost forgot Mrs. Warren's existence. At last they reached the little wayside station to which Mrs. Warren had taken tickets. They got out, and walked down a winding country lane. "Is this real, real country?" asked Connie. "Yus--too real for me." "Oh ma'am, it's bootiful! But I dunna see the flowers." "Flowers don't grow in the winter, silly." "Don't they? I thought for sure I'd see 'em a-blowin' and a-growin'. Yer said so--yer mind." "Well, so yer wull, come springtime, ef ye're a good gel. Now, I want to talk wid yer wery serious-like." "Oh ma'am, don't!" said poor Connie. "None o' yer 'dont's' wid me! You ha' got to be very thankful to me for all I'm a-doin' for yer--feedin yer, and cockerin' yer up, and makin' a fuss o' yer, and brushing out yer 'air, and giving yer blue ties, and boots, and gloves." "Oh ma'am, yes," said Connie; "and I'm wery much obleeged--I am, truly--but I'd rayther a sight rayther, go 'ome to father; I would, ma'am." "Wot little gels 'ud like isn't wot little gels 'ull get," said Mrs. Warren. "You come to me of yer own free will, and 'avin' come, yer'll stay. Ef yer makes a fuss, or lets out to anybody that yer don't like it, I've a little room in my house--a room widdout no light and no winder, and so far away from any other room that yer might scream yerself sick and no one 'ud 'ear. Into that room yer goes ef yer makes trouble. And now, listen." Mrs. Warren gripped Connie's arm so tight that the poor child had to suppress a scream. "I know wot ye're been saying to Agnes--a-grumblin' and a-grumblin' to Agnes, instead o' down on yer knees and thankin' the Almighty that yer've found Mammy Warren. I know all about it: Yer'll stop that--d'yer 'ear--d'yer 'ear?" "Yus, ma'am," said Connie. "Do yer, promise?" "Yus, ma'am," said the poor child again. "I'll see as yer keeps it--yer little good-for-nothing beggar maid as I'm a-pamperin' of! Don't I work for yer, and toil for yer? And am I to have naught but grumbles for my pains? Yer won't like that room--an' it's there!" "I won't grumble," said Connie, terrified, and not daring to do anything but propitiate her tyrant. Mrs. Warren's manner altered. "Wull," she said, "I ha' brought yer down all this long way to 'ave a plain talk, and I guess we 'ave 'ad it. You please me, and I'll do my dooty by you; but don't please me, and there ain't a gel in the whole of Lunnon'll be more misrubble than you. Don't think as yer'll git aw'y, for yer won't--no, not a bit o' it. And now I've something else to say. There's a young boy as we're goin' to see to-day. 'Is name is Ronald; he's a special friend o' mine. I ha' had that boy a-wisiting o' me afore now, but he were took bad with a sort of fever. My word! din't I nurse him--the best o' good things didn't I give 'im! But his narves went wrong, and I sent him into the country for change of hair. He's all right now. He's a very purty boy, same as you're a purty gel, and I'm goin' to bring him back to be a companion for yer." "Oh ma'am!" "Yus," said Mrs. Warren. "Yer'll like that, won't yer?" "Oh yus, ma'am." "Wull, now--we'll be calling at the cottage in a few minutes, and wot I want yer to do is to have a talk with that yer boy. Ye're to tell him as I'm wonnerful good; ye're to tell him the sort o' things I does for yer. The poor boy--he got a notion in his head w'en he had the fever--that I--I--Mammy Warren--wor cruel to him. You tell him as there ain't a word o' truth in it, for a kinder or more motherly body never lived. Ef yer don't tell him that, I'll soon find out; an' there's the room without winders an' without light real 'andy. Now--do yer promise?" These words were accompanied by a violent shake. "Do yer promise?" "Yus, I promise," said Connie, turning white. Mrs. Warren had an extraordinary capacity for changing her voice and manner, even the expression of her face. While she had been extracting two promises from poor Connie, she looked like the most awful, wicked old woman that the worst parts of London could produce; but when on two points Connie had faithfully promised to yield to her wishes, she immediately altered her tactics, and became as genial and affectionate and pleasant as she had been the reverse a few minutes back. "I believes yer," she said, "and you're a real nice child, and there won't be any one in the 'ole of Lunnun 'appier than you as long as yer take the part of poor old Mammy Warren. Now then, yere's the cottage, and soon we'll see the little man. He'll be a nice companion for yer, Connie, and yer'll like that, won't you?" "Oh yes, ma'am," said Connie. She was not a London child for nothing. She had known a good deal of its ups and downs, although nothing quite so terrible as her present position had ever entered into her mind. But she saw clearly enough that the only chance of deliverance for her, and perhaps for the poor little boy, was to carry out Mammy Warren's injunctions and to keep her promise to the letter. Accordingly, when Mrs. Warren's knock at the cottage door was answered by a kind-looking, pale-faced woman, Connie raised her bright blue eyes to the woman's face and listened with deep interest when Mrs. Warren inquired how the poor little boy was. "Is it Ronald?" said the woman, whose name was Mrs. Cricket. "He's ever so much better; he's taken kindly to his food, and is out in the woods now at the back of the house playing all by himself." "In the woods is he, now?" said Mrs. Warren. "Well, I ha' come to fetch him 'ome." "Oh ma'am, I don't think he's as strong as all that." "I ha' come to fetch him 'ome by the wishes of his parients," said Mrs. Warren. "I suppose," she added, "there's no doubt in yer moind that I '_ave_ come from the parients of the boy?" "Oh no, ma'am--none, o' course. Will you come in, and I'll fetch him?" "Is he quite right in the 'ead now?" said Mrs. Warren as she and Connie followed Mrs. Cricket into the cottage. "He's better," said that good woman. "No talk o' dark rooms and nasty nightmares and cruel old women? All those things quite forgot?" asked Mrs. Warren. "He ain't spoke o' them lately." "Well then, he's cured; he's quite fit to come 'ome. This young lydy is a r'lation o' hisn. I ha' brought her down to see 'im, and we'll all travel back to town together.--You might go and find him, my dear," said Mrs. Warren, turning to Connie, and meanwhile putting her finger to her lips when Mrs. Cricket's back was turned in order to enjoin silence on the girl. "You run out into the woods, my purty, and find the dear little boy and bring him back here as fast as yer like." "Yes, missy," said Mrs. Cricket, opening the back door of the cottage, "you run out, straight up that path, and you'll find little Ronald." Connie obeyed. She was glad to be alone in order to collect her thoughts. A wild idea of running away even now presented itself to her. But looking back, she perceived that Mrs. Warren had seated herself by the kitchen window and had her bold eyes fixed on her retreating little figure. No chance of running away. She must trust to luck, and for the present she must carry out Mrs. Warren's instructions. Presently she came up to the object of her search--an exceedingly pretty, dark-haired boy of about ten years of age. His face was pale, his features regular, his eyes very large, brown, and soft, like rich brown velvet. He did not pay much attention to Connie, but went on laying out a pile of horse-chestnuts which he had gathered in rows on the ground. "Be your name Ronald?" said Connie, coming up to him. He looked at her, then sprang to his feet, and politely took off his little cap. "Yes, my name is Ronald Harvey." "I ha' come to fetch yer," said Connie. "What for?" asked the boy. "It's Mammy Warren," said Connie in a low tone. "What?" asked the child. His face, always pale, now turned ghastly white. "She's such a nice woman," said Connie. She sat down by Ronald. "Show me these purty balls," she said. "Wot be they?" "Chestnuts," said the boy. "Did you ever see them before? That was not true what you said about--about----" "Yus," said Connie, "it is true. I'm a little gel stayin' with her now, and you--I want you to come back with me. She's real, real kind is Mammy Warren." The boy put his hand up to his forehead. "You seem a nice girl," he said, "and you look like--like a lady, only you don't talk the way ladies talk. I'm a gentleman. My father was an officer in the army, and my darling mother died, and--and something happened--I don't know what--but I was very, very, very ill. There was an awful time first, and there seemed to be a woman called Mammy Warren mixed up in the time and----" "Oh, you had fever," said Connie, "and you--you pictured things to yourself in the fever. But 'tain't true," she added earnestly. "I'm wid her, an' she's real, real, wonnerful kind." "You wouldn't tell a lie, would you, girl?" said the boy. Connie bit her lip hard. "No," she said then in a choked voice. "I wonder if it's true," said the boy. "It seems to me it was much more than the fever, but I can't--I can't _quite_ remember." "She is very kind," echoed Connie. "Children, come along in," said a cheerful voice at that moment; and Connie, raising her eyes, saw the sturdy form of Mrs. Warren advancing up the path to meet her. "She was terrible cruel in my time," said Ronald, glancing at the same figure. "I don't want to go back." "Oh, do--do come back, for my sake!" whispered Connie. He turned and looked into the beautiful little face. "Boys have to be good," he said then, "and--and brave. My father was a very brave man." Then he struggled to his feet. "Well, Ronald," said Mrs. Warren, "and 'ow may yer be, my dear little boy? This is Connie, a cousin o' yourn. Wot playmates you two wull be! Ye're both comin' back with me to my nice 'ome this wery arfternoon. And now Mrs. Cricket 'as got a meal for us all and then yer little things'll be packed, Ronald, and I'll carry 'em--for in course yer nurse ought to carry yer clothes, my boy. We'll get off to the train as fast as ever we can arter we've had our meal. Now, children, foller me back to the cottage." Mrs. Warren sailed on in front. Connie and Ronald followed after, hand in hand. There was quite a splendid color in Connie's pale cheeks now, for all of a sudden she saw a reason for her present life. She had got to protect Ronald, who was so much younger than herself. She would protect him with her very life if necessary. CHAPTER X. THE RETURN TO LONDON. Mrs. Warren made a very hearty meal. She swallowed down cup after cup of strong coffee, and ate great hunches of thick bread-and-butter, and called out to the children not to shirk their food. But, try as they would, neither Connie nor Ronald had much appetite. Connie, in spite of herself, could not help casting anxious glances at the little boy, and whenever she did so she found that Mrs. Warren had fixed her with her bold black eyes. It seemed to Connie that Mrs. Warren's eyes said quite as plainly as though her lips had spoken: "I'll keep my word; there's the room with no winder and no light in it--yer'll find yerself in there ef yer don't look purty sharp." But notwithstanding the threatening expression of Mrs. Warren's eyes, Connie could not restrain all sign of feeling. Ronald, on the other hand, appeared quite bright. He devoted himself to Connie, helping her in the most gentlemanly way to the good things which Mrs. Cricket had provided. "The apple jam is very nice," he said. "I watched Mrs. Cricket make it.--Didn't I, Mrs. Cricket?" "That you did, my little love," said the good woman. "And I give you a little saucer of it all hot and tasty for your tea, didn't I, my little love?" "Oh yes," replied Ronald; "and didn't I like it, just!" "Jam's wery bad for little boys," said Mrs. Warren at this juncture. "Jam guvs little boys fever an' shockin' cruel dreams. It's bread-and-butter as little boys should heat, and sometimes bread without butter in case they should turn bilious." "Oh no, ma'am, begging your pardon," here interrupted Mrs. Cricket; "I haven't found it so with dear little Master Ronald. You tell his parients, please, ma'am, that it's milk as he wants--lots and lots of country milk--and--and a chop now and then, and chicken if it's young and tender. That was 'ow I pulled 'im round.--Wasn't it, Ronald, my dear?" "Yes," said Ronald in his gentlemanly way. "You were very good indeed, Mrs. Cricket." "Perhaps," interrupted Mrs. Warren, drawing herself up to her full height, which was by no means great, and pursing her lips, "yer'll 'ave the goodness, Mrs. Cricket, to put on a piece o' paper the exact diet yer like to horder for this yere boy. I'm a busy woman," said Mrs. Warren, "and I can't keep it in my 'ead. It's chuckens an' chops an' new-laid heggs--yer did say new-laid heggs at thruppence each didn't yer, Mrs. Cricket?--an' the richest an' best milk, mostly cream, I take it." "I said nothing about new-laid eggs," said Mrs. Cricket, who was exceedingly exact and orderly in her mind; "but now, as you 'ave mentioned them, they'd come in very 'andy. But I certain did speak of the other things, and I'll write 'em down ef yer like." "Do," said Mrs. Warren, "and I'll mention 'em to the child's parients w'en I see 'em." But at this juncture something startling happened, for Ronald, white as a sheet, rose. "Has my father come back?" he asked. "Have you heard from him? Are you taking me to him?" Mrs. Warren gazed full at Ronald, and, quick as thought, she adopted his idea. Here would be a way--a delightful way--of getting the boy back to her dreadful house. "Now, ain't I good?" she said. "Don't I know wot a dear little boy wants? Yus, my love, ye're soon to be in the harms of yer dear parient." "But you said both parients," interrupted Mrs. Cricket. Mrs. Warren put up her finger to her lips. She had got the boy in her arms, and he found himself most unwillingly folded to her ample breast. "Ain't one enough at a time?" was her most dubious remark. "And now then, Ronald, hurry up with yer things, for Connie and me, we must be hoff. We could leave yer behind, ef yer so wished it, but Lunnun 'ud be a much more convenient place for yer to meet yer father." "Oh I'll go, I'll go!" said Ronald. "My darling, darling father! Oh, I did think I'd never see him again! And he's quite well, Mrs. Warren?" "In splendid, splendid health," said Mrs. Warren. "Niver did I lay eyes on so 'andsome a man." "And I'll see him to-night?" said Ronald. "Yus--ef ye're quick." Then Ronald darted into the next room, and Mrs. Cricket followed him, and Connie and Mrs. Warren faced each other. Mrs. Warren began to laugh immoderately. "Young and tender chuckens," she said, "an' chops an' new-laid heggs an' milk. Wotever's the matter with yer, Connie?" Connie answered timidly that she though Ronald a dear little boy, and very pretty, and that she hoped that he would soon get strong with the nourishing food that Mrs. Warren was going to give him. But here that worthy woman winked in so mysterious and awful a manner that poor Connie felt as though she had received an electric shock. After a time she spoke again. "I'm so glad about his father!" she said. "His father was a hofficer in the harmy. Will he really see him to-night, Mrs. Warren?" "Will the sky fall?" was Mrs. Warren's ambiguous answer. "Once for all, Connie, you ax no questions an' you'll be told no lies." A very few moments afterwards Ronald came out of the little bedroom, prepared for his journey. Mrs. Cricket cried when she parted with him, but there were no tears in the boy's lovely eyes--he was all smiles and excitement. "I'll bring my own, own father down to see you, Mrs. Cricket," he said; "maybe not to-morrow, but some day next week. For you've been very good to me, darling Mrs. Cricket." Then Mrs. Cricket kissed him and cried over him again, and the scene might have been prolonged if Mrs. Warren had not caught the boy roughly by the shoulder and pulled him away. As they were marching down the tiny path which led from the cottage to the high-road, Mrs. Cricket did venture to say in an anxious voice: "I s'pose as Major Harvey'll pay me the little money as I spended on the dear child?" "That he will," said Mrs. Warren. "I'll see him to-night, most like, and I'll be sure to mention the chuckens and the chops." "Well then, good-bye again, darling," said Mrs. Cricket. Ronald blew a kiss to her, and then, taking Connie's hand, they marched down the high-road in the direction of the railway station, Mrs. Warren trotting by their side, carrying the small bundle which contained Ronald's clothes all tied up neatly in a blue check handkerchief. "Yer'll be sure to tell yer father wot a good nurse I were to you, Ronald," she remarked as they found themselves alone in a third-class carriage. "You're quite sure it _was_ only a dream?" said Ronald then very earnestly. "Wot do yer mean by that, chile?" inquired Mrs. Warren. "I mean the dark room without any light, and the dreadful person who--who--flogged me, and--the hunger." "Poor little kid!" said Mrs. Warren. "Didn't he 'ave the fever, and didn't Mammy Warren hold him in her arms, an', big boy that he be, walked up and down the room wid him, and tried to soothe him w'en he said them nasty lies? It wor a dream, my dear. W'y, Connie here can tell yer 'ow good I am to 'er." "Wery good," said Connie--"so good that there niver were no one better." She tumbled out the words in desperation, and Mammy Warren gave her a radiant smile, and poked her playfully in the ribs, and said that she was quite the funniest gel she had ever come acrost. After this Connie was quite silent until the little party found themselves at Waterloo. Here they mounted to the top of a 'bus, and Ronald, trembling with delight, clutched hold of Connie's hand. "Stoop down," he said; "I want to whisper." Connie bent towards him. "Do you think my father will be waiting for me when we get back to Mrs. Warren's?" "I don't know," was the only reply poor Connie could manage to give him. At last the omnibus drive came to an end, and the trio walked the short remaining distance to Mrs. Warren's rooms. Ronald almost tumbled upstairs in his eagerness to get there first. "Oh, how will he get in? I do hope he's not been waiting and gone away again." Mrs. Warren opened the door with her latch key. The room was dark, for there was neither fire-light nor gas-light; but soon these deficiencies were supplied, for Mrs. Warren was exceedingly fond of creature comforts. "I wonder when he'll come," said Ronald. He was standing by the table and looking anxiously with his big brown eyes all round him. "I do wonder when he'll come." Mrs. Warren made no reply. She began to prepare supper. As she did so there came a knock at the door. Mrs. Warren went to open it. She had an eager conversation with some one who stood without, and then she and Agnes entered the room together. Ronald evidently knew Agnes, for he shrank away from her and regarded her arrival with the reverse of pleasure. "Wull--and 'ow yer?" said Agnes in a cheerful tone. She chucked Ronald under the chin and remarked on his healthy appearance. "Wull," said Mrs. Warren, "yer can't blame the pore child for that, seein' as he 'ave been cockered up on the best food in the land--chuckens and chops, no less." "Oh, dear me! how shockin' greedy you must be!" said Agnes. "I'm sure, ma'am," she continued, turning to Mrs. Warren, "no one could desire better than wot _you_ 'as to eat." "I like my own food," said Mrs. Warren, "although it be simplicity itself. There are two red 'errin's for supper to-night, and bread-and-butter and tea, and a _little_ raspberry jam, and ef that ain't enough for anybody's palate, I don't know----" "My father, when he comes"--began Ronald, but here Mrs. Warren turned to him. "You're a manly boy, Ronald," she said, "and I know you'll tike wot I 'ave to say in a manly sperrit. Yer father have been called out o' Lunnon, and won't be back for a day or two. He sent a message by Agnes 'ere. He don't know the exact day as he'll be back, but he'll come wery soon." "Yes," said Agnes, "I seen him." "Where?" asked Ronald. "In the street," said Agnes. "He come along 'ere an hour back. Ef you'd been 'ome he might ha' took yer back with him; but w'en he found that you was still in the country he wor that pleased 'is whole face seemed to smile, and he said--said 'e, 'Dear Mammy Warren--I'd like to chuck her under her chin.' Them was his wery words." "I don't believe my father would say that sort of thing," answered Ronald. "Oh my!" said Agnes. "Highty-tighty! Don't yer go an' say as I tells lies, young man----" "An' it's the wery thing he would say," interrupted Mrs. Warren, "for a plainer-spoken, more hagreeable man than the Major niver drew breath." "He left yer a message," continued Agnes, "an' yer can tike it or leave it--I don't care. Wot he said wor this. You're to obey Mammy Warren, an' be wery grateful to her, an' do jest wot she tells yer until he comes 'ome. He'll be 'ome any day, an' he'll come an' fetch yer then, and the more good yer be to Mammy Warren the better pleased he'll be." Ronald sat down on a little stool. He had sat on that stool before. He looked with dim eyes across the over-furnished, hot, and terribly ugly room. That vision of delight which had buoyed him up all the way back to London was not to be realized for a few days. He must bear with Mrs. Warren for a few days. It did not enter into his head that the whole story about his father was false from beginning to end. The present disappointment was quite enough for so young a child to bear. After this Mrs. Warren and Agnes conversed in semi-whispers, and presently they retired into Mrs Warren's bedroom, and Connie and Ronald were alone. "I am glad yer've come 'ere, Ronald," said Connie. "Yes," said Ronald. He pressed his little white hand against his forehead. "You're missing your father, I know," continued Connie, "Somehow I'm a-missing o' mine." "Have you a father, Connie?" asked the little boy. "Yus--that I 'ave," said Connie. "Not a great, grand gentleman like yourn, but a father for all that." "Is your father in London?" asked the boy. "Oh yes," answered Connie, "and not far from 'ere, nayther." "Then why aren't you with him?" asked Ronald. "'Cos I can't be," replied Connie in a low whisper. "Hush!" said Ronald. Just then the door opened and Agnes came out. Mrs. Warren followed her. Mrs. Warren wore her usual tight-fitting jacket, but on this occasion Agnes carried a leather bag, which seemed to be stuffed so full that it was with difficulty it could be kept shut. Mrs. Warren addressed the two children. "I'm goin' to lock you two in," she said, "an' you'd best go to bed. There's a little bed made up in your room, Connie, for Ronald to sleep in; and as you're a deal older than that sweet little boy, you'll nurse him off to sleep, jest as though he wor your real brother. Arter he's asleep you can go to bed yerself, for there's nothing like early hours for beauty sleep. You yere me, Connie? You know wot to do?" "Yus," answered Connie. Her voice was almost cheerful. She was so truly glad that Mrs. Warren was going out. When she heard the key turning in the lock, and knew that she and Ronald were locked in all alone, she scarcely seemed to mind, so glad was she of Ronald's company. Neither child spoke to the other until the retreating footsteps of Mrs. Warren and Agnes ceased to sound on the stairs. Then Connie went up to Ronald, and kneeling down by him put her arms round him and kissed him. "You're very pretty," said the little boy, "although you don't talk like a lady. But that doesn't matter," he added, "for you've got a lady's heart." "I love you, Ronald," was Connie's answer. Ronald now put his own arms round Connie's neck and kissed her once or twice on her peach-like cheek, and then they both sat down on the floor and were happy for a few minutes in each other's company. After that Ronald began to speak. He told Connie about his father and about his mother. He did not cry at all, as most children would have done, when he spoke of those he loved so dearly. "Mother's dead nearly a year now," he said. "It was waiting for father that killed her. Father went out to a dreadful war in South Africa, and we heard that he was killed. Mother wouldn't believe it; she never did believe it--never--and she taught me not to, and I never did. But, all the same, it killed her." "And then wot became of you?" asked Connie. "I was taken here," replied Ronald. "That's three or four months ago now. I remember quite well being out walking with my nurse. She wasn't very nice, my nurse wasn't; but she was--oh, so good and kind compared to--what--what happened afterwards! Darling mother was dead. They had put her body in the grave, and the angels had got her soul. I didn't like to think of the grave, but I did love to remember the angels. The last thing mother said when she was dying was, 'Ronald, when your father comes back, be sure you tell him that I never believed that he was really dead.'" "I promised her, and then she said again, 'And you'll never believe it either, Ronald.' And I said that I never, never would, if it was a thousand years. And then she kissed me and smiled; and I s'pose the angels took her, for she never spoke any more." "Well," said Connie, who did not want Ronald to dwell too long on this very sad scene, "tell us 'bout the day you come 'ere." "Mother was in her grave," said Ronald, "and there was no one who thought very much about me; and my nurse--she was not half as kind as when mother lived. One day she took me for a walk. We went a long, long way, and presently she asked me to wait for her outside one of those awful gin-palaces. She used to go in there sometimes, even when mother was alive. Well, I waited and waited outside, but she never came out. I was not a bit frightened at first, of course, for my father's boy mustn't be a coward, must he, Connie?" "No," answered Connie. "But she didn't come out, and it got late, and people began to look at me, and by-and-by Mammy Warren came out of the gin-palace. She was--oh, so red in the face! and I thought I'd never seen so dreadfully stout a woman. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, 'Wotever are you doing here?' And I said, 'I'm waiting for my nurse, Hannah Waters.' And she said, 'Oh, then, _you're_ the little boy!' And I stared at her, and she said, 'Pooh Hannah's took bad, and she's asked me to take you home. Come along at once, my dear.' "I went with her. I wasn't a bit frightened--I had never been frightened in all my life up to then. But she didn't take me home at all. She brought me to this house. She was very kind to me at first, in a sort of a way, and she told me that my relations had given me to her to look after, and that I was to be her little boy for the present, and must do just what she wanted." "Well--and wot did she want?" asked Connie, trembling not a little. "It wasn't so dreadful bad at first," continued Ronald. "She used to take me out every day for long walks, and she made me look very nice; and we went into shops, for she said she wanted to buy things, but I don't think she ever did buy much. I used to be tired sometimes; we walked such a very long way." "And did she ever make you go a little, tiny bit in front of her?" said Connie. "Why, yes," replied Ronald. "But I rather liked that, for, you see, I'm a gentleman, and she's not a lady." "I wonder," said Connie, "ef she spoke of herself as your old nurse." Ronald began to laugh. "How clever of you to think of that, Connie! She always did; and whenever she did buy things she said they were for me; and she used to give--oh, tremendous grand addresses of where I lived." "Portland Mansions, p'r'aps?" said Connie. "Sometimes that, and sometimes other places; but of course the parcels were never sent there; she always carried them herself." "And she wore a big, big cloak, with pockets inside?" asked Connie. "Yes, she did--she did." "She does just the same with me now," said Connie. "I go out with her every day, and we go into the big shops--into the most crowded parts--and she doesn't buy much. I like that the best part of the day, for all the rest of the time I have to stay here and do nothing." "And so had I to stay in these rooms and do nothing," said Ronald. "But I won't have to stay long now," he continued, "as my dear, dear father has come home. Oh! I wish darling mother were alive, that she might feel as happy as I do to-night." "But tell me, Ronald," continued Connie, "how was it yer got the fever?" "I don't quite remember that part," said the little boy. "All that part was made up of dreams. There was a dreadful dream when I seemed to be quite well, and when I said something before some one, and Mammy Warren turned scarlet; and when I was alone she--she flogged me and put me into a dark, dark room for--oh! it seemed like--for ever. And I had nothing to eat, and I was so frightened--for she said there was a bogy there--that I nearly died. I didn't like to be frightened, for it seemed as though I couldn't be father's own son if I were afraid. But I was afraid, Connie--I was. I'll have to tell darling father about it when I see him; I'm sure he'll forgive me, more particular when he knows the whole thing was only a fever dream--for there's not any room in this house like that, is there, Connie." "Yes, but there be," thought Connie. But she did not say so aloud. That night Ronald slept as peacefully as though he were really back again with his father. But Connie lay awake. Anxious as she had been before Ronald's arrival, that state of things was nothing at all to her present anxiety. The next day was Sunday, and if it had not been for Big Ben the two poor children would have had a most miserable time, for they were shut up in Mrs. Warren's room from morning till night. In vain they begged to be allowed to go out. Mrs. Warren said "No," and in so emphatic a manner that they did not dare to ask her twice. Agnes did not come at all to the house on Sunday, and Connie and Ronald finally curled themselves up in the deep window-ledge, and Connie talked and told Ronald all about her past life. In particular she told him about Big Ben, and little Giles, and the wonderful, most wonderful "Woice." After that the children had a sort of play together, in which Ronald proved himself to be a most imaginative little person, for he invented many fresh stories with regard to Big Ben, assuring Connie that he was much more than a voice. He would not be at all surprised, he said if Big Ben was not a great angel who came straight down from heaven every hour to comfort the sorrowful people in Westminster. Ronald thought it extremely likely that this wonderful angel knew his own mother, and was on this special Sunday telling him to be a brave boy and keep up his heart, for most certainly he would be safe back with his father before another Sunday came. "That's what he says," continued Ronald, "and that's what'll happen, you'll see, Connie. And when darling father comes here you shall come away too, for I won't leave you alone with Mammy Warren. She's not a real kind person, is she, Connie?" "Don't ax me," said Connie. Ronald looked up into her face. "You can't tell a lie at all well," he said. "You're trying to make me think that Mammy Warren's nice, but you're not doing it well, for I don't believe you." Then the big clock once again tolled the hour, and Ronald laughed with glee. "There's no doubt about it now," he said. "Father _is_ coming, and very, very soon. Oh I am glad, and happy!" During that Sunday the children had very little food, for Mrs. Warren seemed all of a sudden to have changed her tactics. Whether it was the fact that she was really angry at Mrs. Cricket's having fed the boy on chicken and mutton-chops, no one could tell; but all he did have on that eventful Sunday was weak tea, stale bread and butter, and a very little jam. Towards evening the two poor little creatures were really hungry. By-and-by they clasped each other round the neck, and fell asleep in each other's arms. It was in this condition--curled up near the fire--that Mrs. Warren found them when she got home. CHAPTER XI. A NEW DEPARTURE. With Monday morning, however, all things seemed to have altered. Mrs. Warren was up spry and early. She called Connie to come and help her, but she desired Ronald to lie in bed. "It's a nasty day," she said; "there's sleet falling. We'll go out, of course, for fresh air is good for children, but we must none of us wear our best clothes." "What do yer mean by that?" said Connie. "Don't you go and ax me wot I mean; just do wot I tells yer. No dark-blue dress for yer to-day, missy. I ha' got a old gownd as 'ull fit yer fine." Poor Connie trembled. Mrs. Warren went into her bedroom. "'Ere, now," she said, "you put it on." The old gown was certainly not at all nice. Its color was quite indescribable. It was very ragged and torn, too, round the bottom of the skirt. It dragged down in front so as almost to trip poor Connie when she tried to walk, and was several inches too short in the back. Mrs. Warren desired Connie to take off her dainty shoes and stockings, and gave her some stockings with holes in them, and some very disreputable shoes down at the heel. She made her pin across her chest a little old shawl of an ugly pale pattern, and instead of allowing her to wear her hair in a golden fleece down her back, she plaited it, and tied it into a little bunch at the back of her head. She then put an old bonnet on the child's head--a bonnet which must have once belonged to quite an elderly woman--and tied it with strings in front. Connie felt terribly ashamed of herself. "I'm all in rags," she said, "jest as though I wor a beggar maid." "I've a fancy that yer shall wear these 'ere clothes to-day," said Mrs. Warren. "Yer've been a fine lydy too long; yer'll be a beggar maid to-day. W'en I tell yer wot to do in the street, yer'll do it. You can sing, I take it. Now then, you learn the words." Mrs. Warren planted down before Connie the well-known words of "Home, Sweet Home." "I know this without learning it," said the girl. "An' you 'as a good woice, I take it." "Middlin'," replied Connie. "Wull, sing it for me now." Connie struck up the familiar words, and so frightened was she that in real desperation she acquitted herself fairly well. "You'll take a treble, an' the little boy 'ull do likewise, and I'll take a fine, deep second. Ah! _I_ know 'ow to sing," said Mrs. Warren. "You won't take little Ronald out on a dreadful sort o' day like this," said Connie. "Wen I want yer adwice I'll ax fur it," said Mrs. Warren, with most withering sarcasm. Poor Connie felt her heart suddenly fit to burst. What new and dreadful departure was this? Mrs. Warren now brought Ronald into the front room, and there she arrayed him in garments of the poorest type, allowing his little thin legs to be quite bare, and his very thin arms to show through his ragged jacket. She posed, however, a little red cap on the midst of his curly dark hair; and this cap most wonderfully became the child, so that few people could pass him in the street without noticing the sweetness of his angelic face. Then Mrs. Warren prepared herself for the part she was to take. She went into her bedroom for the purpose, and returned looking so exactly like a stout old beggar woman that the children would scarcely have known her. She had covered her left eye with a patch, and now only looked out on the world with her right one. Her hair was knotted untidily under a frowsy old bonnet, and a very thin shawl was bound across her ample breast. "We'll do fine, I take it," she said to the children. "I am your mother, my dears; you'll both 'old me by the 'and. Purtier little lambs couldn't be seen than the two of yez. And ef poor, ugly Mammy Warren 'ave made herself still uglier for yer sweet sakes, 'oo can but love 'er for the ennoblin' deed? Wull, come along now, children; but first I'll build up the fire, for we'll be 'ungry arter this 'ere job." The fire was built up to Mrs. Warren's satisfaction, and the three went downstairs. Ronald was quite speechless with shame--to go out like this, to disgrace his brave father and his darling mother in this sort of fashion, was pure torture to the boy; but Connie, in the thought of him and the fear that he would take cold, almost forgot her own misery. The three did not go anywhere by 'bus that day, but hurried down side alleys and back streets until they got into the region of Piccadilly. The children had not the least idea where they were. Suddenly, however, they came to a pause outside a large hotel, and there Mrs. Warren struck up the first note of "Home, Sweet Home." She had timed everything well. The policeman was at the other end of his beat, and she would not be molested for quite ten minutes. The quavering, ugly notes of the old woman were well subdued, and Connie had a really fine voice, and it rose high on the bitter air in sweet, childish appeal and confidence. Ronald, too, was struck with a sudden thought. That hotel was a sort of place where father used to live when he was alive. Who could tell if his father himself might not have returned, and might not be there, and might not hear him if he sang loud enough and sweet enough? The voice of the boy and the voice of the girl blended together, and Mrs. Warren skilfully dropped hers so as not to spoil the harmony. The people in the hotel were attracted by the sweet notes, and crowded to the windows. Then Connie's face of purest beauty--Connie's face rendered all the more pathetic by the old bonnet and the dreadful, tattered dress--and Ronald with his head thrown back, his red cap held in his hand, the white snow falling in flakes on his rich dark hair, made between them a picture which would melt the hardest heart. Sixpences and even shillings were showered from the windows, and as the last note of "Home, Sweet Home" died away Mrs. Warren pocketed quite a considerable harvest. She and the children then moved on and did likewise before several other large buildings, but they were not so successful again as they had been with their first attempt. The police came back sooner than they were expected. Ronald began to cough, too, and Connie's face looked blue with cold. Mrs. Warren, however, was not disappointed. She spoke encouragingly and protectingly to the children. "Come 'ome, loveys," she said; "come 'ome, my little dears." They did get home--or, rather, they got back to the dreadful house where they were imprisoned--late in the afternoon, Ronald almost speechless with cold and fatigue, Connie trembling also, and aching in every limb. But now unwonted comforts awaited them. Mrs. Warren had no idea of killing off these sources of wealth. She put Ronald into a hot bath, and rubbed his limbs until they glowed, and then moved his little bed in front of the fire and got him into it. Connie was also rubbed and dried and desired to dispense with her beggar's toilet. Afterwards there was quite a good dinner of roast pork with crackling and apple sauce, and dreadful as their position was, both the poor children enjoyed this meal as they had never enjoyed food before. Thus a few days went by, the children going out every morning with Mrs. Warren sometimes as beggar children, but sometimes again as children of the well-to-do. These two programmes formed the most interesting part of their little lives. For the rest of the day they sat huddled up together, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, while each day a bigger and bigger ache came into Ronald's heart. Why, oh why did not his father come to fetch him? But as all things come to an end, so the children's life in Mrs. Warren's dreadful attics came to an abrupt conclusion. One day, just as they were dressed to go out, there came a hurried knock at the door. It seemed to Connie, who was very sharp and observant, that Mrs. Warren did not much like the sound. She went to the door and, before opening it, called out, "Who's there?" "Agnes," was the reply; whereupon Mrs. Warren opened the door a few inches, and Agnes squeezed in, immediately locking the door behind her. She whispered something into Mrs. Warren's ear, which caused that good woman to turn deadly white and stagger against the wall. "Yer've no time to faint, ma'am," said Agnes. "'Ere--let me slap yer on the back." She gave two resounding whacks on Mrs. Warren's stout back, which caused that woman to heave a couple of profound sighs and then to recover her presence of mind. She and Agnes then retired into her bedroom, where drawers were hastily opened, and much commotion was heard by the two prettily dressed and waiting children. In another minute or two Agnes came out alone. "Wull," she said, "and 'ow be you, Connie?" "I am all right," said Connie. "Where's Mammy Warren?" "She's tuk bad, and won't want yer to go out a-walkin' with her to-day. Oh my! oh my! how spry we be! It 'minds me o' the old song, 'As Willikins were a-walkin' wid his Dinah one day.'" "Agnes," said Connie, "I'm certain sure as there's some'ut wrong." "Be yer now?" said Agnes. "Wull then, ye're mistook. Wot could be wrong? Ye're a very queer and suspicious gel, Connie Harris--the most suspicious as I hever see'd. Ye're just for all the world the most selfish gel as could be found in the whole o' Lunnun. Pore Mammy Warren was told of the sudden death of her sister, and that's all the sympathy you guvs her. Wery different she behaves to you and Ronald. 'Hagnes,' says she, 'tike those pore children for a run,' says she, 'and bring them 'ome safe in time for dinner,' says she, 'an' give 'em some roast mutton for dinner, poor darlin's,' says Mammy Warren; and then she falls to cryin', and 'Oh, my sister!' she says, and 'Oh, poor Georgina!' she sobs. Now then, the pair of yer--out we goes, and I'll go wid yer." Quick as thought Agnes accomplished her purpose, and the two prettily dressed children--Connie with her hair down her back, Ronald looking like a little prince--found themselves in the street. But if the two children thought that they had the slightest chance of running away they were terribly mistaken, for Agnes proved even a sharper taskmistress than Mrs. Warren. She seemed to Connie to have suddenly got quite old and very cruel and determined. She walked the children here, and she walked them there. They peered into shop windows and got into crowds, but they did no shopping that morning. Connie was rather glad of that, and now she was so accustomed to being stared at that she hardly took any notice; while as to Ronald, his sweet brown eyes looked full up into the face of every gentleman who passed, in the faint hope of discovering his father again. It seemed to Connie that they were out longer than usual; but at last they did come back. Then, to their great surprise, they found the door of Mammy Warren's sitting-room wide opened. "My word! 'ow can this 'ave 'appened?" said Agnes. They all went in, and Agnes went straight to the bedroom. She came out presently, wearing a very grave face, and told the children that she greatly feared poor Mammy Warren had gone off her head with grief--that there wasn't a sign of her in the bedroom, nor anywhere in the house. "And she's took her things, too," said Agnes. "Wull, now--wull, I must go and search for her. Yer dinner's in the oven, children, and I'll come back to see 'ow yer be sometime to-night, p'rhaps." "Wull Mammy Warren come back to-night?" asked Connie. "I don't know--maybe the poor soul is in the river by now. She wor took wery bad, thinkin' of her sister, Georgina. I'll lock yer in, of course, children, and yer can eat yer dinner and think o' yer mercies." CHAPTER XII. LEFT ALONE. When Agnes went out the two children stared at each other. "Connie," said Ronald, "I wish you'd tell me the real, real truth." But Connie was trembling very much. "Don't yer ax me," she said. She suddenly burst into tears. "I am so dreadfully frightened," she cried. "I don't think I ever wor so frightened in all my life before. You're not half so frightened as I am, Ronald." "Of course not," said Ronald, "for I am a boy, you see, and I'll be a man by-and-by. Besides, I have to think of father--father would have gone through anything. Once he was in a shipwreck. The ship was really wrecked, and a great many of the passengers were drowned. Father told me all about it, but it was from a friend of father's that I learned afterwards how splendid he was, saving--oh, heaps of people! It was that night," continued Ronald, sitting down by the fire as he spoke, his eyes glowing with a great thought, and his little face all lit up by the fire-light--"it was that night that he first found out how much he loved mother; for mother was in a great big Atlantic liner, and it was father who saved her life. Afterwards they were married to each other, and afterwards I came to them--God sent me, you know." "Yus," said Connie. She dried her eyes. "Go on talking, Ronald," she said. "I never met a boy like you. I thought there were no one like Giles, but it seems to me some'ow that you're a bit better--you're so wonnerful, wonnerful brave, and 'ave such a cunnin' way of talkin'. I s'pose that's 'cos you--you're a little gen'leman, Ronald." Ronald made no answer to this. After a minute he said: "There's no thanks to me to be brave--that is, when I'm brave it's all on account of father, and 'Like father, like son.' Mother used to teach me that proverb when I was very small. Shall I tell you other things that father did?" "Oh yus, please," said Connie. "He saved some people once in a great big fire. No one else had courage to go in, but he wasn't afraid of anything. And another time he saved a man on the field of battle. He got his V. C. for that." "Wotever's a V. C.?" inquired Connie. "Oh," said Ronald, "don't you even know that? How very ignorant you are, dear Connie. A V. C.--why, it's better to be a Victoria Cross man than to be the greatest noble in the land. Even the King couldn't be more than a Victoria Cross man." "Still, I don't understand," said Connie. "It's an honor," said Ronald, "that's given for a very, very brave deed. Father had it; when he comes back he'll show you his Victoria Cross; then you'll know." "Do yer think as he'll come soon?" asked Connie. "He may come to-day," said Ronald--"or he may not," he added, with a profound sigh. The little boy had been talking with great excitement, but now the color faded from his cheeks and he coughed a little. He had coughed more or less since that dreadful day when Mrs. Warren had taken him out in the snowstorm. He was always rather a delicate child, and after his bad fever he was not fit to encounter such misery and hardship. "Connie," he said after a time, "it's the worst of all dreadful things, isn't it, to pretend that you are what you aren't?" "What do yer mean by that?" asked Connie. "Well, it's this way. You praise me for being brave. I am not brave always; I am very frightened sometimes. I am very terribly frightened now, dear Connie." "Oh Ronald!" said Connie, "if you're frightened hall's hup." "Let me tell you," said Ronald. He laid his little, thin hand on the girl's arm. "It's about father. Do you think, Connie, that Mammy Warren could have invented that story about him?" "I dunno," said Connie. "But what do you think, Connie? Tell me just what you think." "Tell me what you think, Ronald." "I am afraid to think," said the child. "At first I believed it, just as though father had spoken himself to me. I thought for sure and certain he'd be waiting for me here. I didn't think for a single moment that he'd be the sort of father that would come and stand outside in the landing and go away again just because I wasn't here. For, you see, I am his own little boy; I am all he has got. I know father so well, I don't believe he could do that kind of thing." "Oh, but you can't say," answered Connie. "Certain sure, it seemed as though Agnes spoke the truth." "I thought that too; only father's a very refined sort of man, and he'd never, never chuck Mrs. Warren under the chin." "Agnes might have invented that part," said poor Connie. But in her heart of hearts she had long ago given up all hope of Ronald's father coming to fetch him. "She might," said Ronald; "that is quite true; and he might have had to go to the country--perhaps to rescue some one in great danger. He is the sort who are always doing that. That's quite, quite likely, for it would be in keeping with father's way. And he'd like me, of course, to be unselfish, and never to make a fuss--he hated boys who made a fuss. Oh yes, I did believe it; and on Saturday night and on Sunday, when Big Ben talked to us, it seemed that it was mother telling me that father would soon be with me. But a whole week has gone and he hasn't come. Why, it's Saturday night again, Connie. I've been back again in this house for a whole week now, and father has never, never come." "Maybe he'll come to-night," said Connie. "I don't think so; somehow I'd sort of feel it in my bones if he was coming back." "What do yer mean by that?" said Connie. "Oh, I'd be springy-like and jumpy about. But I'm not. I feel--oh, so lazy and so--so tired! and a little bit--yes, a greatbit--frightened--terribly frightened." "You must cheer up, Ronald," said Connie. Then she added, "I wish we could get out o' this. I wish I could pick the lock and get aw'y." "Oh, I wish you could, Connie," said the child. "Couldn't you try?" "I'm a'most afeered to go into Mammy Warren's room," said Connie; "for ef she did come back and see me any time, she'd punish me awful; but p'r'aps I might find tools for picking the lock in her room." "Oh, do let's try!" said Ronald. Connie half-rose, then sat down again. "It's me that's the coward now," she said. "Oh, how so, Connie?" "'Cos," said Connie, "there's that dark room with no winder--'tain't a dream, Ronald." "I thought it wasn't," said Ronald, turning white. "No--it's there," said Connie, "and I'm afeered o' it." Ronald sat very still for a minute then. He was thinking hard. He was only a little boy of ten years old, but he was a very plucky one. He looked at Connie, who although a little older than he, was very slight and small for her age. "Connie," he said, "if you and I are ever to make our escape we must not be frightened. Even the dark closet won't frighten me now. _I_ am going into Mrs. Warren's room." "Oh Ronald! Are you? Dare you?" "Yes, I dare. Father did worse things than that--why should I be afraid?" "You'd win the V. C., Ronald, wouldn't you, now?" Ronald smiled. "Not for such a little, little thing. But perhaps some day," he said; and his eyes looked very bright. "Connie, if we can unpick the lock and get the door open, where shall we go?" "We'll go," said Connie in a brisk voice, "back to Father John as fast as ever we can." "Father John," said Ronald--"who is he?" "I told you, Ronnie--I told you about him." "I forgot for a minute," said Ronald. "You mean the street preacher." "Yus," said Connie. "'E'll save us. There's no fear o' Mammy Warren getting to us ever again ef he takes us in 'and." Ronald smiled. "The only thing I'm afraid of is this," he said--"that if it's true about father, he may come here and find me gone." "Let's leave a note for him," said Connie then. "Let's put it on the table. If Mammy Warren should come back she'll find the note, but that won't do any harm, for she knows Father John, and she's awful afeered of him, 'cos she said as much, so she'd never follow us there." "The very thing!" said Ronald. "Let's get some paper. Will you write the note, Connie?" The children poked round in the sitting-room, and found a sheet of very thin paper, and an old pen, and a penny bottle of ink. Ronald dictated, and Connie wrote: "DEAR FATHER,--I've waited here for a week. I am trying to be very brave. Connie's an awful nice girl. We've picked the lock here, father, and we've gone to Father John, in Adam Street. Please come quick, for your little boy is so very hungry for you. Come quick, darling father.--Your little waiting boy, RONALD." "That'll bring him," said Ronald. "We'll put it on the table." Connie had written her letter badly, and there were several blots; but still a feat was accomplished. Her cheeks were bright with excitement now. "What shall I put outside?" she asked--"on the envelope, I mean." Ronald thought for a minute; then he said in a slow and impressive voice: "To Major Harvey, V. C., from Ronald." "Nobody can mistake who it's meant for," said Ronald. "Here's a bit of sealing-wax," said Connie. "Let's seal it." They did so, Connie stamping the seal with a penny thimble which she took out of her pocket. "And now," said Ronald, pulling himself up, "all is ready, and I am going into Mammy Warren's room to try and find tools for picking the lock." "I'm a-goin' with yer," said Connie. "Oh Connie, that is brave of you." "No," said Connie, "it 'ud be real cowardly to let yer go alone." Hand in hand the two children crossed the ugly sitting-room, and opened the door which led into that mysterious apartment known as Mammy Warren's room. It certainly was a very strange-looking place. There was no bed to be seen anywhere, which in itself was surprising. But Connie explained to Ronald that the huge wooden wardrobe was doubtless a press-bed which let down at night. "She'd keep all kinds of things at the back of the bed," said the practical Connie, who had seen several similar arrangements in the houses of the poor. This room, however, although ugly and dark--very dark--seemed to be suspiciously bare. The children had turned on the gas--for evening had already arrived--and they could see with great distinctness. Mammy Warren owned the upper part of this tenement-house, and no one ever came up the creaking stairs except to visit her. The children therefore knew that if there was a footstep they would be in danger. Connie, however, assured Ronald that she could put out the light and be innocently seated by the fire if Mammy Warren did arrive unexpectedly. All was silence, however, on the creaking stairs, and they were able to resume their search. The chest of drawers stood with all its drawers open and each one of them empty. No sort of tool could the children find. The yellow and black silk dress had disappeared, but the disreputable old beggar's clothes hung on the peg behind the door. There was also a very ancient bonnet, which was hung by its strings over the dress. Otherwise there was not a scrap of anything whatever in the room except the press bedstead, which the children could not possibly open, and the empty chest of drawers. "But here," said Connie, "is a door. P'rhaps it's a cupboard door." "Let's try if it will open," said Ronald. He turned the handle. The door shot back with a spring, and the boy's face turned pale. "The dark closet!" said Connie. "The dark, dark room without a winder!" Ronald caught hold of Connie's hand and squeezed it tightly. After a minute he said in a husky voice: "Come away." Connie shut the mysterious closet door. The children turned out the gas in Mammy Warren's bedroom, and went back to the sitting-room. Here they crouched down, pale and trembling, before the fire. "Don't, Ronnie--don't," said Connie. "Hold me very tight, Connie," said the little boy. She did so, pressing him to her heart and kissing his little face. After a minute tears came to his eyes, and he said in a sturdy tone: "Now I am better. It was wrong of me to be so frightened." "Hark--there's the Woice!" said Connie. They sat very still while Big Ben proclaimed the hour of nine. "What does he say?" asked Ronald, turning round and looking at Connie. "I know," said Connie, a light on her pretty face. "Father John preached on it once. I know wot Big Ben's a-sayin' of to-night." "Tell me," said Ronald. "_He that shall endure_," said Connie. "Yes, Connie," repeated Ronald--"'He that shall endure'----" "_To the end_," said Connie, "_shall be saved_," she added. "Oh Connie!" cried the boy. "Do you really, really think so?" "Father John says it, and Father John couldn't tell a lie," continued the girl. "He says that is one of God's promises, and God never made a mistake. 'He that shall endure to the end--shall be saved.'" "Then," said Ronald, "if _we_ endure _we_ shall be saved." "Yes," replied Connie. "You're not frightened, then?" "Not after that," said Connie. "How can you tell that _was_ what Big Ben said?" "'Eard him," said Connie. She unclasped Ronald's arms from her neck and stood up. "I'm better," she said; "I'm not frightened no more. Sometimes it's 'ard to endure--Father John says it is. But ''E that _shall_ endure to the end'--to the _end_--he made a great p'int o' that--'shall be saved.'" "Then _we'll_ be saved," said Ronald. "Yus," answered Connie. She looked down at the little boy. The boy was gazing into the fire and smiling. Connie put on some fresh lumps of coal, and the fire broke into a cheerful blaze. It did not matter at all to the good coal whether it burned out its heart in an attic or a palace; wherever it was put to do its duty, it did it. Now gay little flames and cheerful bursts of bubbling gas rendered even the hideous room bright. "W'y, it's long past tea!" said Connie. "I'll put on the kettle and we'll have our tea, Ronald. Maybe Aggie'll be back in a minute, and maybe she'd like a cup o' tea." Connie put on the kettle, and then went to the cupboard to get out the provisions. These were exceedingly short. There was little more than a heel of very stale bread, and no butter, and only a scrape of jam; but there was a little tea in the bottom of the tea-canister, and a little coarse brown sugar in a cup. Connie laid the table quite cheerfully. "We'll toast the bread," she said. "Tea and toast is famous food." She got an old, bent toasting-fork, and she and Ronald laughed and even joked a little as they browned the stale bread until it was quite crisp and tempting-looking. "I'd ever so much rather have this tea than a great, big, grand one with Mammy Warren," said Connie. "Yes, Connie," said the boy; "so would I." They had no milk with their tea, but that was, after all but a small circumstance. They scraped out the jam-pot and spread its contents on the hot toast, and contrived to enjoy the slender meal to the utmost. Ronald said nothing about breakfast the next morning; he doubtless did not even give it a thought. But Connie remembered it well, although she took care not to allude to it. Ten o'clock struck, and still Agnes did not appear. Eleven, twelve--and no sign either of Mammy Warren or the girl. "Shall we go to bed?" said Ronald. "Let's bring our beds and lay 'em on the floor," said Connie, "in this room. Some'ow I don't think as Mammy Warren 'ull come back to-night. She wouldn't 'ave tuk all her things ef she meant to come; would she, Ronald?" "I don't know," said Ronald. He was very sleepy, for the hour was terribly late for so young a child to be awake. After a little reflection Connie decided only to drag his bed into the front room. She could lie on the floor by his side, wrapped up in a blanket. The fire was built up with the last scrap of coal in the hod, and then Ronald lay down without undressing. Connie begged of him to take off his clothes, but he said to her: "Maybe father'll come in the middle of the night. I somehow feel as if something must happen to-night, and I don't want not to be ready." Connie therefore only removed his shoes. She tucked the blankets round him, and said, "Good-night, Ronnie." "What is that verse?" asked Ronald again. "'He that shall endure to the end'----" "'Shall be saved,'" finished Connie. When she came to these words she noticed that little Ronald was sound asleep. Connie changed her mind about lying down. She sat on the floor by the boy's side, laid her head on the pillow close to his, and also dropped asleep. Big Ben called out the hour but the children slept. Perhaps the Voice spoke to them in their dreams, for they smiled now and then. Doubtless they were far away in those dreams from the dreadful attic, from the influence of a most cruel woman, from hunger and cold. The fire burned to a fine red glow, and then cooled down and grew gray and full of ashes, and eventually went out. For it had burned its heart out trying to help the children; and without a heart, even fire cannot keep alive. But the two children slept on, although Ronald now stirred uneasily and coughed in his sleep. It seemed to Connie that she also was oppressed by something, as though a great and terrible nightmare were sitting on her chest. Ronald coughed louder and opened his eyes. "Connie, Connie--where are we?" he cried. Connie sat up with a stare. "I be stiff," she began, "and--and cold. Wotever's the hour? Bide a bit, Ronald, and I'll find the matches and turn on the gas." "What's the matter with the room?" said Ronald. "I don't know nothing," said Connie. "My eyes smart," said Ronald, "and I can't breathe." "I feel queer too," said Connie. "I won't be a second finding out, though. You lie quiet." She groped about, found a match-box, which still contained a few matches, struck a light, and applied it to the gas, which was at full pressure now, and roared out, making a great flame. "W'y, the room's full o' smoke," said Connie. "Wottever can it be?" Ronald sat up in bed, opening his eyes. "Where does it come from?" he said. "The fire is out." Just then Big Ben proclaimed the hour of three. "He that shall endure," thought Connie. "To the end," darted through Ronald's mind; and just then both children heard an unmistakable and awful roar. Was it the roar of human voices or the roar of something else--a devouring and awful element? Connie turned white. Now, if ever, was the time to be brave. "I'll open the winder and look out," she said. She sprang towards it and, with a great effort, pushed it half up. The moment she did so, the noise from without came louder, and the noise from within was more deafening. "Fire! fire!" shouted a multitude of people from below in the street; and "Fire! fire!" cried the frenzied inhabitants of the old tenement-house. Connie and Ronald were on the top story. Connie went back to Ronald. "The house is on fire, Ronnie!" she said. "But we mustn't be frightened, either of us; we must think of the grand verse, and of what Big Ben said. Big Ben's an angel, you mind; Giles knows all about that." "Oh yes," said Ronald, his teeth chattering; for the draught from the open window, although it relieved his breathing, made him intensely cold. "It's a beautiful verse, isn't it, Connie?" he continued. "Yus," said Connie. "Let's get to the winder, Ronnie dear. We'll call out. There are people down in the street. The fire-engines 'ull be on in a minute; we'll be saved, in course." "Oh, of course," said Ronnie. He staggered to the floor, and put his feet into his shoes. "A good thing I wasn't undressed," he said. "Yus," said Connie. "Now, let's get to the winder." The children staggered there. The smoke was getting more dense; the room was filling faster and faster with the horrible, blinding, suffocating thing. But at the window there was relief. Connie put out her head for a minute, and then quickly drew it back. "There's flames burstin' out o' the winders," she said. "I wish as the firemen 'ud come." The children clung to one another. Just then, above the roar of the flames and the screams of the people, something else was distinctly audible. The fast approach of horses; the gallant figures of men in brass helmets: the brave firemen--members of the noblest brigade in the world--were on the spot. "It's hall right," said Connie. "They've come. Don't yer be a bit frightened, Ronnie; we'll soon be out o' this. You ax Giles w'en you see him wot _'e_ thinks o' firemen. '_Es_ father were one. Oh, there's no fear now that they've come!" She pressed close to the window and put out her head and shoulders. Ronald did likewise. The men out in the street were acting promptly. The hose were brought to bear on the increasing flames. But all to no purpose; the house was past saving. Was any one within? "No," said a woman down in the crowd; "hevery soul is out, even to my last biby--bless him!" She gave a hysterical cry, and sat down on a neighboring doorstep. But the firemen of the London Brigade are very careful to ascertain for themselves whether there is any likelihood of loss of life. "Has any one come down from the top floor?" asked a tall young man. He had a splendid figure--broad, square shoulders, and a light and athletic frame--which showed at once that he was the very best possible sort of fireman. Just then the flames burst out more brightly than ever, and Connie, with her fair hair surrounding her little face, and Ronald clinging to her hand, were both distinctly seen. "My God!" cried the firemen, "there are children up there. Put the escape up at once--don't lose an instant--I am going up to them." "You can't; it's certain death," said one or two. Several other voices were also raised in expostulation. But if any one in that crowd supposed that they were going to turn George Anderson, the bravest fireman in London, from his purpose, they were mistaken. "That little angel face, and the face of the boy by her side!" he said once or twice under his breath. And then up and up he went--up and up--the children in the burning room (for the flames had broken out behind them now) watching and watching. His fear was that they might fall from their perilous position. But they had both crept out on to the window-ledge. "Courage, courage!" he shouted to them. "Hold tight--I'll be there in a minute!" "The window is so hot!" gasped Connie. "Think--think of the Voice," whispered Ronald. He closed his eyes. In another minute he would have been beyond all earthly succor, and up in those beautiful realms where angels live, and his mother would meet him. But this was not to be. In less than an instant a firm hand rescued the two children from their perilous position, and they were brought down to the ground uninjured. Ronald fainted in that descent, but Connie kept her consciousness. They were out of Mammy Warren's awful house. She had a queer sense as though she had been delivered from a worse danger even than fire. People crowded round, and presently the tall fireman came up. "What is your name?" he said to Connie. "Connie," she replied. "Well, Connie," he answered, "it was the sight of your beautiful face in the window that gave me courage to save yer. Now, do you want to have a shelter for yourself and your little brother to-night?' "Thank you, sir," said Connie. The man pulled a card--it looked just like a gentleman's visiting card--out of his pocket. "Will you take that," he said, "to No. 12 Carlyle Terrace? It's just round the corner. Take your little brother with you. There are two bells to the house. Look for the one that has the word 'Night' written under it. It used to be a doctor's house, but there's no doctor there now. My mother will understand--give her that card, and tell her what has happened. Good night." He turned away. It was some time before Connie and Ronald could get rid of the many neighbors who volunteered help, and who regarded the two pretty children as the hero and heroine of the hour. Offers of a shake-down for the night, of a hasty meal, of a warm fire, came to Connie from all sorts of people. But she had made up her mind to follow out the directions of the tall fireman, and saying that she had friends at No. 12 Carlyle Terrace, she and Ronald soon started off to go to the address the fireman had given them. They were both too excited to feel the effects of all they had gone through at first, but when they reached the house, and Connie pressed the button of the bell which had the word "Night" written under it, she was trembling exceedingly. "Why are we coming here?" asked Ronald. "I dunno," said Connie. "Seems as though a hangel was with us all the time." "I expect so," answered Ronald in a very weak voice. "And," continued Connie, "he's a-leadin' of us 'ere." They had pressed the bell, and quickly--wonderfully quickly--they heard steps running down the stairs; and the door was opened by a tall woman--very tall and very thin--with a beautiful pale face and soft motherly eyes. "What is it?" she asked. "What is the matter? Oh, my poor little dears! And how you smell of fire! Have you been in a fire?" "Please, ma'am," said Connie, "be yer the mother o' Mr. George Anderson--the bravest fireman, ma'am? He told me to give yer this card, ma'am." "I am Mrs. Anderson. Oh, of course, if he's sent you----" "_'E_ saved us from the fire, ma'am," said Connie. "Come in, you poor little things," said Mrs Anderson. She drew the children in; she shut the door behind them. It seemed to Connie when that door shut that it shut out sorrow and pain and hunger and cold; for within the house there was warmth--not only warmth for frozen little bodies, but for tired souls. Mrs. Anderson was one of the most motherly women in London; and George, her son, knew what he was about when he sent the children to her. Soon they were revived with warm baths and with hot port-wine and water, and very soon afterwards they were both lying in beds covered with linen sheets that felt soft and fine as silk. But Mrs. Anderson sat by them both while they slept, for she did not like the look on the boy's face, and felt very much afraid of the shock for him. "The little girl can stand more," she said to herself. "She's a beautiful little creature, but she's a child of the people. She has been accustomed to hardships all her life; but with the boy it's different--he's a gentleman by birth. Something very cruel has happened to him, poor little lad! and this seems to be the final straw." Mrs. Anderson was a very wise woman, and her fears with regard to little Ronald were all too quickly realized. By the morning the boy was in a high state of fever. A doctor was summoned, and Mrs. Anderson herself nursed him day and night. Connie begged to be allowed to remain, and her request was granted. "For the present you shall stay with me," said Mrs. Anderson. "I don't know your story, nor the story of this little fellow, but I am determined to save his life if I can." "I can tell yer something," said Connie. "Little Ronald's a real gent--_'e's_ the son of a hofficer in 'Is Majesty's harmy, an' the hofficer's name is Major Harvey, V. C." "What?" cried Mrs. Anderson. She started back in amazement. "Why, I knew him and his wife," she said. "I know he was killed in South Africa, and I know his dear wife died about a year ago. Why, I've been looking for this child. Is your story quite true, little girl?" "Yus, it's quite true," said Connie. "But tell me--do tell me--is his father really dead?" "I fear so. It is true that his death was not absolutely confirmed; but he has been missing for over two years." "Ma'am," said Connie, "wot do yer mean by his death not bein' confirmed?" "I mean this, little girl," said Mrs. Anderson--"that his body was never found." "Then he ain't dead," said Connie. "What do you mean?" "I feel it in my bones," said Connie, "same as Ronald felt it in his bones. _'E_ ain't dead." Mrs. Anderson laid her hand on the girl's pretty hair. "I am getting in a real trained nurse to look after Ronald Harvey," she said. "If he's the son of my old friend, more than ever is he my care now; and you this evening, little Connie, shall tell me your story." This Connie did. When she had described all that had occurred to her during the last few weeks, Mrs. Anderson was so amazed that she could hardly speak. "My poor child!" she said. "You can't guess what terrible dangers you've escaped. That dreadful woman was, without doubt, a member of a large gang of burglars. Several have been arrested within the last day or two, and I have no doubt we shall hear of her soon at the police courts." "Burglars?" said Connie--"burglars? Them be thieves, bean't they?" "Yes--thieves." "But what could she do with us?" said Connie. "She used you for her own purposes. While people were looking at you, she was doubtless picking their pockets. Don't think any more about it, dear, only be thankful that you have escaped. And now, don't you feel very anxious about your father and your old friends?" "Yus," said Connie. "I'd like to go home. I'd like them to know once for all what happened." "Would you like to go back to-night? You can return to me, you know. I shall be up with Ronald until far into the night." Connie rose swiftly. "You're not afraid of the streets, my poor little child?" "Oh no, ma'am. I'm only quite an ordinary girl. I ha' learnt my lesson," continued Connie. "I were real discontent wid my life at the factory, but I'll be discontent no more." "You had a sharp lesson," said Mrs. Anderson. "I think God wants you to be a particularly good and a particularly brave woman, or He wouldn't have let you go through so much." "Yes, ma'am," answered Connie; "and I'll try 'ard to be good and brave." CHAPTER XIII. PETER HARRIS. While Connie was going through such strange adventures in Mammy Warren's attic room, her father, Giles, and Sue, and dear Father John were nearly distracted about her. Peter Harris was a rough, fierce, unkempt individual. He was fond of drink. He was not at all easily impressed by good things; but, as has been said before, if he had one tender spot in his heart it was for Connie. When he drank he was dreadfully unkind to his child; but in his sober moments there was nothing he would not do for the pretty, motherless girl. As day after day passed without his seeing her, he got nearly frantic with anxiety. At first he tried to make nothing of her disappearance, saying that the girl had doubtless gone to visit some friends; but when a few days went by and there were no tidings of her, and Sue assured him that she not only never appeared now at the great warehouse in Cheapside where they used to work together, but also that she had been seen last with Agnes Coppenger, and that Agnes Coppenger had also disappeared from her work at the sewing-machine, he began to fear that something bad had happened. Father John was consulted, and Father John advised the necessity of at once acquainting the police. But although the police did their best, they could get no trace whatever either of Agnes or of Connie. Thus the days passed, and Connie's friends were very unhappy about her. Her absence had a bad effect on Peter, who, from his state of grief and uneasiness, had taken more and more consolation out of the gin-palace which he was fond of frequenting. Every night now he came home tipsy, and the neighbors were afraid to go near. Soon he began to abuse Connie, to say unkind things about her, and to fly into a passion with any neighbor who mentioned her name. Giles shed silent tears for his old playmate, and even the voice of Big Ben hardly comforted him, so much did he miss the genial companionship of pretty Connie. But now at last the girl herself was going home. She had no fear. She was full of a wild and yet terrible delight. How often she had longed for her father! Connie had a great deal of imagination, and during the dreadful time spent at Mother Warren's, and in especial since Ronald had come, she began to compare her father with Ronald's, and gradually but surely to forget the cruel and terrible scenes when that father was drunk, and to think of him only in his best moments when he kissed her and petted her and called her his dear little motherless girl. Oh, he would be glad to see her now! He would rejoice in her company. Connie quickly found the old house in Adam Street, and ran up the stairs. One or two people recognized her, and said, "Hullo, Con! you back?" but being too busy with their struggle for life, did not show any undue curiosity. "Is my father in?" asked Connie of one. The man said, "He be." And then he added, "Yer'd best be careful. He ain't, to say, in his pleasantest mood to-night." Connie reached the well-known landing. She turned the handle of the door. It was locked. She heard some one moving within. Then a rough voice said: "Get out o' that!" "It's me, father!" called Connie back. "It's Connie!" "Don't want yer--get away!" said the voice. Connie knelt down and called through the keyhole: "It's me--I've 'ad a dreadful time--let me in." "Go 'way--don't want yer--get out o' this!" "Oh father--father!" called Connie. She began to sob. After all her dreams, after all her longings, after all her cruel trials--to be treated like this, and by her father! It seemed to shake her very belief in fathers, even in the great Father of all. "Please--please--I'm jest wanting yer awfu' bad!" she pleaded. Her gentle and moving voice--that voice for which Peter Harris, when sober and in his right mind, so starved to hear again--now acted upon him in quite the opposite direction. He had not taken enough to make him stupid, only enough to rouse his worst passions. He strode across the room, flung the door wide, and lifting Connie from her knees, said to her: "Listen. You left me without rhyme or reason--not even a word or a thought. I sorrowed for yer till I turned to 'ate yer! Now then, get out o' this. I don't want yer, niver no more. Go down them stairs, unless yer want me to push yer down. Go 'way--and be quick!" There was a scowl on his angry face, a ferocious look in his eyes. Connie turned quite gently, and without any apparent anger went downstairs. "Ah!" said a man in the street, "thought yer wouldn't stay long." "He's wery bad," said Connie. She walked slowly, as though her heart were bleeding, down Adam Street until she came to the house where Father John Atkins lived. It was a little house, much smaller than its neighbors. Father John's room was on the ground floor. She knocked at the door. There was no answer. She turned the handle: it yielded to her pressure. She went in, sank down on the nearest chair, and covered her face with both her hands. She was trembling exceedingly. The shock of her father's treatment was far greater than she could well bear in her present weak and over-excited condition. She had gone through--oh, so much--so very much! That awful time with Mammy Warren; her anxiety with regard to little Ronald; and then that final, awful, never-to-be-forgotten day, that night which was surely like no other night that had ever dawned on the world--the noise of the gathering flames, the terrific roar they made through the old building; the shouts of the people down below; the heat, the smoke, the pain, the cruel, cruel fear; and then last but not least--the deliverance! When that gallant fireman appeared, it seemed to both Connie and Ronald as though the gates of heaven had opened, and they had been taken straight away from the pains of hell into the glories of the blest. But all these things told on the nerves, and when Connie now had been turned away from her father's door, she was absolutely unfit for such treatment. When she reached Father John's she was as weak and miserable a poor little girl as could found anywhere in London. "My dear! my dear!" said the kind voice--the sort of voice that always thrilled the hearts of those who listened to him. A hand was laid on the weeping girl's shoulder. "Look up," said the voice again. Then there was a startled cry, an exclamation of the purest pleasure. "Why Connie--my dear Connie--the good Lord has heard our prayers and has sent you back again!" "Don't matter," said Connie, sobbing on, quite impervious to the kindness, quite unmoved by the sympathy. "There ain't no Father 'chart 'eaven," she continued. "I don't believe in 'Im no more. There ain't no Father, and no Jesus Christ. Ef there were, my own father wouldn't treat me so bitter cruel." "Come, Connie," said the preacher, "you know quite well that you don't mean those dreadful words. Sit down now by the cosy fire; sit in my own little chair, and I'll talk to you, my child. Why, Connie, can't you guess that we've been praying for you?" "Don't matter," whispered Connie again. The preacher looked at her attentively. He put his kind hand for a minute on her forehead, and then, with that marvellous knowledge which he possessed of the human heart and the human needs, he said nothing for the time being. Connie was not fit to argue, and he knew she was worn-out. He got her to sit in the old arm-chair, and to lay her golden head against a soft cushion, and then he prepared coffee--strong coffee--both for her and himself. It was late, and he was deadly tired. He had been up all the night before. It was his custom often to spend his nights in this fashion; for, as he was fond of expressing it, the Divine Master seemed to have more work for him to do at night than in the daytime. "There are plenty of others to help in the daytime," thought Father John, "but in the darkness the sin and the shame are past talking about. If I can lift a burden from one heart, and help one poor suffering soul, surely that is the best night's rest I can attain to." Last night he had put a drunken woman to bed. He had found her on a doorstep, and had managed, notwithstanding his small stature and slender frame, to drag her upstairs. There her terrified children met him. He managed to get them into a calm state of mind, and then induced them to help him for all they were worth. The great, bulky woman was undressed and put into bed. She slept, and snored loudly, and the children crowded round. He made them also go to bed, and went away, promising to call in the morning. He did so. The woman was awake, conscious, and bitterly ashamed. He spoke to her as he alone knew how, and, before he left, induced her to go with him to take the pledge. He then gave her a little money out of his slender earnings to get a meal for the children, and spent the rest of the day trying to get fresh employment for her. She had been thrown out of work by her misdemeanors; but Father John was a power, and more than one lady promised to try Mrs. Simpkins once again. The little preacher was, therefore, more tired than his wont. He bent over Connie. She drank her coffee, and, soothed by his presence, became calmer herself. "Now then," he said, "you will tell me everything. Why did you run away?" "'Cos I were tired o' machine-work. But, oh, Father John! I niver, niver meant to stay aw'y. I jest thought as I were to get a nice new situation; I niver guessed as it 'ud be a prison." Connie then told her story, with many gaps and pauses. "You see," said Father John when she had finished, "that when you took the management of your own life into your own hands you did a very dangerous thing. God was guiding you, and you thought you could do without Him. You have been punished." "Yus," said Connie. "I'll niver be the same again." "I hope, indeed, that you will not be the same. You have gone through marvellous adventures, and but for God Himself you would not now be in the world. It is not only your pain and misery that you have to consider, but you have also to think of the pain and misery you inflicted on others." "No," said Connie defiantly, "that I won't do. I thought father 'ud care, but he turned me from 'ome." "He did care, Connie. I never knew any one so distracted. He cared so terribly, and was so sore about you, that he took to drink to drown his pain. In the morning, when he is sober, you will see what a welcome he will give you." "No," said Connie, shaking her head. "But I say he will. He will help you, and he will be a father to you. I will take you to him myself in the morning." Connie did not say anything more. When she had finished her coffee, the preacher suggested that he should take her to Sue and Giles. The girl looked at him wildly. In telling her story, she had never mentioned the name of the lady who had taken her in, nor the name of the brave fireman who had befriended her. But now Father John boldly asked her for these particulars. Her little face flushed and she looked up defiantly. "I dunnut want to give 'em," she said. "But I ask you for them, Connie," said the preacher. Connie could no more withstand Father John's authoritative tone than she could fly. After a minute's pause she did tell what she knew, and Father John wrote Mrs. Anderson's address down in his note-book. "Now then, Connie," he said, rising, "you're better. Sue and Giles will be so glad to see you once more! Come, dear; let me take you to them." Connie stood up. There was a curious, wild light in her eyes; but she avoided looking at the street preacher, and he did not observe it. Had he done so he would have been more careful. The two went out into the street together. It was now getting really late. The distance between the preacher's room and the humble lodgings where Sue and Giles lived was no great way, but to reach the home of the little Giles they had to pass some very ill-favored courts. At one of these Connie suddenly saw a face she knew. She started, trembling, and would have fled on had not a hand been raised to warning lips. The preacher at that instant was stopped by a man who wanted to ask him a question with regard to a child of his whom Father John was trying to find employment for. Before he knew what had happened, Connie's hand was dragged from his. The girl uttered a slight cry, and the next minute was enveloped in the darkness of one of the worst courts in the whole of London. "Quiet--quiet!" said a voice. "Don't you let out one sound or you'll niver speak no more. It's me--Agnes. I won't do yer no 'arm ef ye're quiet. Come along with me now." Connie went, for she could not do anything else. Her feelings were absolutely confused. She did not know at that fearful moment whether she was glad or sorry to be back with Agnes Coppenger again. She only felt a sense of relief at having slipped away from Father John, and at having, as she thought, parted from her own cruel father. "Oh Agnes!" she whispered, "hide me; and don't--don't take me back to Mammy Warren!" "Bless yer!" said Agnes, "she's coped by the perlice. Mammy Warren's awaiting her trial in the 'Ouse of Detention; yer won't be worried by her no more." "W'ere are yer taking me, then, Agnes?" "'Ome--to my 'ouse, my dear." "Yer'll promise to let me go in the morning?" "Safe an' sure I will--that is, ef yer want to go." Agnes was now walking so fast that Connie had the utmost difficulty in keeping up with her. She seemed all the time to be dodging, getting into shadows, avoiding lights, turning rapidly round corners, making the most marvellous short cuts, until at last--at last--she reached a very tall house, much taller than the one where Mammy Warren had lived. She made a peculiar whistle when she got there. The door was opened by a boy of about Connie's age. "'Ere we be, Freckles," said Agnes; "and I ha' got the beautiful and saintly Connie back again." "Hurrah for saintly Connie!" cried Freckles. The two girls were dragged in by a pair of strong hands, and Connie found herself in utter darkness, descending some slippery stairs--into what depths she had not the slightest idea. "These are the cellars," said Agnes when at last a door was flung open, and she found herself in a very poorly lit apartment with scarcely any furniture. "You was in hattics before," continued Agnes; "now ye're in the cellars. Yer didn't greatly take to kind Mammy Warren, but perhaps yer'll like Simeon Stylites better. He's a rare good man is Simeon--wery pious too. He sets afore him a saint o' the olden days, an' tries to live accordin'. He ain't in yet, so yer can set down and take things heasy." Connie sat down. "I'm that frightened!" she said. Agnes began to laugh. "Sakes!" she exclaimed, "you ha' no cause. Simeon's a real feeling man, and he's allers kind to pore gels, more particular ef they 'appen to be purty." Agnes now proceeded to light a fire in a huge, old-fashioned grate. There seemed to be abundance of coal. She built the fire up high, and when it roared up the chimney she desired Connie to draw near. "You ain't got over yer fright yet," she began. "Don't talk of it," said Connie. "I guess as I won't--yer do look piquey. 'Ow's the other kid?" "I dunno." Agnes laughed and winked. After a minute she said, "Yer needn't tell me. 'E's with Mrs. Anderson, mother o' the fireman. The fireman--'e's a real 'andsome man--I can tike to that sort myself. The kid's wery bad, he is. Wull, ef he dies it'll be a pity, for he 'ave the makings in 'im of a first-rate perfessional." "Perfessional?" said Connie. "Yus--ef he lives 'e'll be one. Simeon Stylites 'ull see to that. You'll be a perfessional, too. There's no use in these 'ere days bein' anything of an amattur; yer must be a perfessional or yer can't earn yer bread." "I don't understand," said Connie. "Sakes! you be stupid. It's good to open yer heyes now. Wot do yer think Mammy Warren wanted yer for?" "I never could tell, only Mrs. Anderson said----" "Yus--tell us wot she said. She's a torf--let's get _'er_ idees on the subjeck." "I won't tell yer," said Connie. "Oh--_that's_ yer little gime! Wull--I don't keer--I'll tell yer from my p'int o' view. Mammy Warren wanted yer--not for love--don't think no sech thing--but jest 'cos she could make you a sort o' decoy-duck. W'ile she was pickin' up many a good harvest, folks was a-starin' at you; an' w'en the little boy were there too, w'y, they stared all the more. She 'ad the boy first, and he were a fine draw. But he tuk ill, an' then she had to get some sort, an' I told her 'bout you, and 'ow purty you were, an' wot golden 'air you 'ad. 'Her golden 'air was 'angin' down her back,' I sung to her, an' she were tuk with the picter. Then I got yer for her--you knows 'ow. Wull, pore Mammy Warren! she's in quad for the present. But she'll come out agin none the worse; bless yer! they feeds 'em fine in quad now. Many a one as I know goes in reg'lar for the cold weather. You see, we'n yer gets yer lodgin' an' yer food at Government expense, it don't cost yer nothing, an' yer come out none the worse. That's wot Mammy Warren 'ull do. But Simeon Stylites-'e's a man 'oo prides himself on niver 'avin' been tuk yet. He'll teach yer 'ow to be a perfessional. Now then--yer ain't frightened, be yer?" "No," said Connie. Once again she was the old Connie. She had got over her anguish of despair and grief about her father's conduct. She must get out of this, and the only chance was to let Agnes think that she didn't mind. "Yer'll make a _beautiful_ perfessional!" said Agnes, looking at her with admiration now. "I could--I could grovel at yer feet--pore me, so plain as I ham an' hall, an' you so wery genteel. There now, 'oo's that a-knockin' at the door?" Agnes went to the door. She opened it about an inch, and had a long colloquy with some one outside. "All right, Freckles," she said, "you can go to bed." She then came back to Connie. "Simeon ain't returning afore to-morrer," she said. "We'll tike to our beds. Come along with me, Connie." CHAPTER XIV. THE SEARCH. When Connie had been suddenly dragged with extreme force from the preacher's side, he had darted after her, and would have been knocked down himself, and perhaps killed, if the neighbor who had accosted him had not also gone a step or two into the dark alley and dragged him back by main force. "You don't go down there, Father John," he said--"not without two or three big men, as big as myself. That you don't--I'll keep you back, Father John by all the strength in my body; for if you go down you'll be killed, and then what use will yer be to the poor little gel?" Father John acknowledged the justice of this. A crowd of men and women had gathered round, as they always did in those parts at the slightest disturbance. Father John recognized many of them, and soon formed a little body of strong men and women. The policemen also came to their aid. They searched the blind alley, going into every house. In short, they did not leave a stone unturned to recover poor Connie; but, alas! all in vain. Father John was at least glad that he had not gone to visit Sue and Giles. He could not bear to bring them such terrible tidings as that poor Connie had come home and had been kidnapped again. "We'll get her," said the policeman. "There are lots of thieves about here; but as we've unearthed that dreadful character, Mother Warren, we'll quickly get the rest of the gang. Don't you be afraid, Father John; the child will be in your hands before the day is out." Nevertheless, Father John spent a sleepless night, and early--very early--in the morning he started off to visit Peter Harris. Peter had slept all night. In the morning he awoke with a headache, and with a queer feeling that something very bad had happened. When Father John entered his room he gazed at him with bloodshot eyes. "Wottever is it?" he said. "I had a dream--I must be mistook, of course, but I thought Connie had come back." "Well," said Father John very gravely, "and so she did come back." "Wot?" asked the father. He sat up on the bed where he had thrown himself, and pushed back his rough hair. "I have some very sad news for you, Harris. Will you wash first and have a bit of breakfast, or shall I tell you now?" "Get out with you!" said the man. "Will I wash and have a bit o' breakfast? Tell me about my child, an' be quick!" All the latent tenderness in that fierce heart had reawakened. "Connie back?" said the man. "Purty little Connie? You don't niver say so! But where be she? Wherever is my little gel?" "You ask God where she is," said the preacher in a very solemn voice. "She's nowhere to be found. She came here, and you--you turned her away, Peter Harris." "I did wot?" said Harris. "You turned her off--yes, she came to me, poor child. You had taken too much and didn't know what you were doing." The man's face was ghastly pale. "What do yer mean?" he said. "You took too much, and you were cruel to your child. She came to me in bitter grief. I did what I could to soothe her; I assured her that I know you well, and that you'd be all right and quite ready to welcome her home in the morning." "Well, and so I be. Welcome my lass home? There ain't naught I wouldn't do for her; the best that can be got is for my Connie. Oh, my dear, sweet little gel! It's the fatted calf she'll 'ave--the Prodigal didn't have a bigger welcome." "But she is no prodigal. She was sinned against; she didn't sin. Doubtless she did wrong to be discontented. She was never very strong, perhaps, either in mind or body, and she got under bad influence. She was often afraid to go home, Peter Harris, because of you; for you were so savage to her when you took, as you call it, a drop too much. I'll tell you another time her story, for there is not a moment now to spare; you must get up and help to find her." Peter Harris sprang to his feet just as though an electric force had pulled him to that position. "Find her?" he said. "But she were here--here! Where be she? Wot did yer do with her, Father John?" "I didn't dare to bring her back here last night, and she could not stay with me. I was taking her to Giles and Sue when----" "Man--speak!" Harris had caught the preacher by his shoulder. Father John staggered for a minute, and then spoke gently, "As we were passing a blind alley some one snatched her from me, right into the pitch darkness. I followed, but was pulled back myself. As soon as possible we formed a party and went to search for her, aided by the police; but she has vanished. It is your duty now to help to find her. The police have great hopes that they have got a clue, but nothing is certain. Beyond doubt the child is in danger. Wake up, Harris. Think no more of that horrible poison that is killing you, body and soul, and do your utmost to find your lost child." "God in heaven help me!" said the miserable man. "Lost--you say? And she come 'ere--and I turned her off? Oh, my little Connie!" "Keep up your courage, man; there's not a minute of time to spend in vain regrets. You must help the police. You know nearly all the byways and blind alleys of this part of London. You can give valuable information; come at once." A minute or two later the two men went out together. CHAPTER XV. CONCENTRATION OF PURPOSE. While these dreadful things were happening to Connie, Sue rose with the dawn, rubbed her sleepy eyes until they opened broad and wide, and went with all youthful vigor and goodwill about her daily tasks. First she had to light the fire and prepare Giles's breakfast; then to eat her own and tidy up the room; then, having kissed Giles, who still slept, and left all in readiness for him when he awoke, she started for her long walk from Westminster to St. Paul's Churchyard. She must be at her place of employment by eight o'clock, and Sue was never known to be late. With her bright face, smooth, well-kept hair, and neat clothes, she made a pleasing contrast to most of the girls who worked at Messrs. Cheadle's cheap sewing. Sue possessed in her character two elements of success in life. She had directness of aim and concentration of purpose. No one thought the little workgirl's aims very high; no one ever paused to consider her purpose either high or noble; but Sue swerved not from aim or purpose, either to the right hand or to the left. She was the bread-winner in the small family. That was her present manifest duty. And some day she would take Giles away to live in the country. That was her ambition. Every thought she had to spare from her machine-work and her many heavy duties went to this far-off, grand result. At night she pictured it; as she walked to and from her place of work she dwelt upon it. Some day she and Giles would have a cottage in the country together. Very vague were Sue's ideas of what country life was like. She had never once been in the country; she had never seen green fields, nor smelt, as they grow fresh in the hedges, wild flowers. She imagined that flowers grew either in bunches, as they were sold in Convent Garden, or singly in pots. It never entered into her wildest dreams that the ground could be carpeted with the soft sheen of bluebells or the summer snow of wood anemones, or that the hedge banks could hold great clusters of starry primroses. No, Sue had never seen the place where she and Giles would live together when they were old. She pictured it like the town, only clean--very clean--with the possibility of procuring eggs really fresh and milk really pure, and of perhaps now and then getting a bunch of flowers for Giles without spending many pence on them. People would have called it a poor dream, for Sue had no knowledge to guide her, and absolutely no imagination to fill in details; but, all the same, it was golden in its influence on the young girl, imparting resolution to her face and purpose to her eyes, and encircling her round, in her young and defenseless womanhood, as a guardian angel spreading his wings about her. She walked along to-day brightly as usual. The day was a cold one, but Sue was in good spirits. She was in good time at her place, and sat down instantly to her work. A girl sat by her side. Her name was Mary Jones. She was a weakly girl, who coughed long and often as she worked. "I must soon give up, Sue," she panted between slight pauses in her work. "This 'ere big machine seems to tear me hall to bits, like; and then I gets so hot, and when we is turned out in the middle o' the day the cold seems to strike so dreadful bitter yere;" and she pressed her hand to her sunken chest. "'Tis goin' to snow, too, sure as sure, to-day," answered Sue. "Don't you think as you could jest keep back to-day, Mary Jones? Maybe you mightn't be seen, and I'd try hard to fetch you in something hot when we comes back." "Ye're real good, and I'll just mak' shift to stay in," replied Mary Jones. But then the manager came round, and the girls could say no more for the present. At twelve o'clock, be the weather what it might, all had to turn out for half an hour. This, which seemed a hardship, was absolutely necessary for the proper ventilation of the room; but the delicate girls felt the hardship terribly, and as many of them could not afford to go to a restaurant, there was nothing for them but to wander about the streets. At the hour of release to-day it still snowed fast, but Sue with considerable cleverness, had managed to hide Mary Jones in the warm room, and now ran fast through the blinding and bitter cold to see where she could get something hot and nourishing to bring back to her. Her own dinner, consisting of a hunch of dry bread and dripping, could be eaten in the pauses of her work. Her object now was to provide for the sick girl. She ran fast, for she knew a shop where delicious penny pies were to be had, and it was quite possible to demolish penny pies unnoticed in the large workroom. The shop, however, in question was some way off, and Sue had no time to spare. She had nearly reached it, and had already in imagination clasped the warm pies in her cold hands, when, suddenly turning a corner, she came face to face with Harris. Harris was walking along moodily, apparently lost in thought. When he saw Sue, however, he started, and took hold of her arm roughly. "Sue," he said, "does you know as Connie came back last night?" "Connie?" cried Sue. Her face turned pale and then red again in eagerness. "Then God 'ave heard our prayers!" she exclaimed with great fervor. "Oh! won't my little Giles be glad?" "You listen to the end," said the man. He still kept his hand on her shoulder, not caring whether it hurt her or not. "She come back, my purty, purty little gel, but I 'ad tuk too much, and I were rough on her and I bid her be gone, and she went. She went to Father John; _'e_ were kind to her, and 'e were taking her to you, w'en some willain--I don't know 'oo--caught her by the arm and pulled her down a dark alley, and she ain't been seen since. Wottever is to be done? I'm near mad about her--my pore little gel. And to think that I--_I_ should ha' turned her aw'y!" Sue listened with great consternation to this terrible tale. She forgot all about poor Mary Jones and the penny pie which she hoped to smuggle into the workroom for her dinner. She forgot everything in all the world but the fact that Connie had come and gone again, and that Peter Harris was full of the most awful despair and agony about her. "I'm fit to die o' grief," said the man. "I dunno wot to do. The perlice is lookin' for her 'igh an' low, and---- Oh Sue, I am near off my 'ead!" Sue thought for a minute. "Is Father John looking for her too?" she said. "W'y, yus--of course he be. I'm to meet the perlice again this afternoon, an' we'll--we'll make a rare fuss." "Yer'll find her, in course," said Sue. "W'y, there ain't a doubt," she continued. "Wot do yer mean by that?" "There couldn't be a doubt," continued the girl; "for God, who brought her back to us all, 'ull help yer if yer ax 'Im." "Do yer believe that, Sue?" "Sartin sure I do--I couldn't live if I didn't." "You're a queer un," said Harris, he felt a strange sort of comfort in the rough little girl's presence. It seemed to him in a sort of fashion that there was truth in her words. She was very wise--wiser than most. He had always respected her. "You're a queer, sensible gel," he said then--"not like most. I am inclined to believe yer. I'm glad I met yer; you were always Connie's friend." "Oh yus," said Sue; "I love her jest as though she were my real sister." "An' yer do think as she'll come back again?" "I'm sartin sure of it." "Turn and walk with me a bit, Sue. I were near mad w'en I met yer, but somehow you ha' given me a scrap o' hope." "Mr. Harris," said Sue, all of a sudden, "you were cruel to Connie last night; but w'en she comes back again you'll be different, won't yer?" "I tuk the pledge this morning," said Harris in a gloomy voice. "Then in course you'll be different. It were w'en yer tuk too much that you were queer. W'en you're like you are now you're a wery kind man." "Be I, Sue?" said Harris. He looked down at the small girl. "No one else, unless it be pore Connie, iver called me a kind man." "And I tell yer wot," continued Sue--"ef ye're sure she'll come back--as sure as I am--she----" "Then I am sure," said Harris. "I'm as sure as there's a sky above us. There now!" "And a God above us," said Sue. The man was silent. "In that case," continued Sue, "let's do our wery best. Let's 'ave iverything nice w'en she comes 'ome. Let's 'ave a feast for her, an' let me 'elp yer." "Yer mean that yer'll come along to my room an' put things in order?" said Harris. "Yes; and oh, Mr. Harris! couldn't yer take her a little bit of a present?" "Right you are, wench," he said. Harris's whole face lit up. "That _be_ a good thought!" He clapped Sue with violence on the shoulder. "Right you be! An' I know wot she've set 'er silly little 'eart on--w'y, a ring--a purty ring with a stone in it; and 'ere's a shop--the wery kind for our purpose. Let's come in--you an' me--and get her one this wery instant minute." The two entered the shop. A drawer of rings was brought for Harris to select from. He presently chose a little ring, very fine, and with a tiny turquoise as decoration. He felt sure that this would fit Connie's finger, and laying down his only sovereign on the counter, waited for the change. Sue had gone a little away from him, to gaze in open-eyed wonder at the many trinkets exhibited for sale. Notwithstanding her excitement about Connie, she was too completely a woman not to be attracted by finery of all sorts; and here were scarves and laces and brooches and earrings--in short, that miscellaneous array of female decorations so fascinating to the taste of girls like Sue. In this absorbing moment she forgot even Connie. In the meantime, in this brief instant while Sue was so occupied, the man who served turned his back to get his change from another drawer. He did this leaving the box with the rings on the counter. In the corner of this same box, hidden partly away under some cotton-wool, lay two lockets, one of great value, being gold, set with brilliants. In this instant, quick as thought, Harris put in his hand, and taking the diamond locket, slipped it into his pocket. He then received his change, and he and Sue left the shop together. He noticed, however, as he walked out that the shopman was missing the locket. His theft could not remain undiscovered. Another instant and he would be arrested and the locket found on his person. He had scarcely time for the most rapid thought--certainly no time for any sense of justice to visit his not too fine conscience. The only instinct alive in him in that brief and trying moment was that of self-preservation. He must preserve himself, and the means lay close at hand. He gave Sue a little push as though he had stumbled against her, and then, while the girl's attention was otherwise occupied, he transferred the locket from his own pocket to hers, and with a hasty nod, dashed down a side-street which lay close by. Rather wondering at his sudden exit, Sue went on. Until now she had forgotten Mary Jones. She remembered her with compunction. She also knew that she had scarcely time to get the penny pies and go back to Cheapside within the half-hour. If she ran, however, she might accomplish this feat. Sue was very strong, and could run as fast as any girl; she put wings to her feet, and went panting down the street. In the midst of this headlong career, however, she was violently arrested. She heard the cry of "Stop thief!" behind her, and glancing back, saw two men, accompanied by some boys, in full pursuit. Too astonished and frightened to consider the improbability of their pursuing her, she ran harder than ever. She felt horrified, and dreaded their rudeness should they reach her. Down side-streets and across byways she dashed, the crowd in pursuit increasing each moment. At last she found that she had run full-tilt into the arms of a policeman, who spread them out to detain her. "What's the matter, girl? Who are you running away from?" "Oh, hide me--hide me!" said poor Sue. "They are calling out 'Stop thief!' and running after me so hard." Before the policeman could even reply, the owner of the pawnshop had come up. "You may arrest that girl, policeman," he said roughly. "She and a man were in my shop just now, and one or other of 'em stole a valuable diamond locket from me." "What a shame! I didn't touch it!" said Sue. "I never touched a thing as worn't my own in hall my life!" "No doubt, my dear," said the policeman; "but of course you won't object to be searched?" "No, of course," said Sue; "you may search me as much as you like--you won't get no stolen goods 'bout me;" and she raised her head fearlessly and proudly. The crowd who had now thickly collected, and who, as all crowds do, admired pluck, were beginning to applaud, and no doubt the tide was turning in Sue's favor, when the policeman, putting his hand into her pocket, drew out the diamond locket. An instant's breathless silence followed this discovery, followed quickly by some groans and hisses from the bystanders. "Oh, but ain't she a hardened one!" two or three remarked; and all pressed close to watch the result. Sue had turned very white--so white that the policeman put his hand on her shoulder, thinking she was going to faint. "She is innocent," said in his heart of hearts this experienced functionary; but he further added, "It will go hard for her to prove it--poor lass!" Aloud he said: "I've got to take you to the lock-up, my girl; for you must say how you 'appened to come by that 'ere little trinket. The quieter you come, and the less you talk, the easier it 'ull go wid you." "I have nothink to say," answered Sue. "I can't--can't see it at all. But I'll go wid yer," she added. She did not asseverate any more, nor even say she was innocent. She walked away by the policeman's side, the crowd still following, and the owner of the pawnshop--having recovered his property, and given his address to the policeman--returned to his place of business. Sue walked on, feeling stunned; her thought just now was how very much poor Mary Jones would miss her penny pies. CHAPTER XVI. PICKLES. The lock-up to which the policeman wanted to convey Sue was at some little distance. With his hand on her shoulder, they walked along, the crowd still following. They turned down more than one by-street, and chose all the short cuts that Constable Z could remember. One of these happened to be a very narrow passage, and a place of decidedly ill repute. The policeman, however, still holding his terrified charge, walked down it, and the crowd followed after. In the very middle of this passage--for it was little more--they were met by a mob even greater than themselves. These people were shouting, vociferating, waving frantic hands, and all pointing upwards. The policeman raised his eyes and saw that the cause of this uproar was a house on fire. It was a very tall, narrow house, and all the top of it was completely enveloped in flames. From one window, from which escape seemed impossible--for the flames almost surrounded it--a man leaned out, imploring some one to save him. The height from the ground was too great for him to jump down, and no fire-escape was yet in sight. Policeman Z was as kind-hearted a man as ever lived. In the excitement of such a moment he absolutely forgot Sue. He rushed into the crowd, scattering them right and left, and sent those who had not absolutely lost their heads flying for the fire-escape and the engines. They all arrived soon after, and the man, who was the only person in the burning part of the house, was brought in safety to the ground. In the midst of the shouting, eager crowd Sue stood, forgetting herself, as perhaps every one else there did also, in such intense excitement. Scarcely, however, had the rescued man reached the ground when she felt herself violently pulled from behind--indeed, not only pulled, but dragged so strongly that she almost lost her feet. She attempted to scream, but a hand was instantly placed over her mouth, and she found herself running helplessly, and against her will, down a narrow passage which flanked one side of the burning house; beyond this into a small backyard; then through another house into another yard; and so on until she entered a small, very dirty room. This room was full of unknown condiments in jars and pots, some queer stuffed figures in fancy-dresses, some wigs and curls of false hair, and several masks, false noses, etc., etc. Sue, entering this room, was pushed instantly into a large arm-chair, whereupon her captor came and stood before her. He was a lad of about her own size, and perhaps a year or two younger. He had a round, freckled face, the lightest blue eyes, and the reddest, most upright shock of hair she had ever seen. He put his arms akimbo and gazed hard at Sue, and so motionless became his perfectly round orbs that Sue thought he had been turned into stone. Suddenly, however, he winked, and said in a shrill, cheerful tone: "Well, then, plucky 'un, 'ow does yer find yerself now?" Not any number of shocks could quite deprive Sue of her common-sense. She had not an idea of what had become of her. Was this another and a rougher way of taking her to the lock-up? Was this queer boy friend or foe? "Be yer agen me, boy?" she said. "Agen yer! Well, the ingratitude! Ha'n't I jest rescued yer from the hands o' that 'ere nipper?" "Oh!" exclaimed Sue; and the relieved tension of her poor, terrified little heart found vent in two big tears which rose to her eyes. The red-haired boy balanced himself on one toe in order to survey those tears more carefully. "Well," he said at length, in a tone in which there was a ludicrous mingling of wonder and contempt--"well, ye're a queer un fur a plucky un--a wery queer un. Crying! My eyes! Ain't yer hin luck not to be in prison, and ain't that a subject for rejoicing? I don't cry when I'm in luck; but then, thank goodness! I'm not a gel. Lor'! they're queer cattle, gels are--wery queer, the best o' 'em. But they're as they're made, poor things! We can't expect much from such weakness. But now look you here, you gel--look up at me, full and solemn in the face, and say if ye're hinnercent in the matter o' that 'ere locket. If yer can say quite solemn and straightforward as yer his innercent, why, I'll help yer; but if yer is guilty--and, mark me, I can tell by yer heyes ef ye're talking the truth--I can do naught, fur I'm never the party to harbor guilty folks. Now speak the truth, full and solemn; be yer hinnercent?" Here the red-haired boy got down on his knees and brought his eyes within a few inches of Sue's eyes. "Be yer hinnercent?" he repeated. "Yes," answered Sue, "I'm quite, quite hinnercent; yer can believe me or not as yer pleases. I'm quite hinnercent, and I won't cry no more ef yer dislikes it. I wor never reckoned a cry-baby." "Good!" said the boy; "I b'lieves yer. And now jest tell me the whole story. I come hup jest when the perleeceman and the pawnbroker were a-gripping yer. Lor'! I could a' twisted out o' their hands heasy enough; but then, to be thankful agen, I ain't a gel." "There's no good twitting me wid being a gel," interrupted Sue; "gels have their use in creation same as boys, and I guess as they're often the pluckier o' the two." "Gels pluckier! Well, I like that. However, I will say as you stood game. I guessed as you wor hinnercent then. And now jest tell me the story." "It wor this way," began Sue, whose color and courage were beginning to return. Then she told her tale, suppressing carefully all tears, for she was anxious to propitiate the red-haired boy. She could not, however, keep back the indignation from her innocent young voice; and this indignation, being a sure sign in his mind of pluckiness, greatly delighted her companion. "'Tis the jolliest shame I ever heard tell on in all my life," he said in conclusion; but though he said this he chuckled, and seemed to enjoy himself immensely. "Now then," he added, "there's no doubt at all as ye're hinnercent. I know that as clear--I feels as sartin on that p'int--as tho' I wor reading the secrets of my own heart. But 'tis jest equal sartin as a magistrate 'ud bring you hin guilty. He'd say--and think hisself mighty wise, too--'You had the locket, so in course yer tuk the locket, and so yer must be punished.' Then you'd be tuk from the lock-up to the House o' Correction, where you'd 'ave solitary confinement, most like, to teach you never to do so no more." "'Ow long 'ud they keep me there?" asked Sue. "'Ow long 'ud they be wicked enough to keep me there fur what I never did?" "Well, as it wor a first offence, and you but young, they might make it a matter of no longer than a year, or maybe eighteen months. But then, agen, they'd 'ave to consider as it wor diamonds as you tuk. They gems is so waluable that in course you must be punished according. Yes, considerin' as it wor diamonds, Sue, I would say as you got off cheap wid two years." "You talk jest as tho' I had done it," said Sue angrily, "when you know perfect well as I'm quite hinnercent." "Well, don't be touchy. I'm only considerin' what the judge 'ud say. I ain't the judge. Yes, you'd 'ave two years. But, lor'! it don't much matter wot time you 'ad, for you'd never be no good arter." "Wot do you mean now?" asked Sue. "I mean as you'd never get no 'ployment, nor be able to hold up yer head. Who, I'd like to know, 'ud employ a prison lass--and what else 'ud you be?" Here Sue, disregarding her companion's dislike to tears, broke down utterly, and exclaimed through her sobs: "Oh! poor Giles--poor, poor Giles! It 'ull kill my little Giles. Oh! I didn't think as Lord Jesus could give me sech big stones to walk hover." "Now ye're gettin' complicated," exclaimed the red-haired boy. "I make 'lowance fur yer tears--ye're but a gel, and I allow as the picture's dark--but who hever is Giles? And where are the stones? Ye're setting still this 'ere minute, and I guess as the arm-chair in which I placed yer, though none o' the newest, be better than a stone." "Giles is my brother," said Sue; "and the stones--well, the stones is 'phorical, ef yer knows wot that means." "Bless us, no! I'm sure I don't. But tell about Giles." So Sue wiped her eyes again and went back a little further in her life-story. "It is complicated," said her companion when she paused--"a lame brother, poor chap, and you the support. Well, well! the more reason as you should keep out o' prison. Now, Sue, this is wot I calls _deep_; jest keep still fur a bit, and let me put on my considerin' cap." The red-haired boy seated himself on the floor, thrust his two hands into his shock of hair, and stared very hard and very straight before him. In this position he was perfectly motionless for about the space of half a minute; then, jumping up, he came again very close to Sue. "Be yer willin' to take the adwice of a person a deal wiser nor yourself? Look me full in the heyes and answer clear on that p'int." "Yes, I'm sure I am," said Sue, in as humble a spirit as the most exalted teacher could desire. "Good!" said the red-haired boy, giving his thigh a great clap. "Then you've got to hearken to _me_. Sue, there's nothink in life fur you but to hide." "To hide!" said Sue. "Yes. You must on no 'count whatever let the perleece find yer. We must get to discover the guilty party, and the guilty party must confess; but in the meanwhile yer must hide. There must be no smell o' the prison 'bout yer, Sue." "Oh! but--but--boy--I don't know yer name." "Pickles," said the red-haired boy, giving his head a bob. "Pickles, at yer sarvice." "Well, then, Pickles," continued Sue, "if I go and hide, what 'ull become o' Giles?" "And what 'ull come o' him ef yer go ter prison--yer goose? Now, jest yer listen to the words o' wisdom. You mustn't go back to Giles, fur as sure as you do the perleece 'ull have you. That would break that little tender brother's heart. No, no, leave Giles ter me; you must hide, Sue." "But where, and fur how long?" asked Sue. "Ah! now ye're comin' sensible, and axin' refreshin' questions. Where? Leave the where to me. How long? Leave the how long ter me." "Oh Pickles! ye're real good," sobbed Sue; "and ef yer'll only promise as Giles won't die, and that he won't break his heart wid frettin', why, I'll leave it ter you--I'll leave it all ter you." "And yer couldn't--search the world over--leave it to a safer person," said Pickles. "So now that's a bargain--I'll take care on Giles." CHAPTER XVII. CINDERELLA. "The first thing to be considered, Sue," said Pickles, as he seated himself on the floor by her side, "is the disguise. The disguise must be wot I consider deep." "Wot hever does yer mean now?" asked Sue. "Why, yer Silly, yer don't s'pose as yer can go hout and about as you are now? Why, the perleece 'ud have yer. Don't yer s'pose as yer'll be advertised?" "I dunno heven wot that his," said Sue. "Oh! my heyes, ain't yer green! Well, it 'ull be, say, like this. There'll be by hall the perleece-stations placards hup, all writ hout in big print: 'Gel missing--plain gel, rayther stout, rayther short, wid round moon-shaped face, heyes small, mouth big, hair----" "There! you needn't go on," said Sue, who, though by no means vain, scarcely relished this description. "I know wot yer mean, and I don't want ter be twitted with not being beautiful. I'd rayther be beautiful by a long way. I s'pose, as the disguise is ter change me, will it make me beautiful? I'd like that." Pickles roared. "Well, I never!" he said. "We'll try. Let me see; I must study yer fur a bit. Hair wot's called sandy now--changed ter black. Heyebrows; no heyebrows in 'ticlar--mark 'em hout strong. Mouth: couldn't sew hup the mouth in the corners. No, Sue, I'm feared as I never can't make no pictur' of yer. But now to be serious. We must set to work, and we has no time ter spare, fur hold Fryin-pan 'ull come home, and there'll be the mischief to pay ef he finds us yere." "Who's he?" asked Sue. "Who? Why, the owner of this yer shop. I'm in his employ. I'm wot's called his steady right-hand man. See, Sue, yere's a pair o' scissors; get yer hair down and clip away, and I'll get ready the dye." Pickles now set to work in earnest, and proved himself by no means an unskilled workman. In a wonderfully short space of time Sue's long, neutral-tinted hair was changed to a very short crop of the darkest hue. Her eyebrows were also touched up, and as her eyelashes happened to be dark, the effect was not quite so inharmonious as might have been feared. Pickles was in ecstasies, and declared that "Not a policeman in London 'ud know her." He then dived into an inner room in the funny little shop, and returned with an old blue petticoat and a faded red jersey. These Sue had to exchange for her own neat but sober frock. "Ye're perfect," said Pickles, dancing round her. "Yer looks hangelic. Now fur the name." "The name?" said Sue. "Must I 'ave a new name too?" "In course yer must; nothink must let the name o' Sue pass yer lips. Now, mind, that slip o' the tongue might prove fatal." "Wery well," said Sue in a resigned voice of great trouble. "Yer needn't be so down on yer luck. I don't myself think anythink o' the name o' Sue; 'tis what I considers low and common. Now, wot's yer favorite character? Say in acting, now." "There's no character hin all the world as I hadmires like Cinderella," said Sue. "Oh, my heyes, Cinderella, of hall people! Worn't Cinderella wot might 'ave bin called beautiful? Dressed shabby, no doubt, and wid hard-hearted sisters--but hadn't she small feet, now? Well, Sue, I don't say as ye're remarkable fur them special features b'in' small, nor is yer looks _wery_ uncommon; but still, ef yer have a fancy for the name, so be it. It _will_ be fun thinkin' of the beautiful, small-footed Cinderella and looking at you. But so much the better, so come along, Cinderella, fur Fryin'-pan 'ull catch us ef we don't make haste." "Where are we to go?" asked the poor little newly made Cinderella, with a piteous face. "Now, yer needn't look like that. None but cheerful folks goes down wid me. Where are yer to go to? Why, to mother, of course--where else?" "Oh, have you got a mother?" asked Sue. "Well, wot next? 'Ow did I happen ter be born? Yes, I has a mother, and the wery best little woman in the world--so come along." CHAPTER XVIII. THE METROPOLITAN FIRE BRIGADE. Pickles and Sue had to go a long way before they reached the destination of "the best little woman in the world." They walked along by-streets and all kinds of queer places, and presently reached a part of London where Sue had never been before. They passed whole streets of warehouses, and came then to poor-looking dwelling-houses, but all of an immense height, and very old and dirty. It was the back slums of Westminster over again, but it was a Westminster severed as far as one pole is from another to Sue. "We does a roaring trade yere," said Pickles, looking around him with the air of a proprietor well satisfied with his property. "Wot in?" asked Sue. "Wot hin? Well, that may surprise yer. Hin fire, of course." "Wot do yer mean?" asked Sue. "Wot does I mean? I mean as we deals in that 'ere rampagious helement. We belongs to the great London Fire Brigade. That his, my brother Will does; and I have a cousin wot thinks hisself no end of a swell, and he's beginning his drill. Do you suppose, you goose, as I'd have acted as I did, wid that 'ere remarkable coolness jest now, when the fire wor burning, and the man wor on the wery brink of destruction, ef fire had not bin, so to speak, my native hair? But now, here we are at last, so come along hup to mother!" Taking Sue's hand, Pickles dragged her up flight after flight of stairs, until they reached the top of one of the very tall, dirty houses. Here he suddenly flung open a door, and pushing Sue in, sang out: "Mother, yere I be! And let me introduce to you Cinderella. Her sisters have bin that unkind and mean as cannot be told, and she have taken refuge wid us until the Prince comes to tie on the glass slipper." No doubt Pickles' mother was thoroughly accustomed to him, for she did not smile at all, but coming gravely forward, took Sue's two hands in hers, and looking into her face, and seeing something of the great trouble there, said in a soft, kind tone: "Sit down, my dear--sit down. If I can help you I will." "Oh, you can help her real fine, mother!" said Pickles, beginning to dance a hornpipe round them both. "And I said as you were the wery best little 'oman in all the world, and that you would do hall you could." "So I will, my lad; only now do let the poor dear speak for herself." But Sue did not. There are limits beyond which fortitude will not go, and those limits were most suddenly reached by the poor child. Her morning's early rising, her long walk to her place of business, her hard work when she got there; then her hurried run for the sick girl's lunch, her cruel betrayal, her very startling capture by Pickles; the fact that her hair had been cut off, her clothes changed, her very name altered, until she herself felt that she must really be somebody else, and not the Sue whom Giles loved. All these things she had borne with tolerable calmness; but now (for Sue was really starving) the warm room, the bright fire--above all, the kind face that bent over her, the gentle voice that asked to hear her tale--proved too much. She put up her toil-worn hands to her face and burst into such sobs as strong people give way to in agony. Mrs. Price beckoned to Pickles to go away, and then, sitting down by Sue's side, she waited until the overloaded heart should have become a little quieted; then she said: "And now, my dear, you will tell me the story." Sue did tell it--told it all--Mrs. Price sitting by and holding her hands, and absolutely not speaking a single word. "You believes me, marm?" said Sue at last. Mrs. Price looked in the girl's eyes and answered simply: "Yes, poor lamb, I quite believe you. And now I am going to get you some supper." She made Sue lie back in the easy-chair by the fire, and drawing out a little round table, laid a white cloth upon it. Sue's mind, by this time partly relieved of its load, was able to take in its novel surroundings. The house might be very tall and very dirty, but this room at least was clean. Floor, walls, furniture--all reflected a due and most judicious use of soap and water; and the woman moving about with gentle, deft fingers, arranging now this and now that, was quite different from any woman Sue had ever seen before. She was a widow, and wore a widow's cap and a perfectly plain black dress, but she had a white handkerchief pinned neatly over her shoulders, so that she looked half-widow, half-nun. She was tall and slender, with very beautiful dark eyes. Sue did not know whether to think her the very gravest person she had ever seen or the very brightest. Her face was thoughtful and sweet; perhaps when in repose it was sad, but she never looked at a human being without a certain expression coming into her eyes which said louder and plainer than words, "I love you." This expression gave the hungry and poor who came in contact with her glance many a heart-thrill, and it is not too much to say they were seldom disappointed of the sympathy which the look in those dark and lovely eyes gave them reason to hope for. Mrs. Price now laid the tea-things, giving the poor little shorn and transformed Cinderella sitting by the hearth so many expressive glances that she began to feel quite a heavenly peace stealing over her. "Worn't Jesus real good to bring me yere?" was her mental comment. She had scarcely made it before two young men came in. These young men were dressed in the uniform of the London Fire Brigade. They looked dusty, and the taller of the two was covered with smoke and dirt. "Mother," he said as he tossed his helmet on the table. "I've been worked almost to death. You have supper ready, I hope." "Yes, yes, my lad--a nice little piece of boiled pork, smoking hot, and pease-pudding and potatoes. I am glad you've brought George with you. He is kindly welcome, as he knows." "As he knows very well," answered George, with a smile. He touched the woman's shoulder for an instant with his big hand. Then the two young men went into the next room to have a wash before supper. "William is coming on fine," said George, when they returned, looking at the other fireman--"though you did disobey orders, William, and are safe to get a reprimand.--Fancy, Mrs. Price! this brave son of yours, returning from his day's drill, must needs see a fire and rush into it, all against orders--ay, and save a poor chap's life--before any one could prevent him." It may be as well to explain here that each man who wishes to join the Metropolitan Fire Brigade must first have served some time at sea; also, before a man is allowed to attend a fire he must be thoroughly trained--in other words, he must attend drill. There's a drill class belonging to each station. It is under the charge of an instructor and two assistant instructors. Each man, on appointment, joins this class, and learns the use of all the different appliances required for the extinction of fire. William Price had not quite completed his eight weeks' drill. "Yes, it was a ticklish piece of work," continued Anderson. "The poor chap he rescued was surrounded by flames. Then, too, the street was so narrow and the crowd so great that the whole matter is simply wonderful; but that policeman who kept order was a fine fellow." "Why, it worn't never the fire as we come from jest now!" here burst from Sue. "Hush--hush, Cinderella!" said Pickles, who had come back, giving her a push under the table. "It 'ud be more suitable to yer present sitiwation ef yer didn't talk. In course it wor that same fire. Why, it wor that deed o' bravery done by my own nearest o' kin as incited me to hact as I did by you." "Whoever is the girl?" said Price, noticing poor Sue for the first time. "Cinderella's the name of this 'ere misfortunate maiden," replied Pickles; "an' yer ax no more questions, Bill, an' yer'll get no stories told." "I must go, Mrs. Price," said Anderson; "but I'll be back again as soon as possible." "Tell me first, George," said the widow, "how your mother is." "I haven't been to see her for a few days, but she wrote to say that both the children who were rescued from the fire a few days back are doing fairly well. The boy was bad at first, but is now recovering." "Ah! that was a brave deed," said Price in a voice of the greatest admiration. "And did she tell you the names of the poor little critters?" "She did. Connie was the name of one----" "Connie?" cried Sue, springing to her feet. "Sit down, Cinderella, and keep yourself quiet," cried Pickles. George Anderson gave the queer little girl who went by this name a puzzled glance. "Yes," he said briefly, "Connie was the name of one, and Ronald the name of the other. I never saw a more beautiful little creature in all the world than Connie." "That's _'er_!" broke from Sue's irrepressible lips. CHAPTER XIX. A SAINTLY LADY. When so many strange things were happening, we may be sure that Father John was not idle. He had hoped much from Peter Harris's knowledge of the byways and dens and alleys of Westminster. But although Peter was accompanied by the sharpest detectives that Scotland Yard could provide, not the slightest clue to Connie's whereabouts could be obtained. The man was to meet more detectives again that same afternoon, and meanwhile a sudden gleam of hope darted through Father John's brain. What a fool he had been not to think of it before! How glad he was now that he had insisted on getting the name and address of the brave fireman deliverer from Connie on the previous night! He went straight now to the house in Carlyle Terrace. He stopped at No. 12. There he rang the bell and inquired if Mrs. Anderson were within. Mrs. Anderson was the last woman in the world to refuse to see any one, whether rich or poor, who called upon her. Even impostors had a kindly greeting from this saintly lady; for, as she was fond of saying to herself, "If I can't give help, I can at least bestow pity." Mrs. Anderson was no fool, however, and she could generally read in their faces the true story of a man or woman who came to her. More often than not the story was a sad one, and the chance visitor was in need of help and sympathy. When this was not the case, she was able to explain very fully to the person who had called upon her what she thought of deceit and dishonest means of gaining a livelihood; and that person, as a rule, went away very much ashamed, and in some cases determined to turn over a new leaf. When this really happened Mrs. Anderson was the first to help to get the individual who had come to her into respectable employment. She was by no means rich, but nearly every penny of her money was spent on others; her own wants were of the simplest. The house she lived in belonged to her son, who, although a gentleman by birth, had long ago selected his profession--that of a fireman in the London Fire Brigade. He had a passion for his calling, and would not change it for the richest and most luxurious life in the world. Now Mrs. Anderson came downstairs to interview Father John. Father John stood up, holding his hat in his hand. He always wore a black frock-coat; his hair hung long over his shoulders; his forehead was lofty; his expressive and marvelously beautiful gray eyes lit up his rugged and otherwise plain face. It was but to look at this man to know that he was absolutely impervious to flattery, and did not mind in the least what others thought about him. His very slight but perceptible deformity gave to his eyes that pathetic look which deformed people so often possess. The moment Mrs. Anderson entered the room she recognized him. "Why," she said in a joyful tone, "is it true that I have the honor of speaking to the great street preacher?" "Not great, madam," said Father John--"quite a simple individual; but my blessed Father in heaven has given me strength to deliver now and then a message to poor and sorrowful people." "Sit down, won't you?" said Mrs. Anderson. Father John did immediately take a chair. Mrs. Anderson did likewise. "Now," said the widow, "what can I do for you?" "I will tell you, madam. Her father and I are in great trouble about the child----" "What child?" asked Mrs. Anderson. "You surely don't mean little Connie Harris? I have been nervous at her not reappearing to-day. At her own express wish, she went to visit her father last night. I would have sent some one with her, but she wouldn't hear of it, assuring me that she had been about by herself in the London streets as long as she could remember; but she has not returned." "No, madam?" Over Father John's face there passed a quick emotion. Then this last hope must be given up. "You have news of her?" said Mrs. Anderson. "I have, and very bad news." Father John then related his story. "Oh, why--why did I let her go?" said Mrs. Anderson. "Don't blame yourself dear lady; the person to blame is the miserable father who would not receive his lost child when she returned to him." "Oh, poor little girl!" said Mrs. Anderson. "Such a sweet child, too, and so very beautiful!" "Her beauty is her danger," said Father John. "What do you mean?" "She told me her story, as doubtless she has told it to you." "She has," said Mrs. Anderson. "There is not the least doubt," continued the street preacher, "that that notorious thief, Mrs. Warren, used the child to attract people from herself when she was stealing their goods. Mrs. Warren is one of the most noted pickpockets in London. She has been captured, but I greatly fear that some other members of the gang have kidnapped the child once more." "What can be done?" said Mrs. Anderson. "I wish my son were here. I know he would help." "Ah, madam," said Father John, "how proud you must be of such a son! I think I would rather belong to his profession than any other in all the world--yes, I believe I would rather belong to it than to my own; for when you can rescue the body of a man from the cruel and tormenting flames, you have a rare chance of getting at his soul." "My son is a Christian as well as a gentleman," said Mrs. Anderson. "He would feel with you in every word you have uttered, Father John. I will send him a message and ask him if he can meet you here later on to-night." "I shall be very pleased to come; and I will if I can," said Father John. "But," he added, "my time is scarcely ever my own--I am the servant of my people." "Your congregation?" said Mrs. Anderson. "Yes, madam; all sorts and conditions of men. I have no parish; still, I consider myself God's priest to deliver His message to sorrowful people who might not receive it from an ordained clergyman." Mrs. Anderson was silent. Father John's eyes seemed to glow. He was looking back on many experiences. After a minute he said: "The consolation is this: 'He that shall endure to the end--shall be saved.'" "How very strange that you should speak of that!" said Mrs. Anderson. "Why so, madam? Don't you believe it?" "Oh, indeed I do! But I'll tell you why I think it strange. There is a little boy--the child who was also rescued from the fire--in my house. He was very ill at first; he is now better, but not well enough to leave his bedroom. I was anxious about him for a time, but he is, I thank God, recovering. Now, this child went on murmuring that text during his delirium--a strange one to fall from the lips of so young a child." "Indeed, yes, madam. I am most deeply interested. I am glad you have mentioned the little boy. Connie told me about him last night. I am sorry that in my anxiety for her I forgot him." "You could never forget little Ronald if you were to see him," said Mrs. Anderson. "I don't think I ever saw quite so sweet a child. His patience, his courage, and I think I ought to add his faith, are marvelous." "He cannot be nicer or better than a little boy of the name of Giles who lives in a very poor attic near my own room," said the preacher. "I wonder," said Mrs. Anderson after a pause, "if you could spare time to come up and see little Ronald with me." "I should be only too glad," said Father John. So Mrs. Anderson took the preacher upstairs, and very softly opened the door, beyond which stood a screen. She entered, followed by the preacher, into a pretty room, which had lovely photographs hanging on the walls, that bore on childhood in different aspects. There was the summer child--the child of happiness--playing in the summer meadows, chasing butterflies and gathering flowers. And there also was the winter child--the child of extreme desolation--shivering on a doorstep in one of London's streets. There were other children, too--saintly children--St. Agnes and her lamb, St. Elizabeth, St. Ursula; and, above all, there were photographs of the famous pictures of the Child of all children, the Child of Bethlehem. The windows of the room were shaded by soft curtains of pale blue. A cheerful fire burned in the grate, and a child lay, half-sitting up, in a bed covered by a silken eider-down. The child looked quite content in his little bed, and a trained nurse who was in the room went softly out by another door as Mrs. Anderson and the preacher entered. "Hasn't Connie come back?" asked Ronald. "No, dear," said Mrs. Anderson; "she's not able to do so just yet." "I want her," said Ronald, suppressing a sigh. "I have brought this gentleman to see you, Ronald." "What?" The boy cast a quick glance at the somewhat ungainly figure of Father John. Another disappointment--not the father he was waiting for. But the luminous eyes of the preacher seemed to pierce into the boy's soul. When he looked once, he looked again. When he looked twice, it seemed to him that he wanted to look forever. "I am glad," he said; and a smile broke over his little face. Father John sat down at once by the bedside, and Mrs. Anderson went softly out of the room. "Waiting for something, little man?" said the street preacher. "How can you tell?" asked Ronald. "I see it in your eyes," said the preacher. "It's father," said Ronald. "Which father?" asked the preacher. "My own," said Ronald--"my soldier father--the V. C. man, you know." "Yes," said Father John. "I want him," said Ronald. "Of course you do." "Is he likely to come soon?" asked Ronald. "If I could tell you that, Ronald," said the street preacher, "I should be a wiser man than my Father in heaven means me to be. There is only one Person who can tell you when your earthly father will come." "You mean Lord Christ," said Ronald. "I mean Christ and our Father in heaven." Ronald shut his eyes for a minute. Then he opened them. "I want my father," he said. "I'm sort o' starving for him." "Well," said Father John, "you have a father, you know--you have two fathers. If you can't get your earthly father down here, you're certain safe to get him up there. A boy with two fathers needn't feel starved about the heart, need he, now?" "I suppose not," said Ronald. "He need not, of course," said Father John. "I'll say a bit of a prayer for you to the Heavenly Father, and I know that sore feeling will go out of your heart. I know it, Ronald; for He has promised to answer the prayers of those who trust in Him. But now I want to talk to you about something else. I guess, somehow, that the next best person to your father to come to see you now is your little friend Connie." "Yes, yes!" said Ronald. "I've missed her dreadful. Mrs. Anderson is sweet, and Nurse Charlotte very kind, and I'm beginning not to be quite so nervous about fire and smoke and danger. It's awful to be frightened. I'll have to tell my father when he comes back how bad I've been and how unlike him. But if I can't get him just now--and I'm not going to be unpatient--I want Connie, 'cos she understands." "Of course she understands," said the preacher. "I will try and get her for you." "But why can't she come back?" "She can't." "But why--why?" "That is another thing I can't tell you." "And I am not to be unpatient," said Ronald. "You're to be patient--it's a big lesson--it mostly takes a lifetime to get it well learned. But somehow, when it is learned, then there's nothing else left to learn." Ronald's eyes were so bright and so dark that the preacher felt he had said enough for the present. He bent down over the boy. "The God above bless thee, child," he said; "and if you have power and strength to say a little prayer for Connie, do. She will come back when the Heavenly Father wills it. Good-bye, Ronald." CHAPTER XX. CAUGHT AGAIN. When Connie awoke the next morning, it was to see the ugly face of Agnes bending over her. "Stylites is to 'ome," she said briefly. "Yer'd best look nippy and come into the kitchen and 'ave yer brekfus'." "Oh!" said Connie. "You'll admire Stylites," continued Agnes; "he's a wery fine man. Now come along--but don't yer keep him waiting." Connie had not undressed. Agnes poured a little water into a cracked basin for her to wash her face and hands, and showed her a comb, by no means specially inviting, with which she could comb out her pretty hair. Then, again enjoining her to "look slippy," she left the room. In the kitchen a big breakfast was going on. A quantity of bacon was frizzling in a pan over a great fire; and Freckles, the boy who had let Connie and Agnes in the night before, was attending to it. Two men with rough faces--one of them went by the name of Corkscrew, and the other was known as Nutmeg--were standing also within the region of the warm and generous fire. But the man on whom Connie fixed her pretty eyes, when she softly opened the door and in all fear made her appearance, was of a totally different order of being. He was a tall man, quite young, not more than thirty years of age, and remarkably handsome. He had that curious combination of rather fair hair and very dark eyes and brows. His face was clean-shaven, and the features were refined and delicate without being in the least effeminate; for the cruel strength of the lower jaw and firmly shut lips showed at a glance that this man had a will of iron. His voice was exceedingly smooth and gentle, however, in intonation. When he saw Connie he stepped up to her side and, giving her a gracious bow, said: "Welcome to the kitchen, young lady." "It's Stylites--bob yer curtsy," whispered Agnes in Connie's ear. So Connie bobbed her curtsy. Was this the man she was to be so dreadfully afraid of? Her whole charming little face broke into a smile. "I'm so glad as you're Stylites!" she said. The compliment, the absolutely unexpected words, the charm of the smile, had a visible effect upon the man. He looked again at Connie as though he would read her through and through; then, taking her hand, he led her to the breakfast-table. "Freckles," he said, "put a clean plate and knife on the table. That plate isn't fit for a young lady to eat off." Freckles grinned from ear to ear, showing rows of yellow teeth. He rushed off to wash the plate in question, and returned with it hot and shining to lay again before Connie's place. Simeon Stylites himself helped the little girl to the choicest pieces of bacon, to delicate slices of white bread, and to any other good things which were on the table. As he did this he did not speak once, but his eyes seemed to be everywhere. No one dared do a thing on the sly. The rough-looking men, Corkscrew and Nutmeg, were desired in a peremptory tone to take their mugs of tea to another table at the farther end of the great room. One of them ventured to grumble, and both cast angry glances at Connie. Stylites, however, said, "Shut that!" and they were instantly mute as mice. The boy Freckles also took his breakfast to the other table; but Agnes sat boldly down, and pushing her ill-favored face forward, addressed Simeon in familiar style: "I nabbed her--yer see." "Shut that!" said Stylites. Agnes flushed an angry red, gave Connie a vindictive look, but did not dare to utter another word. Connie ate her breakfast with wonderful calm, and almost contentment. During the night which had passed she had gone through terrible dreams, in which Simeon Stylites had figured largely. He had appeared to her in those dreams as an ogre--a monster too awful to live. But here was a gracious gentleman, very goodly to look upon, very kind to her, although rude and even fierce to the rest of the party. "He'll let me go 'ome," thought Connie; "he 'ave a kind 'eart." The meal came to an end. When it did so Corkscrew came up and inquired if the young "amattur" were "goin' to 'ave her first lesson in perfessional work." "Shut that!" said Stylites again. "You go into cellar No. 5 and attend to the silver, Corkscrew.--Nutmeg, you'll have the other jewelry to put in order this morning. Is the furnace in proper order?" "Yus, sir." "Get off both of you and do your business. We're going out this evening." "When, sir?" "Ten o'clock--sharp's the word." "On wot, sir?" "No. 17's the job," said Simeon Stylites. "And wot am I to do?" said Agnes. "Stay indoors and mend your clothes." "In this room, sir?" "No; your bedroom." "Please, Simeon Stylites, yer ain't thanked me yet for bringin' Connie along." For answer Stylites put his hand into his pocket, produced half-a-crown, and tossed it to Agnes. "Get into your room, and be quick about it," he said. "May I take Connie along, please, sir?" "Leave the girl alone. Go!" Agnes went. "Come and sit in this warm chair by the fire, dear," said Stylites. Connie did so. The smile round her lips kept coming and going, going and coming. She was touched; she was soothed; she had not a scrap of fear; this great, strong, kind man would certainly save her. He was so different from dreadful Mammy Warren. "Freckles," said the chief, "wash the breakfast things; put them in order; take them all into the pantry. When you have done, go out by the back door, being careful to put on the old man's disguise to-day. Fasten the wig firmly on, and put a patch over your eye. Here's five shillings; get food for the day, and be here by twelve o'clock sharp. Now go." "Yus, sir." Freckles had an exceedingly cheerful manner. He knew very little fear. The strange life he led gave him a sort of wild pleasure. He winked at Connie. "Somethin' wery strange be goin' to 'appen," he said to himself. "A hamattur like this a-brought in by private horders, an' no perfessional lesson to be tuk." He thought how he himself would enjoy teaching this pretty child some of the tricks of the trade. Oh, of course, she was absolutely invaluable. He didn't wonder that Mammy had brought in such spoil when Connie was there. But even Freckles had to depart, and Connie presently found herself alone with the chief. He stood by the hearth, looking taller and more exactly like a fine gentleman, and Connie was more and more reassured about him. "Please, sir----" she began. "Stop!" he interrupted. "Mayn't I speak, sir?" "No--not now. For God's sake don't plead with me; I can't stand that." "Why, sir?" But Connie, as she looked up, saw an expression about that mouth and that jaw which frightened her, and frightened her so badly that all the agony she had undergone in Mammy Warren's house seemed as nothing in comparison. The next minute, however, the cruel look had departed. Simeon Stylites drew a chair forward, dropped into it, bent low, and looked into Connie's eyes. "Allow me," he said; and he put his hand very gently under her chin, and raised her little face and looked at it. "Who's your father?" he asked. "Peter Harris." "Trade?" "Blacksmith, sir." "Where do you live?" "Adam Street, sir; and----" "Hush! Only answer my questions." Stylites removed his hand from under the girl's chin, and Connie felt a blush of pain sweeping over her face. "How long were you with that woman Warren?" "Dunno, sir." "What do you mean by answering me like that?" "Can't 'elp it, sir. Tuk a fright there--bad fire--can't remember, please, sir." "Never mind; it doesn't matter. Stand up; I want to look at your hair." Connie did so. Simeon took great masses of the golden, beautiful hair between his slender fingers. He allowed it to ripple through them. He felt its weight and examined its quality. "Sit down again," he said. "Yus, sir." "You're exactly the young girl I want for my profession." "Please, sir----" "Hush!" "Yus, sir." "I repeat--and I wish you to listen--that in my profession you would rise to eminence. You haven't an idea what it is like, have you?" "No--I mean I'm not sure----" "You had better keep in ignorance, for it won't be really necessary for you to understand." "Oh, sir." "Not really necessary." Connie looked up into the stern and very strange face. "But you miss a good deal," said Stylites--"yes, a very great deal. Tell me, for instance, how you employed your time before you entered Mrs. Warren's establishment." "I did machine-work, sir." "I guessed as much--or perhaps Coppenger told me. Machine-work--attic work?--Shop?" "Yus, sir--in Cheapside, sir--a workshop for cheap clothing, sir." "Did you like it?" "No, sir." "I should think not. Let me look at your hand." He took one of Connie's hands and examined it carefully. "Little, tapering fingers," he said, "spoiled by work. They could be made very white, very soft and beautiful. Have you ever considered what a truly fascinating thing a girl's hand is?" Connie shook her head. "You'd know it if you stayed with me. I should dress you in silk and satins, and give you big hats with feathers, and lovely silk stockings and charming shoes." "To wear in this 'ere kitchen, sir?" "Oh no, you wouldn't live in this kitchen; you would be in a beautiful house with other ladies and gentlemen. _You would_ like that, wouldn't you?" "Yus, sir--ef I might 'ave Ronald and Giles and father and Father John, and p'rhaps Mrs. Anderson and Mr. George Anderson, along o' me." "But in that beautiful house you wouldn't have Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, nor your father, nor that canting street preacher, nor the children you've just mentioned. It's just possible you might have the boy Ronald, but even that is problematical--you'd have to give up the rest." "Then, sir," said Connie, "I rayther not go, please." "Do you think that matters?" said Stylites. "Wot, sir?" "That you'd rather not go?" "I dunno, sir." "It doesn't matter one whit. Children who come here aren't asked what they'd rather or rather not do, girl--they've got to do what _I_ order." The voice came out, not loud, but sharp and incisive, as though a knife were cutting something. "Yus, sir--yus, sir." "Connie"--the man's whole tone altered--"what will you give me if I let you go?" "Oh, sir----" "I want you to give me something very big, I've taken great trouble to secure you. You're the sort of little girl I want; you would be very useful to me. You have come in here--it is true you haven't the least idea where this house is--but you've come in, and you've seen me, and you've discovered the name which these low people call me. Of course, you can understand that my real name is not Simeon Stylites--I have a very different name; and my home isn't here--I have a very different home. I would take you there, and treat you well, and afterwards perhaps send you to another home. You should never know want, and no one would be unkind to you. You would be as a daughter to me, and I am a lonely man." "Oh, sir--sir!" said poor Connie, "I--I like you, sir--I'm not afeered--no, not much afeered--but if you 'ud only let the others come----" "That I cannot do, girl. If you choose to belong to me you must give up the others." "_Ef_ I choose, sir--may I choose?" "Yes--on a condition." The man who called himself Simeon Stylites looked at the girl with a queer, hungry expression in his eyes. "I wanted you very badly indeed," he said; "and I was not in the least prepared to be sentimental. But I had a little sister like you. She died when she was rather younger than you. I loved her, and she loved me. I was quite a good man then, and a gentleman----" "Oh, sir--ye're that now." "No, girl--I am not. There are things that a gentleman would do which I would _not_ do, and there are things which no gentleman would do which I do. I have passed the line; nevertheless, the outward tokens remain; and I live--well, child, I want for nothing. My profession is very lucrative--very." Connie did not understand half the words of this strange, queer man, with a terribly stern and yet terribly pathetic voice. "When I saw you this morning," said Stylites, "I knew at once it was no go. You were like the little Eleanor whom alone in all the world I ever truly loved. You are too young to be told my story, or I would tell it to you." "Oh, sir," said Connie, "I'd real like to comfort yer." "You can't do that, and I won't spoil the life of any child with such a look of my little Eleanor. I am going to give you back your liberty--on a condition." "Wot's that?" said Connie. "That you never breathe to mortal what happened to you from the time you left your friend, the street preacher, last night, until the time when you found yourself at liberty and outside that same court. Wild horses mustn't drag it from you; detectives must do their utmost in vain. I am willing to do a good deal for you, girl, solely and entirely because of that chance likeness. But I won't have _my_ profession and _my_ chances in life imperilled. Do you promise?" "Sir, I'll niver,--niver tell." "You must promise more strongly than that--the others must be witnesses." "Oh, sir--oh, sir! you must trust me. Don't call the others in; let me promise to you, yer lone self, an' I will keep my word." The strange man with the strange eyes looked long for a full minute into Connie's face. "I could have been good to you," he said, "and what I had to offer was not altogether contemptible. But it somehow wouldn't have fitted in with my memory of Eleanor, who went back to God at eleven years of age, very pure in heart, and just like a little child. 'Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.' Those are the words which mark her little grave in a distant part of the country. If you will follow in her steps, and be pure and good in heart and life, you may meet my Eleanor in another world. And perhaps you may be able to tell her that I--a man given over to extreme wickedness--did one kind deed for her sake when I gave you back to your friends." "Sir----" "Not another word. I am a man of moods, and I might recant what I have just said." Simeon Stylites sounded a little gong on the table. Agnes came hurriedly in. "Fetch this child's hat and jacket," said the great man imperatively. Agnes brought them. "Be I to take her out, sir?" she said. "No. And listen. This child isn't for us; let her alone in future.--Are you ready, Connie?" "Yus, sir." Simeon Stylites put on the most gentlemanly overcoat and a well-brushed silk hat, and he took a neat stick in his hand and went boldly out of the house. As soon as ever he got outside he saw a hansom, and beckoned the driver. He and Connie got in. They went for a long drive, and Stylites dismissed the hansom in a distant part of the town. "You wouldn't know your way back again?" he said to the girl. "No, sir; an' ef I knew I wouldn't tell." "Well, then--good-bye." "Good-bye, sir." "Yes, good-bye. Walk down this street till you come to the end. Here's a shilling--you'll get a hansom; ask a policeman to put you in. From there go home again, and forget that you ever saw or heard of Simeon Stylites." CHAPTER XXI. SAFE HOME AT LAST. When Harris parted from Sue he ran quickly in his cowardly flight. He did not stay his fleet steps until he had gained a very quiet street. Then, knowing that he was now quite safe, he exchanged his running for a rapid walk. He suddenly remembered that he was to meet the detectives, who were moving heaven and earth to get Connie back for him, not later than three o'clock. They were to meet by appointment in a certain street, and the hour of rendezvous was quickly approaching. He got there in good time; but what was his amazement to see, not only the two detectives--ordinary-looking men in plain clothes--but also the street preacher? The street preacher came up to him eagerly. The detectives also followed close. "Harris," said Atkins, "you can thank God on your knees--your child is safe at home." "Wot?" said Harris. In that instant something sharp as a sword went through his heart. Oh, what a mean, terrible, horrible wretch he was! What a cowardly deed he had just committed! And yet God was kind, and had given him back his child. "Connie is in your room, waiting for you," said Atkins. "I went in not an hour ago, hoping to find you, and there she was." "It's very queer," said Detective Z. "You should have been there also, and have questioned the girl. There isn't the least doubt that she could give the most valuable information, but she won't utter a word--not a word." "Won't she, now?" said Harris. "Perhaps not to you, but she wull, quick enough, to her own father." The entire party then turned in the direction of Harris's rooms. They went up the stairs, and Harris flung the door wide. A little, slight girl, in the identical same dark-blue dress which Harris had bought for her with such pride not many weeks ago, was standing near the fire. Already her womanly influences had been at work. The fire burned brightly. The room was tidy. The girl herself was waiting--expectation, fear, longing, all expressed in her sensitive face. "Father!" she cried as Harris--brutal, red of face, self-reproachful, at once the most miserable and the gladdest man on earth--almost staggered into the room. He took the slim little creature into his arms, gave her a few fierce, passionate kisses; then saying, "It is good to have yer back, wench," pushed her from him with unnecessary violence. He sank into a seat, trembling all over. The two detectives marked his agitation and were full of compassion for him. How deeply he loved his child, they felt. But Father John read deeper below the surface. The man was in a very queer state. Had anything happened? He knew Harris well. At such a moment as this, if all were right, he would not be so overcome. The detectives began to question Connie. "We want to ask you a few questions, my dear," said Constable Z. "Who dragged you into that court last night?" "I won't say," answered Connie. "You won't say? But you know." "I won't say nothing," said Connie. "That is blamed nonsense!" cried Harris, suddenly rousing himself. "Yer've got to say--yer've got to make a clean breast of it. Wot's up? Speak!" "I wouldn't be here, father," said Connie, "'ef I'd not promised most faithfully not _iver_ to tell, and I won't iver, iver, iver tell, not to anybody in all the world." There was a decidedly new quality in the girl's voice. "I wouldn't do it for nobody," continued Connie. She drew herself up, and looked taller; her eyes were shining. The detectives glanced at each other. "If you was put in the witness-box, missy," said one, "yer'd have to break that promise o' yourn, whoever you made it to, or you'ud know what contempt of the law meant." "But I am not in the witness-box," said Connie, her tone suddenly becoming gay. "It was awful kind of people to look for me, but they might ha' looked for ever and niver found me again. I'm 'ere now quite safe, and nothing 'as 'appened at all, and I'm niver goin' to tell. Please, Father John, _you_ won't ask me?" "No, my child," said Father John. "You have made a promise, perhaps a rash one, but I should be the last to counsel you to break it." Nothing more could be gained from Connie at present; and by-and-by Father John and the two detectives left her alone with Harris. When the door closed behind the three men a timid expression came into Connie's gentle eyes. Beyond doubt her father was sober, but he looked very queer--fearfully red in the face, nervous, trembling, bad in his temper. Connie had seen him in many moods, but this particular mood she had never witnessed in him before. He must really love her. He knew nothing about that terrible time last night when he had turned her away. Then he did not know what he was doing. Connie was the last to bear him malice for what--like many other little girls of her class--she considered he could not help. Most of the children in the courts and streets around had fathers who drank. It seemed to Connie and to the other children that this was a necessary part of fathers--that they all took what was not good for them, and were exceedingly unpleasant under its influence. She stood now by the window, and Harris sank into a chair. Then he got up restlessly. "I be goin' out for a bit, lass," he said. "You stay 'ere." "Oh, please, father," said Connie, "ef you be goin' out, may I go 'long and pay Giles a wisit? I want so much to have a real good talk with him." When Connie mentioned the word Giles, Harris gave quite a perceptible start. Something very like an oath came from his lips; then he crushed back his emotion. "Hall right," he said; "but don't stay too long there. And plait up that 'air o' yourn, and put it tight round yer 'ead; I don't want no more kidnappin' o' my wench." There was a slight break in the rough man's voice, and Connie's little sensitive heart throbbed to the tone of love. A minute later Harris had gone out, and Connie, perceiving that it was past four o'clock, and that it would not be so very long before Sue was back from Cheapside, prepared to set off in quite gay spirits to see little Giles. She went into her tiny bedroom. It was a very shabby room, nothing like as well furnished as the one she had occupied at Mammy Warren's. But oh, how glad she was to be back again! How sweet the homely furniture looked! How dear was that cracked and handleless jug! How nice to behold again the wooden box in which she kept her clothes! The little girl now quickly plaited her long, thick hair, arranged it tightly round her head, and putting on a shabby frock and jacket, and laying the dark blue, which had seen such evil days, in the little trunk, she hastily left the room. She was not long in making her appearance in Giles's very humble attic. Her heart beat as she mounted the well-worn stairs. How often--oh, how often she had though of Giles and Sue! How she had longed for them! The next minute she had burst into the room where the boy was lying, as usual, flat on his back. "Giles," she said, "I've come back." "Connie!" answered Giles. He turned quickly to look at her. His face turned first red, then very pale; but the next minute he held up his hand to restrain further words. "Don't say anything for half a minute, Connie, for 'e's goin' to speak." "Big Ben? Oh!" said Connie. She remembered what Big Ben had been to her and to Ronald in Mammy Warren's dreadful rooms. She too listened, half-arrested in her progress across the room. Then, above the din and roar of London, the sweet chimes pealed, and the hour of five o'clock was solemnly proclaimed. "There!" said Giles. "Did yer 'ear wot he said now?" "Tell us--do tell us!" said Connie. "'The peace of God which passeth all understanding.'" said Giles. "Ain't it fine?" "Oh yus," said Connie--"yus! Giles--little Giles--'ow I ha' missed yer! Oh Giles, Giles! this is the peace o' God come back to me again." Giles did not answer, and Connie had time to watch him. It was some weeks now since she had seen him--weeks so full of events that they were like a lifetime to the child; and in those weeks a change had come over little Giles. That pure, small, angel face of his looked smaller, thinner, and more angelic than ever. It seemed as if a breath might blow him away. His sweet voice itself was thin and weak. "I did miss yer, Connie," he said at last. "But then, I were never frightened; Sue were--over and over." "And w'y weren't yer frightened, Giles?" said Connie. "You 'ad a reason to be, if yer did but know." "I did know," said Giles, "and that were why I didn't fret. I knew as you were safe--I knew for sartin sure that Big Ben 'ud talk to yer--_'e'd_ bring yer a message, same as 'e brings to me." "Oh--he did--he did!" said Connie. "I might ha' guessed that you'd think that, for the message were so wery strong. It were indeed as though a Woice uttered the words. But oh, Giles--I 'ave a lot to tell yer!" "Well," said Giles, "and I am ready to listen. Poke up the fire a bit, and then set near me. Yer must stop talking _w'en 'e_ speaks, but otherwise you talk and I listen." "Afore I do anything," said Connie--"'ave you 'ad your tea?" "No. I didn't want it. I'll 'ave it w'en Sue comes 'ome." "Poor Sue!" said Connie. "I'm that longin' to see her! I 'ope she won't be hangry." "Oh, no," said Giles. "We're both on us too glad to be angry. We missed yer sore, both on us." While Giles was speaking Connie had put on the kettle to boil. She had soon made a cup of tea, which she brought to the boy, who, although he had said he did not want it, drank it off with dry and thirsty lips. "Dear Connie!" he said when he gave her the cup to put down. "Now you're better," said Connie, "and I'll speak." She began to tell her story, which quickly absorbed Giles, bringing color into his cheeks and brightness into his eyes, so that he looked by no means so frail and ill as he had done when Connie first saw him. She cheered up when she noticed this, and reflected that doubtless Giles was no worse. It was only because she had not seen him for so long that she was really frightened. When her story was finished Giles spoke: "You're back, and you're safe--and it were the good Lord as did it. Yer'll tell me 'bout the fire over agin another day; and yer'll tell me 'bout that little Ronald, wot 'ave so brave a father, another day. But I'm tired now a bit. It's wonnerful, all the same, wot brave fathers do for their children. W'en I think o' mine, an' wot 'e wor, an' 'ow 'e died, givin' up his life for others, I'm that proud o' him, an' comforted by him, an' rejoiced to think as I'll see 'im agin, as is almost past talkin' on. But there! you'd best go 'ome now; you're quite safe, for 'E wot gives Big Ben 'is message 'ull regard yer." "But why mayn't I wait for Sue?" said Connie. "No," said Giles in a faint tone; "I'm too tired--I'm sort o' done up, Connie--an' I can't listen, even to dear Sue axin' yer dozens and dozens o' questions. You go 'ome now, an' come back ef yer like later on, w'en Sue 'ull be 'ome and I'll ha' broke the news to her. She knows she must be very quiet in the room with me, Connie." So Connie agreed to this; first of all, however, placing a glass with a little milk in it by Giles's side. She then returned to her own room, hoping that she might find her father there before her. He was not there; his place was empty. Connie, however, was not alarmed, only it had struck her with a pang that if he really loved her half as much as she loved him he would have come on that first evening after her return. She spent a little time examining the room and putting it into ship-shape order, and then suddenly remembered that she herself was both faint and hungry. She set the kettle on, therefore, to boil, and made herself some tea. There was a hunch of bread and a piece of cold bacon in the great cupboard, which in Connie's time was generally stored with provisions. She said to herself: "I must ax father for money to buy wittles w'en he comes in." And then she made a meal off some of the bacon and bread, and drank the sugarless and milkless tea as though it were nectar. She felt very tired from all she had undergone; and as the time sped by, and Big Ben proclaimed the hours of seven, eight, and nine, she resolved to wait no longer for her father. She hoped indeed, he would not be tipsy to-night but she resolved if such were the case, and he again refused to receive her, to go to Mrs. Anderson and beg for a night's lodging. First of all, however, she would visit Giles and Sue. Giles would have told Sue the most exciting part of the story, and Sue would be calm and practical and matter-of-fact; but of course, at the same time, very, very glad to see her. Connie thought how lovely it would be to get one of Sue's hearty smacks on her cheek, and to hear Sue's confident voice saying: "You _were_ a silly. Well, now ye're safe 'ome, you'll see as yer stays there." Connie thought no words would be quite so cheerful and stimulating to hear as those matter-of-fact words of Sue's. She soon reached the attic. She opened the door softly, and yet with a flutter at her heart. "Sue," she said. But there was no Sue in the room; only Giles, whose face was very, very white, and whose gentle eyes were full of distress. "Come right over 'ere, Connie," he said. She went and knelt by him. "Ye're not well," she said. "Wot ails yer?" "Sue ain't come 'ome," he answered--"neither Sue nor any tidin's of her. No, I ain't frightened, but I'm--I'm lonesome, like." "In course ye're not frightened," said Connie, who, in the new _rôle_ of comforter for Giles, forgot herself. "I'll set with yer," she said, "till Sue comes 'ome. W'y, Giles, anythink might ha' kep' her." "No," said Giles, "not anythink, for she were comin' 'ome earlier than usual to-night, an' we was to plan out 'ow best to get me a new night-shirt, an' Sue herself were goin' to 'ave a evenin' patchin' her old brown frock. She were comin' 'ome--she 'ad made me a promise; nothin' in all the world would make her break it--that is, _ef_ she could 'elp herself." "Well, I s'pose she couldn't 'elp herself," said Connie. "It's jest this way. They keep her in over hours--they often do that at Cheadle's." "They 'aven't kep' 'er in to-night," said Giles. "Then wot 'ave come to her?" "I dunno; only Big Ben----" "Giles dear, wot _do_ yer mean?" "I know," said Giles, with a catch in his voice, "as that blessed Woice comforts me; but there! I must take the rough with the smooth. 'E said w'en last 'e spoke, 'In all their affliction 'E were afflicted.' There now! why did those words sound through the room unless there _is_ trouble about Sue?" Connie argued and talked, and tried to cheer the poor little fellow. She saw, however, that he was painfully weak, and when ten o'clock struck from the great clock, and the boy--his nerves now all on edge--caught Connie's hand, and buried his face against it, murmuring, "The Woice has said them words agin," she thought it quite time to fetch a doctor. "You mustn't go on like this, Giles," she said, "or yer'll be real ill. I'm goin' away, and I'll be back in a minute or two." She ran downstairs, found a certain Mrs. Nelson who knew both Sue and Giles very well, described the state of the child, and begged of Mrs. Nelson to get the doctor in. "Wull, now," said that good woman, "ef that ain't wonnerful! Why, Dr. Deane is in the 'ouse this very blessed minute attending on Hannah Blake, wot broke her leg. I'll send him straight up to Giles, Connie, ef yer'll wait there till he comes. Lor, now!" continued Mrs. Nelson, "w'y hever should Sue be so late--and this night, of all nights?" Connie, very glad to feel that the doctor was within reach, returned to the boy, who now lay with closed eyes, breathing fast. Dr. Deane was a remarkably kind young man. He knew the sorrows of the poor, and they all loved him, and when he saw Giles he bent down over the little fellow and made a careful examination. He then cheered up the boy as best he could, and told him that he would send him a strengthening medicine, also a bottle of port-wine, of which he was to drink some at intervals, and other articles of food. "Wen 'ull Sue come back?" asked Giles of the doctor. "Can't tell you that, my dear boy. Your sister may walk in at any minute, but I am sure this little friend will stay with you for the night." "Yus, if I may let father know," said Connie. "You mustn't fret, Giles; that would be very wrong," said the doctor. He then motioned Connie on to the landing outside. "The boy is ill," he said, "and terribly weak--he is half-starved. That poor, brave little sister of his does what she can for him, but it is impossible for her to earn sufficient money to give him the food he requires. I am exceedingly sorry for the boy, and will send him over a basket of good things." "But," said Connie, her voice trembling, "is he wery, wery ill?" "Yes," said the doctor--"so ill that he'll soon be better. In his case, that is the best sort of illness, is it not? Oh, my child, don't cry!" "Do yer mean that Giles is goin'--goin' right aw'y?" whispered Connie. "Right away--and before very long. It's the very best thing that could happen to him. If he lived he would suffer all his life. He won't suffer any more soon. Now go back to him, and cheer him all you can." Connie did go back. Where had she learnt such wonderful self-control--she who, until all her recent trials, had been rather a selfish little girl, thinking a good deal of her pretty face and beautiful hair, and rebelling when trouble came to her? She had chosen her own way, and very terrible trials had been hers in consequence. She had learned a lesson, partly from Ronald, partly from Big Ben, partly from the words of her little Giles, whom she had loved all her life. For Giles's sake she would not give way now. "Set you down, Connie--right here," said Giles. She sat down, and he looked at her. "Wot do doctor say?" said Giles. "Oh, that ye're a bit weakly, Giles. He's goin' to send yer a basket o' good wittles." Giles smiled. Then he held out his shadowy little hand and touched Connie. "Niver mind," he said softly; "I know wot doctor said." A heavenly smile flitted over his face, and he closed his eyes. "It won't be jest yet," he said. "There'll be plenty o' time. Connie, wull yer sing to me?" "Yus," said Connie, swallowing a lump in her throat. "Sing ''Ere we suffer.'" Connie began. How full and rich her voice had grown! She remembered that time when, out in the snow, she had sung--little Ronald keeping her company: "Here we suffer grief and pain, Here we meet to part again, In Heaven we part no more. Oh! that will be joyful, When we meet to part no more." The words of the hymn were sung to the very end, Giles listening in an ecstasy of happiness. "Now, 'Happy Land,'" he said. Connie sang: "There is a Happy Land, Far, far away, Where saints in glory stand, Bright, bright as day." The second hymn was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, who brought a bottle of medicine and a large basket. The contents of the basket were laid on the table--a little crisp loaf of new bread, a pat of fresh butter, half a pound of tea, a small can of milk, a pound of sugar, half-a-dozen new-laid eggs, and a chicken roasted whole, also a bottle of port-wine. "Now then," said Connie, "look, Giles--look!" The messenger took away the basket. Even Giles was roused to the semblance of appetite by the sight of the tempting food. Connie quickly made tea, boiled an egg, and brought them with fresh bread-and-butter to the child. He ate a little; then he looked up at her. "You must eat, too, Connie. Why, you _be_ white and tired!" Connie did not refuse. She made a small meal, and then, opening the bottle of wine with a little corkscrew which had also been sent, kept the precious liquid in readiness to give to Giles should he feel faint. Eleven o'clock rang out in Big Ben's great and solemn voice. Connie was very much startled when she heard the great notes; but, to her surprise, Giles did not take any notice. He lay happy, with an expression on his face which showed that his thoughts were far away. "Connie," he said after a minute, "be yer really meanin' to spend the night with me?" "Oh yus," said Connie, "ef yer'll 'ave me." "You've to think of your father, Connie--he may come back. He may miss yer. Yer ought to go back and see him, and leave him a message." "I were thinking that," said Connie; "and I won't be long. I'll come straight over here the very minute I can, and ef Sue has returned----" "Sue won't come back--not yet," said Giles. "Why, Giles--how do you know?" "Jesus Christ told me jest now through the Woice o' Big Ben," said the boy. "Oh Giles--wot?" "'E said, 'Castin' all your care on God, for He careth for you.' I ha' done it, and I'm not frettin' no more. Sue's all right; God's a-takin' care of her. I don't fret for Sue now, no more than I fretted for you. But run along and tell your father, and come back." Connie went. At this hour of night the slums of Westminster are not the nicest place in the world for so pretty a girl to be out. Connie, too, was known by several people, and although in her old clothes, and with her hair fastened round her head, she did not look nearly so striking as when Mammy Warren had used her as a decoy-duck in order to pursue her pickpocket propensities, yet still her little face was altogether on a different plane from the ordinary slum children. "W'y, Connie," said a rough woman, "come along into my den an' tell us yer story." "Is it Connie Harris?" screamed another. "W'y, gel, w'ere hever were yer hall this time? A nice hue and cry yer made! Stop 'ere this minute and tell us w'ere yer ha' been." "I can't," said Connie. "Giles is bad, and Sue ain't come 'ome. I want jest to see father, and then to go back to Giles. Don't keep me, neighbors." Now, these rough people--the roughest and the worst, perhaps, in the land--had some gleams of good in them; and little Giles was a person whom every one had a soft word for. "A pore little cripple!" said the woman who had first spoken.--"Get you along at once, Connie; he's in." "I be sorry as the cripple's bad, and Sue not returned," cried another. "I 'ope Sue's not kidnapped too. It's awful w'en folks come to kidnappin' one's kids." While the women were talking Connie made her escape, and soon entered her father's room. She gave a start at once of pleasure and apprehension when she saw him there. Was he drunk? Would he again turn her out into the street? She didn't know--she feared. Peter Harris, however, was sober. That had happened in one short day which, it seemed to him, made it quite impossible for him ever to drink again. He looked at Connie with a strange nervousness. "Wull," he said, "you _be_ late! And 'ow's Giles?" He did not dare to ask for Sue. His hope--for he had a hope--was that Sue had come back without ever discovering the locket which he had transferred to her pocket. In that case he might somehow manage to get it away again without her knowing anything whatever with regard to his vile conduct. If God was good enough for that, why, then indeed He was a good God, and Harris would follow Him to his dying day. He would go to the preacher and tell him that henceforth he meant to be a religious, church-going man, and that never again would a drop of drink pass his lips. He had spent an afternoon and evening in the most frightful remorse, but up to the present he had not the most remote intention of saving Sue at his own expense. If only she had escaped unsuspected, then indeed he would be good; but if it were otherwise he felt that the very devils of hell might enter into his heart. "'Ow's Giles? 'Ow did he take yer comin' 'ome again, wench?" "Oh father," said Connie, panting slightly, and causing the man to gaze at her with wide-open, bloodshot eyes, "Giles is wery, wery bad--I 'ad to send for the doctor. 'E come, and 'e said--ah! 'e said as 'ow little Giles 'ud soon be leavin' us. I can't--can't speak on it!" Connie sat down and covered her face with her hands. Harris drew a breath at once of relief and suspicion. He was sorry, of course, for little Giles; but then, the kid couldn't live, and he had nothing to do with his death. It was Sue he was thinking about. Of course Sue was there, or Connie would have mentioned the fact of her not having returned home. Connie wept on, overcome by the strange emotions and experiences through which she had so lately passed. "Connie," said her father at last, when he could bear the suspense no longer, "Sue must be in great takin'--poor Sue!" "But, father," said Connie, suddenly suppressing her tears, "that's the most dreadful part of all--Sue ain't there!" "Not there? Not to 'ome?" thundered Harris. "No, father--she ha' niver come back. It's goin' on for twelve o'clock--an' Giles expected her soon arter six! She ain't come back, 'ave Sue. Wottever is to be done, father?" Harris walked to the fire and poked it into a fierce blaze. Then he turned his back on Connie, and began to fumble with his neck-tie, tightening it and putting it in order. "Father," said Connie. "Wull?" "Wot are we to do 'bout Sue?" "She'll be back come mornin'." "Father," said Connie again, "may I go and spend the night 'long o' Giles? He's too weakly to be left." "No," said Harris; "I won't leave yer out o' my sight. Ef there's kidnappin' about an' it looks uncommon like it--you stay safe within these four walls." "But Giles--Giles?" said Connie. "I'll fetch Giles 'ere." "Father! So late?" "Yus--why not? Ef there's kidnappin' about, there's niver any sayin' w'en Sue may be back. I'll go and fetch him now, and you can get that sofy ready for him; he can sleep on it. There--I'm off! Sue--God knows wot's come o' Sue; but Giles, e' sha'n't want." Harris opened the door, went out, and shut it again with a bang. Connie waited within the room. She was trembling with a strange mixture of fear and joy. How strange her father was--and yet he was good too! He was not drunk to-night. That was wonderful. It was sweet of him to think of bringing Giles to Connie's home, where Connie could look after him and give him the best food, and perhaps save his life. Children as inexperienced as Connie are apt to take a cheerful view even when things are at their lowest. Connie instantly imagined that Giles in his new and far more luxurious surroundings would quickly recover. She began eagerly to prepare a place for him. She dragged a mattress from her own bed, and managed to put it on the sofa; then she unlocked a trunk which always stood in the sitting-room; she knew where to find the key. This trunk had belonged to her mother, and contained some of that mother's clothing, and also other things. Connie selected from its depths a pair of thin and very fine linen sheets. These she aired by the fire, and laid them over the mattress when they were quite warm. There was a blanket, white and light and very warm, which was also placed over the linen sheets; and a down pillow was found which Connie covered with a frilled pillow-case; and finally she took out the most precious thing of all--a large crimson and gold shawl, made of fine, fine silk, which her mother used to wear, and which Connie dimly remembered as thinking too beautiful for this world. But nothing was too beautiful for little Giles; and the couch with its crimson covering was all ready for him when Harris reappeared, bearing the boy in his arms. "I kivered him up with his own blanket," he said, turning to Connie. "Ain't that sofy comfor'ble to look at? You lie on the sofa, sonny, an' then yer'll know wot it be to be well tended." Little Giles was placed there, and Connie prepared a hot bottle to put to his feet, while Harris returned to the empty room to fetch away the medicine and get the things which Dr. Deane had ordered. He left a message, too, with Mrs. Nelson, telling her what had become of the boy, and asking Dr. Deane to call at his house in the future. "You be a good man," said Mrs. Nelson in a tone of great admiration. "My word, now! and ain't it lucky for the kid? You be a man o' money, Mr. Harris--he'll want for nothing with you." "He'll want for nothing no more to the longest day he lives," answered Harris. "Ah, sir," said Mrs. Nelson, "he--he won't live long; he'll want for nothing any more, sir, in the Paradise of God." "Shut up!" said Harris roughly. "Ye're all with yer grumblin's and moans jest like other women." "And what message am I to give to Sue--poor girl--when she comes 'ome?" called Mrs. Nelson after him. But Harris made no reply to this; only his steps rang out hard and firm and cruel on the frosty ground. CHAPTER XXII. NEWS OF SUE. The next morning, when Connie awoke, she remembered all the dreadful things that had happened. She was home again. That strange, mysterious man, Simeon Stylites, had let her go. How awful would have been her fate but for him! "He were a wery kind man," thought Connie. "And now I must try to forget him. I must never mention his name, nor think of him no more for ever. That's the way I can serve him best--pore Mr. Simeon! He had a very genteel face, and w'en he spoke about his little sister it were real touching. But I mustn't think of him, for, ef I do, some day I might let his name slip, an' that 'ud do him a hurt." Connie's thoughts, therefore, quickly left Simeon Stylites, Agnes Coppenger, Freckles, Nutmeg, and Corkscrew, and returned to the exciting fact that Sue was now missing, and that Giles was under her own father's roof. She sprang out of bed, and quickly dressing herself, entered the general sitting-room. She was surprised to find that her father had taken his breakfast and had gone; that Giles was sitting up, looking very pretty, with his little head against the white pillow, and the crimson and gold shawl covering his couch. "Why, Connie," he said, the minute he saw her, "wot a silly chap I wor yesterday! It's all as plain now as plain can be--I know everything now." "Wottever do you mean?" said Connie. "But don't talk too much, Giles, till I ha' got yer yer breakfast." "Bless yer!" said Giles, with a weak laugh, "I ha' had my breakfast an hour and a half ago--yer father guv it to me. He be a wery kind man." "My father guv you your breakfast?" said Connie. She felt that wonders would never cease. Never before had Harris been known to think of any one but himself. "Set down by me, Connie; you can't do naught for your breakfast until the kettle boils. I'll tell yer now w'ere Sue is." "Where?" asked Connie. "Oh Giles! have yer heard of her?" "Course I 'ave--I mean, it's all as clear as clear can be. It's only that Sue 'ave more money than she told me 'bout, and that she's a-tryin' to give me my 'eart's desire." "Your 'eart's desire, Giles?" "Yus--her an' me 'ave always 'ad our dream; and dear Sue--she's a-makin' it come to pass, that's all. It's as plain as plain can be. She's a-gone to the country." "To the country? Oh no, Giles; I don't think so. Wottever 'ud take her to the country at this time o' year?" "It's there she be," said Giles. "She knew as I wanted dreadful to 'ear wot it were like, an' she 'ave gone. Oh Connie, you went to the country; but she didn't guess that. She ha' gone--dear Sue 'ave--to find out all for herself; an' she thought it 'ud be a rare bit of a s'prise for me. I must make the most of it w'en I see her, and ax her about the flowers and everything. She's sartin to be back to-day. Maybe, too, she could get work at plain sewin' in the country; an' she an' me could live in a little cottage, an' see the sun in the sky, and 'ear the birds a singin'. It's a'most like 'eaven to think of the country--ain't it, Connie?" "Yus," said Connie, "the country's beautiful; but wicked people come out o' Lunnon to it, an' then it's sad. An' there's no flowers a-growin' in the fields and 'edges in the winter, Giles--an' there's no birds a-singin'." "Oh! but that 'ull come back," said Giles. "You can eat yer breakfast now, Connie, an' then arter that we'll talk more about the country. You _ain't_ goin' to work to-day--be you, Connie?" "Oh no," said Connie; "I ha' lost that place, an' I dunno w'ere to find another. But there's no hurry," she added, "and I like best now to be along o' you." Connie then ate her breakfast, and Giles lay with his eyes closed and a smile of contentment on his face. In the course of the morning there came an unlooked-for visitor. A funny-looking, red-haired boy entered the room. Seeing Giles asleep, he held up his finger warningly to Connie, and stealing on tiptoe until he got opposite to her, he sat down on the floor. "Wull, an' wottever do yer want?" asked Connie. "Hush!" said the red-haired boy. He pointed to Giles. This action on the part of a total stranger seemed so absurd to Connie that she burst out laughing. The red-haired boy never smiled. He continued to fix his round, light-blue eyes on her face with imperturbable gravity. "Wull," he exclaimed under his breath, "ef she ain't more of a Cinderella than t' other! Oh, wouldn't the Prince give _her_ the glass slipper! Poor, poor Cinderella at 'ome! _you've_ no chance now. Ain't she jest lovely! I call her hangelic! My word! I could stare at that 'ere beauteous face for hiver." As these thoughts crept up to the fertile brain of Pickles his lips moved and he nodded his head, so that Connie really began to think he was bewitched. "Wottever do you want?" she whispered; and, fortunately for them both, at that juncture Giles stirred and opened his eyes. "That's right!" cried Pickles. "Now I can let off the safety-valve!" He gave a sigh of relief. "Whoever's he?" asked Giles, looking from the red-faced boy to Connie. But before she had time to reply, Pickles sprang to his feet, made a somersault up and down the room, then stood with his arms akimbo just in front of Giles. "I'm glad as you hintroduced the word 'he,' young un; hotherwise, from the looks of yer both, you seems to liken me to a monster. Yer want to know who's _he_? He's a boy--a full-grown human boy--something like yerself, only not so flabby by a long chalk." "But wot did you want? and wot's yer name, boy?" said Connie, who could not help laughing again. "Ah!" said Pickles, "now ye're comin' to the p'int o' bein' sensible, young 'oman. I thought at first you could only drop hangelic speeches, an' that you 'ailed from the hangel spheres; but now I see ye're a gel--oh, quite the very purtiest I hiver laid heyes on. Now, as I've spoke my true mind, I'll hanswer yer questions in a discreet an' pious manner. My name is Pickles--Pickles, at yer sarvice." "I never heered such a name in all my life," said Connie. "Wery like not. I were christened by the proper name o' James; but no James as ever walked 'ud hold me--it didn't fit no w'y; an' Pickles did. So Pickles I am, an' Pickles I'll be to the end o' the chapter. Now, as to wot I wants--w'y; I wants a talk with that mealy-faced chap wot looks as if I'd heat him up alive." "No, I don't," said Giles. "I were only thinking as you 'ad the wery reddest 'air I iver see'd in my life." "Personal remarks air considered ill-mannered, young man. And let me tell yer as my hair's my special glory. But now to business. You can't know, I guess, wot I wants yer for." "No, I can't," said Giles. "That's rum; and I to tike the trouble not only to wisit yer own most respectable mansion, but to foller yer 'ere in the true sperrit of kindness." "Ye're wery good; but I can't guess wot ye're up to," answered Giles. "Dear, dear! the silliness o' folks! Now, w'en a stranger seeks yer hout, isn't it safe to s'pose as he brings news?" "Wull, yes." "Next clue--shall I 'elp yer a bit? You 'asn't, so to speak, lost something lately--thimble, or a pair of scissors, or something o' that sort?" "Oh, it's Sue! It's my darling Sue;" exclaimed Giles, a light breaking all over his face. "'As yer brought news of Sue, boy?" "Be Sue a thimble, scissors, or a gel?" "Oh! a gel, in course--my own dear, dear, only sister." "A little, fat, podgy kind o' woman-gel, wid a fine crop o' freckles and sandy hair?" "Yes, yes; that's she. I have bin waiting fur her hall night. Where is she? Please, please, Pickles, where is she?" "Well, can't yer guess? Where 'ud she be likely ter be? She worn't a wandering sort o' gel, as neglected her home duties, wor she?" "Oh no! she never stayed out in hall her life afore." "She worn't, so to speak, a gel as wor given to pilfer, and might be tuk to cool herself in the lock-up." "Never--never! Sue 'ud sooner die than take wot worn't her own; and I wish I wor strong enough to punch yer head fur thinkin' sech a thing," said Giles, his face now crimson with indignation. "Well, softly, softly, young un; I didn't say as she _did_ pilfer. I think that 'ere podgy gel as honest as the day. But now, can't yer guess where she his?" "Oh yes! I can guess wery well," answered Giles, his face softening down. "I guessed long ago--didn't I, Connie?" "Well, now, wot hever did yer guess?" asked Pickles, in some amazement. "Oh! there wor but one thing to guess. There were one dream as Sue and I were halways dreaming, and she have gone off widout me at last, to see wot it wor like. She'll be back hany moment, arter she have seen and found hout hall she could. Sue have gone to the country, Pickles." "Oh, my heyes! to the country!" exclaimed Pickles. His face grew crimson, and he was obliged to leave his seat and walk to the window, where he remained with his back to the others for nearly a minute, and where he indulged in some smothered mirth. When he turned round, however, he was as grave as a judge. "You _are_ clever," he said to Giles. "I'm right, ain't I?" asked Giles. "In course; you're always as right as a trivet." "Oh, I'm so glad! And does she find it wery beautiful?" "Scrumptious! fairy-like! scrumptious!" "Oh, how happy I am! And when 'ull she be back?" "Well, that's the part as may moderate your raptures; she can't exactly tell when. She sent me to tell yer as she don't exactly know. It may be to-morrow; or, agen, it mayn't be fur a week, or even more. She's hever so sorry, and she sends yer a whole pocketful o' love, but she can't tell when she'll get back." "But what is she stayin fur?" "Oh! my heyes! wot is she staying fur? You wants ter live in a cottage in the country, don't yer?" "Why, yes, that's hour dream." "Well, ha'n't she to find hout wot the price o' them are? Ha'n't she, stoo-pid?" "I s'pose so. Is that what she's staying fur?" Pickles nodded. "You don't never tell no lies, do you, boy?" "I! Wot do yer take me fur? You can b'lieve me or not as yer pleases." "Oh! I do b'lieve yer. Will yer take a message back to Sue?" "Why, in course." "Tell her to have two rooms in the cottage, and plenty o' flowers hall round, and a big winder where I can look hout at the stars when I can't sleep o' nights." "Yes, I'll tell her faithful. Hanythink else?" "Tell her as I love to think as she's in the country, but to come back as fast as she can; and give--give her my wery best love. And you wouldn't like to give her a kiss fur me?" "Oh! my heye! yere's a rum go. Fancy me a-kissing Cind--I means Sue. No, young un, I hasn't the wery least hobjection in life. I'll give her two resounding smacks the wery minute as I sees her. Lor'! it will be fine fun. Now, good-bye. I'll come and see yer soon agen.--Good-bye, my beauty. I only wishes as it wor _you_ I wor axed ter kiss.--Good-bye, Giles. I'll remember wot yer said 'bout that 'ere cottage." "Be sure as the winders is big enough fur me to see the stars," called out Giles after him. CHAPTER XXIII. AMATEUR DETECTIVE. Mrs. Price had been blessed by nature with two sons, each as different in manners, disposition, appearance, and tastes as the poles. William, aged twenty, was dark, quiet-looking, with a grave and kind face. In disposition he was as fine a fellow as ever breathed, thoughtful for others, good to all, doing his duty because he loved and feared both God and his mother. He was very reserved, and seldom spoke, but when he did give utterance to his thoughts they were to the point and worth listening to. Mrs. Price was often heard to say that the mere presence of her elder son in the room gave her a sense of repose, that she felt that she had some one to lean on--which in truth she had. James, her second and younger son, had not one of his brother's characteristics; he had no gentle courtesies, no quiet ways. Except when asleep, he was never known to be still for a moment. One glance at his fiery head, at his comical face, would show plainly that he was a very imp of mischief. He was kind-hearted--he would not willingly injure the smallest living thing--but his wild, ungovernable spirit, his sense of the ludicrous in all and every circumstance, made him sometimes do unintentional harm, and his mother had some difficulty in getting him out of the scrapes into which he was always putting himself. No work he had ever done had so delighted the boyish heart of James Price, _alias_ Pickles, as the capture of Sue from the hands of the police. The whole story had a certain flavor about it which would be sure to captivate such a nature as his. Sue was innocent; he was quite certain of that. But then, as certainly some one else was guilty. Here, then, was a work after his own heart; he would find out who the guilty party was. He had a great deal of the detective about him; indeed, he had almost resolved to join that body when he was grown-up. He had brought Sue to his mother; and his mother, too, believing in the girl's innocence, was yet much puzzled how to advise her or what to do with her. Sue, being thoroughly drilled and frightened into such a course by Pickles, had declared that nothing would induce her to go home; for that if she did she would certainly be taken to prison, and found guilty of a crime of which she was quite innocent. Mrs. Price, too, felt that she could not counsel Sue to go back, though the agony of the poor girl, when she thought of Giles waiting and longing for her, was sad to witness. To comfort her a little, Pickles went to see Giles, being warned by Sue on no account to tell him the truth, which would, she said, absolutely and at once break his heart. Pickles, winking profoundly, told her to leave it to him. He went, and Giles himself supplied him with an idea on which he was not slow to work. Giles was fully persuaded that Sue was in the country, and might not return for some days. He seemed more pleased than otherwise that she should be so employed. Pickles was so delighted with his own success that he danced a kind of hornpipe all the way home. He found Sue by herself and very disconsolate, for Mrs. Price had gone out on some errands. The first thing he did was to go up to her and give her two very fierce salutes, one on her brow, the other on the point of her chin. "There, now," he said; "that 'ere little tender brother sent yer them." "Oh Pickles! how is he? Is he wery cut up?" asked poor Cinderella, raising a tearful face. "Cut up? Not a bit o' him! Why, he's quite perky; he think as you has gone to the country." "Oh Pickles! how hever could he?" "Well, listen, and I'll tell yer." Pickles here related his whole interview, not forgetting to reproduce in full all his own clever speeches, and his intense admiration for Connie. "I'd do a great deal fur _you_, Cinderella," he said in conclusion; "fur though ye're as ordinary a woman as I hiver met, yet still yer belongs to the species, and I has a weakness fur the species; but oh, lor'! ef it had been that 'ere Connie, why, I'd have a'most spilt my life-blood fur that hangelic creature." "Well, yer see, it wor only me," said Sue, not a little piqued. "Yes, it wor only you. But now, wot do you think of it all?" "Oh! I'm wery glad and thankful that Giles is wid Connie. He wor halways fond of Connie, and I'm real pleased as he thinks as I'm gone to the country--that 'ull satisfy him ef hanythink will, fur he have sech a longing fur it, poor feller! But oh, Pickles! I do hope as you didn't tell him no lies, to make him so keen upon it." "No--not I. I only nodded and made-believe as he wor clever. No, I wor careful o' the utterances o' the tongue, which is an unruly member." "Well, I'm glad," said Sue. "I only hope as it ain't wrong to deceive him." "No, it ain't a bit wrong; don't you go a fussing about nothink. But now you have got to listen to me, fur I have got something most serious to talk over." "I'll listen," replied Sue. "Good! And wot little bit o' brain you have you may stick inter the listening, too, fur you will presently have to think a deal." "Wery well," answered Sue, who had long ago come to consider Pickles the greatest oracle she had ever seen. Pickles planted himself on his knees in front of her, and having placed one hand firmly on each leg, bent forward until he brought himself into what he considered a telling position with regard to her face. "Ef yer want to unearth a secret, stare 'em well right inter the heyes," was one of his detective principles. "Now, Cinderella," he began, "you say as ye're hinnercent o' that 'ere theft?" "You know I am," answered Sue. "And yet that 'ere wauluable trinket wor found in yer pocket." "Well, I can't help that." "I'm afraid yer can't, Cinderella; and a wery ugly business it is fur yer; it 'ud bring yer in guilty in hany court wot hiver." "I know that, Pickles--I know that only too well; that's why I'm here." "An' you must stay yere until ye're proved hinnercent." "Yes." "Well, that may be awkward--not fur us, but fur poor, little tender Giles. He thinks as ye're gone to the country, and I give him to understand as yer would not be back fur maybe a day or two. But he's hall on a quiver fur yer to come back now; he's hall on a tremble to know wot the country is like. He says ye're to get a cottage as have a big winder in it, fur he wants to see the stars o' nights. Now, I think by the looks o' Giles as he'll fade away wery quick ef yer don't come back soon." "Oh, I know it--I know it!" said Sue. "What shall I do? Ef I do go back I shall be tuk ter prison. Oh! oh! oh!" and she began to weep. "Don't cry, you silly! Cryin' never mended no broken bones. You dry your eyes and listen when the oracle speaks." "I will," said Sue, endeavoring to check her sobs. "Well then, yer hinnercence must be proved. The way to prove yer hinnercence is to find hout _who_ put that 'ere trinket in yer pocket." "Oh Pickles! I don't--I don't think hany one could be so wicked." "Bless yer, gel! yer hasn't gone about and seen life like me. 'Tis a wicked world, Cinderella. Some one put that locket in yer pocket; ef it worn't yerself, it wor another." "I don't know why hany one should do it," said Sue. "You leave that to me. The reason is a mystery; the person wot did it is a mystery; it remains fur this yere child"--giving his breast a great slap--"to unravel them both. Now, Cinderella, wot kind o' man wor that 'ere Peter Harris wot went wid yer to the shop?" "He wor a wery rough kind o' man," said Sue, "and he often drank. He wor in trouble jest then 'bout Connie. Connie is his daughter. She wor away fur a bit, and had come back, and he wanted to give her a ring, and, as I telled yer, we went inter the shop to buy her one." "And had that 'ere Harris much money?" "He didn't say as he hadn't; he gave a sovereign to pay fur the ring." "Don't yer think, Cinderella, as it wor _he_ put the locket in your pocket?" "Indeed I don't," answered Sue, in great indignation. "He wor a bit rough, and used to drink a good deal, but I never heerd mortal say as he worn't as honest a man as ever stepped. Besides, Pickles, he wor a friend to me, and I wor a friend to Connie, and even ef he wished to do something so desperate wicked he couldn't, fur I wor at the other side o' the shop a'most." "All the same," replied Pickles, shaking his fiery head, "I believe as he did it. 'Tis a desperate big mystery, but I means to clear it hup, so you leave it ter me, Cinderella." CHAPTER XXIV. MOTHER AND SON. That night Mrs. Price and her younger son had a conversation. "I do not want to send her away, Jamie," she said when they had discoursed with much interest for some time. "She shall and must stay here for the present; but it cannot go on always, for what would the poor little brother do? If Cinderella is the bread-winner, and Cinderella can earn no bread, the poor little fellow will starve." James Price, _alias_ Pickles, was looking very sober, even thoughtful. "It tuk a deal o' time to save hup, and 'tis rare and comforting to reflect on having it--but there's my half-crown," he said. "Bless you, my laddie! it will help a trifle, but half-a-crown won't feed the smallest eater for long." "Then, mother, you know I allow no one ter dictate ter me but you. Wot's to be done? Ere we to betray the hinnercent?" "No, my lad--no. I confess I am sorely puzzled." "But I ain't," said Pickles, who had knowingly brought his mother round to make this confession. "I ain't puzzled the least bit in life, fur I _know_ who is the real thief." "Now, Jamie, what do you mean?" "Mother, it were the man as went with Cinderella inter the shop; it wor he wot stole the locket and then put it inter her pocket. I don't know how he did it, nor why he did it, but I do know that _did_ do it." "Oh! my dear boy, in your love of mystery you are allowing your imagination to run away with you. I do not think any one would be so wicked." "Never you mind, mother; take it on trust as there's that much wickedness in this yer world. Be thankful ye're hout o' the way o' hearing o' what's disgusting to dwell on, but this yere is a mystery as must be cleared hup. How do you s'pose, mother, as the locket did get inter Cinderella's pocket?" "It may have slipped in as she stood by the counter." "Oh, come, mother! that 'ud go down wid no jury as hiver walked. No, no; b'lieve me as 'tis as I say; and wot's more, 'tis my business to prove the truth o' my thoughts. There's a mystery, but James Price, _alias_ Pickles, 'ull unravel it. You keep Cinderella fur a week yere, mother, and I'll engage as the guilty party confesses by the end o' that time." "I will keep the little girl as long as is necessary, Pickles. But do be careful. Do not allow your vivid imagination to make you unjust to others." "You leave it ter me, mother. You jest promise faithful to keep Cinderella fur a bit, and I'll do the rest." "Yes, Jamie," said Mrs. Price, "I certainly will make that promise." "That's a brick o' a mother. And now I'm off to bed, fur there's nothing like sleep when the brain is much exercised, as mine is at present." CHAPTER XXV. ABOUT RONALD. While poor Harris was trying to soothe the agonies of his conscience by being specially and extra good to Giles, and while Giles, who under Connie's care was recovering a certain measure of strength, and poor little Sue was still acting the part of Cinderella with Pickles as her champion, another child who plays an important part in this story was gradually recovering health and strength. When Ronald was well enough, to come downstairs, and then to walk across Mrs. Anderson's pretty little parlor, and on a certain fine day to go out with her for a walk, the good lady thought it was full time to make inquiries with regard to his relations. She questioned her son George on the subject, and this gallant young fireman gave her what advice he could. "No, don't employ detectives, mother," said George. "Somehow I hate the whole lot of them. Keep Ronald as long as you want to; he's a dear little chap, and a gentleman by birth, and he loves you too." "I want to keep him, George; the child is the greatest delight and comfort to me. He is very unlike other children--very sensitive and delicate. But I do think that if he has relations they ought to know of his whereabouts." "You have questioned him, of course, on the matter," said George Anderson. "No--not much; he hasn't been strong enough. I think, too, the severe illness he has undergone, and the terrible frights he has been subject to, have to a certain extent affected his mind; and beyond the fact that he is always looking for his father, and hoping that his father may walk in, he never talks about the old days." "Well, mother," said George, "I must be off now; duty time is close at hand." As he spoke he rose from the seat by the fire which he had been enjoying in his mother's room. "Of course, there is little doubt that Major Harvey is dead; but you could call at the War Office and inquire, mother, couldn't you?" "Yes, I could and will; and I won't employ detectives, my boy. You may be certain of one thing--that I don't want to part with the child." The next day after breakfast, Mrs. Anderson felt that it was time to question Ronald with regard to his past life. "You are quite well now, Ronald," she said. "Yes," said Ronald, "ever so strong. I feel brave, too," he added; "it would take a very great deal to frighten me now. A soldier's boy should be brave," he continued, that pleading, pathetic look coming into his dark eyes, which gave such a special charm to his little face. "This soldier's boy is very brave," said Mrs. Anderson, patting his little hand, as the child stood close to her. "My father was a V. C., ma'am," remarked Ronald in a soft tone. "You're very proud of that, Ronald--you have good reason to be," said his friend. "But now, dear, I seriously want to ask you a few questions. You have told me about Connie, and about some of your dreadful life with Mammy Warren. I am anxious that you should try to forget all these terrible things as much as possible." "Oh! but, please, I never could forget dear Connie." "I don't want you to forget her. I have been planning a delightful surprise for you with regard to her. But other things you can forget." "There's another person I don't want to forget," said Ronald; "that is the good woman in the country who gave me delicious new-laid eggs and chops and chicken. Mrs. Cricket was her name. I used to think of _The Cricket on the Hearth_ often when I was looking at her. She was very like one, you know--such a cosy, purring sort of woman." "How long were you with her, Ronald?" "I don't remember going to her," said Ronald, shaking his head; "but perhaps I was too ill. But I do remember being with her, and the little path in the wood, and how I gradually got better, and how she petted me. And I remember Connie coming down the path looking like an angel; but Connie was the only bright thing for me to think about that dreadful day. But oh, please--please, Mrs. Anderson! poor Mrs. Cricket! Father hasn't come back, you know--he is coming, of course, but he hasn't come yet--and no one has paid Mrs. Cricket!" "No one has paid her, dear?" "Nobody at all. Mammy Warren said to her that father would pay her, but I know now it must have been all a lie." "I am very much afraid it was," said Mrs. Anderson. "That Mammy Warren was a dreadful woman. Well, Ronald, I must try and get Mrs. Cricket's address, and we'll send her some money; and some day perhaps--there's no saying when--you may be able to go back to her. Would you like to see her again?" "Very, very much," said the child, "if Mammy Warren doesn't come to fetch me." "Very well: I will endeavor to get her address. Perhaps Connie could tell me." "Oh! perhaps she could," said Ronald; "for _I_ couldn't. I haven't a notion where she lived, except that it was far in the country, and the cottage was _teeny_--just two rooms, you know--and there was a pretty wood outside, and the horse-chestnuts lying on the ground." "But now, Ronald, I want you to go farther back. Tell me of things that happened when--when your mother was alive." "I--I'll try," said the boy. "Go on, dear--tell me all you can." "It's very difficult," said Ronald. "I remember little bits, and then I forget little bits." "I don't want you to worry yourself, dear; but can you recall anybody ever calling to see your mother--anybody who might be a relation of yours?" "There was the old gentleman, of course," said Ronald. "Who, dear?" "He was very old, and he wore glasses, and his hair was white. He most times made mother cry, so I--I used to be sorry when he came." "Can you recall his name?" "Mother used to call him Uncle Stephen; but he was not her relation--he was father's. I think he always scolded mother; she used to look dreadfully bad after he was gone. I don't want to see _him_ again." "But he may have had a kind heart." "Oh, I don't know," said Ronald. "I don't want to see him again." "Do you think, by chance, that his name was Harvey?" "I don't know. I think he in a sort of way belonged to father." "Then," said Mrs. Anderson, "I guess that his name was Harvey. Now, I won't question you any more, Ronald. You may sit up and play with your bricks." Ronald played happily enough, and Mrs. Anderson, after thinking for a few minutes, wrote out an advertisement. The advertisement ran as follows: "If a gentleman who was called Uncle Stephen by a little boy, son of the late Major Harvey, who was supposed to have been killed in action at Ladysmith on ----, would wish to know anything of the same boy, he can get full particulars from Mrs. Anderson, 12 Carlyle Terrace, Westminster." This advertisement was put into the _Times_, the _Standard_, the _Telegraph_, and in fact, into all the daily newspapers. It appeared once, and Mrs. Anderson sat--as she expressed it--with her heart in her mouth for a whole day. But nothing happened: nobody came to inquire; there was no letter on the subject of the little son of brave Major Harvey. On the second day of the advertisement Mrs. Anderson felt a great relief in her heart. "After I have advertised for a whole week," she said to herself, "I shall, I think, have done my duty, and perhaps I shall be allowed to keep the dear child." She had looked, and felt, very sad on the first day of the advertisement, but on the second day she was more cheerful, and suggested to Ronald that Connie should come and have tea with him. Ronald was delighted, and clapped his hands in glee. Mrs. Anderson wrote a little note to Connie, slightly blaming her for not coming to see her, but begging her to call that afternoon and have tea with Ronald. Connie was greatly delighted when she got the letter. "May I go, Giles? Do yer mind?" she asked. "In course not," answered Giles. "Why should I mind? Yer'll dress yerself in yer wery best, Connie, and I'll like well to look at yer afore yer goes out, an' w'en yer comes back." So Connie put on her dark-blue costume once more, and brushed out her mane of golden hair and let it hang down her back; for she knew that Ronald would scarcely recognize her deprived of this ornament. Then, having left his tea all ready for Giles, she ran quickly in the direction of Mrs. Anderson's house. She arrived there at four o'clock in the afternoon, to see a little face pressed up close to the pane of glass, and eager eyes watching for her. When she appeared on the steps little hands began to clap, and there was an eager rush of footsteps and then Ronald himself opened the door. "Oh Connie, Connie!" he said, "come in--do, do come in!" "How be yer, Ronald?" asked Connie. "I'm as well as well can be, and I'm happy, too. Mrs. Anderson is just a beautiful old lady, and so very good to me! But come and tell me all about yourself. You and I are to have tea all alone in this room. We will have fun. Why, Connie dear, how lovely you look!" Connie told Ronald that he also looked lovely, and the two children sat down side by side, while Ronald related the little bit of his story which had transpired since Connie saw him last. "I was very ill," he said, "for a bit, and silly, and--and cowardly. But a wonderful man came to see me, and he talked--oh, so beautifully!--and then I got better; and Mrs. Anderson has been more than good to me--no one was ever so good to me before except father. She tells me, Connie, that I must not keep looking out for father; for if he can come he will, and if he can't I've just got to wait with patience. The street preacher, too, talked about patience. It's a little bit hard to be very patient, isn't it, Connie?" "Yus," said Connie. "Oh! and, Connie, some day perhaps you and I may go and stay with Mrs. Cricket in the country, and Mrs. Anderson is going to send her money for the chickens and fresh eggs and things. But I can't remember where the country is--can you, Connie?" "We got out at a plice called Eastborough, an' the cottage wor a ivy cottage down a lane." "Ivy Cottage--of course!" said Ronald. "How stupid of me to have forgotten! Now it's all right, and dear Mrs. Cricket will get her money." When Ronald had told all his story Connie told all hers. In especial she told about Giles, and about poor Sue, who had vanished just as suddenly and completely as she (Connie) and Ronald himself on a certain day had disappeared from their friends. "It's very, very queer," said Ronald. "Connie," he added, "I want to see that little boy. Can't you take me back to him now--can't you?" "Yus," said Connie, "I could; but would it be right?" "We'll ask Mrs. Anderson," said Ronald, "I'm certain sure she won't mind. You know the way there; you won't let yourself be kidnapped any more, will you, Connie?" "No," said Connie. Then tea was brought in, and the children enjoyed it. But Ronald could think of nothing but Giles and his earnest desire to see him. Once again he begged and implored of Connie to take him, just to sit for a few minutes by the little cripple's side, and Connie again said that Mrs. Anderson ought to know. It was just at that moment that a cab drew up at the door, and out of the cab there stepped a white-headed old man, who came ponderously up the steps, leaning on a gold-headed stick. He rang the bell with a loud peal. Ronald began to listen. "Who can it be?" he said. He ran to the window, and looking out, saw the cab waiting; but he missed the sight of the old gentleman, whom doubtless he would have recognized; and the neat little parlor-maid went to open the door, and then the labored steps were heard in the hall, and the drawing-room door was opened and shut, and there was silence. "A visitor for my dear new aunty," said Ronald. "I always call her my aunty, and she likes it very much. Oh Connie, do take me just to see Giles! I know it isn't wrong, and I should be quite safe with you." "First of all," said Connie, "we'll ring the bell and ask if we may speak to Mrs. Anderson for a minute." "Very well," said Ronald; "only I 'spect she's busy with the person who has called." Anne came to answer the children's summons, and told them that her mistress was particularly engaged and could not be disturbed. "That's all right," answered Ronald; "you can go away now, please. You needn't take the tea-things just for a bit. You can go away, please, Anne." Anne, who was devoted to Ronald, thought that the children wanted to play together, and left them alone in the little parlor. The light was growing dim, and Connie poked the fire into a blaze. "I ought to be goin' back," she said. "Giles 'ull want me. I'll come another day, Ronald, and Mrs. Anderson'll let me bring yer back to Giles then." "No, no--to-day," said Ronald--"to-day--to-night--this minute. It isn't wrong. I must see him. You'll take me to see him, and then you'll bring me back, won't you, Connie?" "W'y, yus," said Connie. "I s'pose it ain't wrong; but you can't do more nor set down in the room for about five minutes, Ronald, for yer'll 'ave to get back 'ere quite early, you know." Ronald, delighted at any sort of consent on the part of his little friend, rushed upstairs to fetch his velvet cap and his little overcoat. But he forgot, and so did Connie, all about the thin house-shoes he was wearing. Soon he had slipped into the coat, and cramming the cap on his head and looking up at Connie with a gay laugh, said: "Now we'll come." They were in the hall, and had just opened the hall door, when suddenly that of the drawing-room was opened, and the old man, who helped himself along with a stick, came out. Ronald looked back and caught sight of him; but Ronald himself being in shadow, the old man did not notice him. The old man then spoke in a loud voice: "It is all settled, then, and I will call to-morrow morning at ten o'clock to fetch back the boy. Have him ready. And now, good-day to you, madam." But the old gentleman suddenly stopped as he uttered these words, for the hall door was slammed by some one else with violence, and Ronald turned a white face up to Connie. "It's himself--it's Uncle Stephen. He made mother cry and cry. I won't go back to him. I won't be his boy. Hide me--hide me, Connie!" Connie herself felt very much frightened. "Come along 'ome with me," she said. "He can't get yer at my 'ome. Don't shrink like that, Ronald. Be a man, dear Ronald." The children got back to Connie's rooms without any special adventure. There Giles was waiting with that peaceful look on his face which seemed more or less to quiet every one who came in his way. He smiled all over his little face when he saw Connie, and then his eyes grew big and surprised as he noticed the small boy who kept her company. "Why are yer back so soon, Connie?" he said. "I warn't not one little bit lonesome. And 'oo's he?" said Giles. "This is my dear little friend Ronald," said Connie. "And I wanted to see you awful bad," said Ronald, running up to Giles, flinging his cap on the floor, and kneeling down by him. "I have thought of you--oh, so much! It was you, you know, who taught me to endure to the end. Did Connie tell you about that?" "Yes," said Giles, "she told me." Ronald looked up at Connie. Giles watched the two, and then he held out his little hand and touched Ronald's. "You're wery brave," he said. "You had a brave father." "He is a V. C. man. He's coming to see me one day," said Ronald. "I know," said Giles. "It's real supporting to 'ave a brave father. I have one too." "Have you?" said Ronald. "And is he coming to see you one day?" "No--I'm goin' to 'im. Don't let's talk about it now." Ronald sat down on the side of Giles's crimson and gold bed, and glanced round the room. Connie lit a paraffin lamp and put it on the table. In his first excitement at seeing Giles, Ronald forgot the mad terror which had awakened in him at the sound of Uncle Stephen's voice. But now he remembered. "I have come to stay," he remarked emphatically. "Oh no, Ronald, you can't," exclaimed Connie. "I am not going back," exclaimed Ronald. "Giles, I needn't, need I? There's a dreadful man coming to-morrow, and he's going to take me away from my darling aunty. I won't go. I'll hide here with you, Giles." "Will yer?" said Giles. "That 'ull be real pain to yer aunty, won't it?" "Real pain?" said Ronald. "But Connie can tell her. Connie needn't say where I am. She can just tell that I heard Uncle Stephen's voice, and that I am hiding. I can't go back, can I, Giles--can I?" "Dunno," said Giles; but a wistful expression came into his face. "Why do you look like that?" asked Ronald. "Sometimes one 'as to do things one can't do," was Giles's next rather difficult remark. "But this is really silly," said Ronald, "for we can do the things we can do." "Course not--not by ourselves," said Giles. "But if we're to endure to the end, why, 'E'll help." "You remind me of that awful fire," said Ronald. He jumped up and walked across the room. His eyes were dim; his heart was beating with great rapidity, for he was still weak and had gone through much. Oh, that cruel, cruel old man who had made his mother cry so often! He thought upon him with a growing terror. Connie looked at Ronald, and then she glanced at Giles and her eyes said to Giles: "Help me all you can about Ronald." Then Giles called her to him. "Leave Ronald with me for a bit," he said. "Go back and tell Mrs. Anderson; but leave little Ronald with me." Connie immediately went out; but Ronald was so absorbed in trying to quiet his beating heart, and in trying to recover his courage, that he did not even know when she closed the door after her. Connie ran as quickly as she could all the way to Carlyle Terrace. There she rang a loud peal at the front door. It was Mrs. Anderson herself who opened it to her. "Oh Connie!" said the widow, "thank God! Have you brought news of Ronald? What _has_ happened, Connie--what _has_ happened?" Connie immediately entered the house. "May I speak to yer, ma'am?" she said. "Certainly; but where is the boy?" "He's quite safe, ma'am--he's with Giles." "Why did he go out? He did very wrong." "I did wrong too," said Connie. "I tuk him. He's frightened, ma'am. Ronnie's rare and frightened. He heered wot the old gentleman said." "How could he hear?" said Mrs. Anderson. Connie told. "'Tain't true, ma'am, is it?" said Connie. "Yer wouldn't niver, niver, let little Ronald go away?" "Yes, but I must. I am very sad. I wish I needn't send him; but the gentleman who called to-day is his father's uncle, and his nearest relation in the world. Connie, you must bring Ronald home. I will go with you myself to fetch him." "Oh, ma'am," said Connie, beginning to sob, "it 'ull break his 'eart." "No, Connie," answered Mrs. Anderson. "Hearts like Ronald's--brave and true and faithful--don't break; they endure. Besides that, the old gentleman--Mr. Harvey--will not be unkind to him; I am certain of that." So Connie and Mrs. Anderson returned side by side to the house where Giles and Ronald were waiting for them. When they entered they saw a picture which Mrs. Anderson could never forget: the dying boy, with his radiant face, lying on the bed half-supported by pillows, the crimson and gold coverlet making a wonderful patch of color; and Ronald, the tears still wet on his cheeks, but his eyes very bright, his lips firm, his whole attitude that of a soldier's child. The moment he saw Mrs. Anderson he went up to her. "I am ashamed," he said. "Giles has told me the son of a V. C. man should not be a coward. It is all right--I am going back." Mrs. Anderson pressed the boy's hand. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me, Ronald," she said. Then she turned and talked a little longer to Giles. She saw how weak the child was, and knew, with a woman's perception, what a very little time longer he had to live in this old world. "My sister's in the country, ma'am," said Giles in his brightest manner. "She's looking for a little house for her an' me--two winders in our room--that's wot Sue an' me thought we 'ud like--and iverythink wery purty. Sue may be back any day. She's takin' a good bit of a time a-lookin' for the 'ouse; but she'll find it, an' then I'll go there." "But are you strong enough to be moved, Giles?" inquired Mrs. Anderson. "Yus," said Giles in his confident tone, "quite strong enough. I want to see the country, and to live in it for a spell, afore I go right 'ome to the best Country of all. Sue's lookin' out; she'll be back--oh, any day, for she knows the time's short." "Giles," said Connie, "you're too tired to talk any more." She gave the boy some of his restorative medicine, and Ronald went up and kissed him. "Don't forget," said Giles, "brave fathers----" "Not me!" answered Ronald. "Brave fathers for ever!" Then Ronald went away. Mrs. Anderson took his hand and led him back to the house. She did not scold him for going out with Connie. She did not mean to reproach him at all; he had made a great victory; she felt proud of him. When supper had come to an end she called the boy to her: "Ronald dear, I wish to say something. If you were a coward to-day, so was I." "You--my aunt?" said Ronald. "Oh no--no!" "Yes. I didn't want to part with you." Ronald shivered. "Won't you ever see me any more?" "I hope so. Mr. Harvey was very kind." "Is his name Harvey--same as mine?" "Yes, darling; he is your father's uncle, and your father lived with him in his old place in Somersetshire when he was a boy. He loved your father. He'll tell you lots of stories about him." "About when does he expect father home?" asked Ronald. "He doesn't know. Perhaps, Ronald--perhaps--never." But here Ronald gave himself a little shake. "I know father's coming back," he said--"feel it in my bones." There was silence then between the woman and the boy. After a long time Ronald spoke: "He made mother cry, all the same." "He told me about that. He wasn't really unkind to her. I, on the whole, like him, Ronald, and I think you can do a lot for him--I think your father would wish it." "Would he?" said Ronald, his eyes sparkling. "I think so. I expect God wants you to help him. He's a hard old man because he has no one to love him, but he did care for your father." Ronald flung his arms round Mrs. Anderson's neck and kissed her. That night it must be owned that he slept badly; and early--very early--in the morning he awoke. "Times is pretty bad," thought the boy to himself; "and there's lots o' battles round. But oh, Giles! brave fathers for ever! You and me won't disgrace our fathers, will we, Giles?" Then he got up and dressed himself, and went downstairs and waited until Mrs. Anderson arrived. As soon as she entered the room he said one word to her--"When?" "Ten o'clock," said Mrs. Anderson. It was eight o'clock then. "Two hours more," said Ronald. During those two hours he was very busy. He packed his bricks, and helped Mrs. Anderson to put his very scanty wardrobe into a very tiny trunk. The time went by. Ten o'clock struck, and, sharp to the minute, a cab drew up at the door. Out of the cab the old gentleman stepped. He entered the hall. He was a very fussy old man, and did not want a young child to live in the house with him. He expected, too, that Mrs. Harvey's boy--he had undoubtedly a great contempt for poor young Harvey--would be a miserable, dwindled, wretched sort of creature. But, lo and behold! a little chap with head well thrown back, his eyes bright and lips brave, stepped up to him. "Here I am, Uncle Stephen. I am Ronald. How do you do?" "Bless my soul!" said the old man. "Let me look at you." He drew the boy round so as to get the light on his face. "'Pon my word!" he said, "you are not the sort of little chap I expected. You're uncommon like your father." Ronald flushed with pride. Mr. Harvey came into the parlor and had a little talk with Mrs. Anderson. "I am indeed indebted to you, madam," he said. "This boy is so surprisingly like my nephew that I could almost fancy the years had gone back and I was teaching the little chap to take his first gallop.--Your father was game on a horse, my lad." "Yes, sir," said Ronald, nodding his head. "'Spect so, sir," he added. The old gentleman chucked him under the chin and uttered a laugh. "Well, boy, we must be going," he said. "We mustn't keep your kind friend. You will let me know, madam, for what I am indebted to you." "For nothing, sir," said Mrs. Anderson. A crimson color rushed into her face. "It has been a labor of love to help this dear little fellow. I could take no money; you mustn't even mention it, sir." "Well, madam--well--I respect your proper pride, and anything I can do---- By the way--eh, Ronald?--there's no saying, but I might invite your friend down to the country.--Do you know Somersetshire, madam?" "I used to know it very well when I was a girl. My people lived in Somersetshire." "Then perhaps you will come and pay us a visit, and see Ronald after he has learned the full use of the saddle and bridle--eh, Ronald?" "Oh--aunty! Will you come?" said Ronald. "I will, darling.--I should like it very much indeed, Mr. Harvey; it is most kind of you to ask me." "But please--please," said Ronald, who had suddenly lost all his fear, "may Connie come, too?" "Who's Connie?" "My special friend and sister." "Ho, ho!" said the old man. "I must hear more about her. Can make no rash promises. But all right, little chap; I'll do what I can for you. Now, if you had taken after---- Well, never mind--I won't say anything to hurt you." "And, please," said Ronald suddenly, "of course you wouldn't pay my aunty, for the things she did can't be paid for. But poor Mrs. Cricket--aunty, I know her address. The place in the country is called Eastborough; and it's Ivy Cottage, aunty; and--she was good to me----" "Yes," said Mrs. Anderson, "you'll let me explain, please, Mr. Harvey. This dear little boy spent a month at Mrs. Cricket's, and she was never paid a penny." "She ought to be paid," said Ronald. "Course, when father returns he'll pay you back again. But she ought to get it, for there was real new-laid eggs, and the chickens were so tender." "'Pon my word," said the old gentleman, "you're a queer boy! I guess you've got the true Harvey blood in you. Never neglect a friend--eh? And never owe a penny. Well now, madam, will you see to this? And what amount of money ought I to give you for the woman?" Mrs. Anderson named what she thought would be a correct sum, and immediately afterwards the old gentleman produced the money from his waistcoat pocket. It was a hard moment for Ronald when he said good-bye, but after he got into the cab he could not help feeling both surprised and elated. He could not help staring and staring at the old gentleman. "Was it your photograph," he said at last, "that my father kept in his dressing-room?" "I expect so," said the old gentleman. "It's surprising," said Ronald, "how I forget. But now I remember. He loved you--he used to talk to me about you. He said it was you taught him first to be brave." "Bless him--bless him!" said the old gentleman. His voice got a little raspy; it is certain that his eyes were a little dim. "Perhaps," said Ronald--he had a marvelous way of comprehending the situation--"but for you he would not have been a V. C. man." "God bless you! It was in himself--he had the noblest heart, the grandest nature! There, boy! don't upset me. 'Pon my word! I hated the thought of having you---- And I hated going to you," said Ronald; "but----" The old face looked into the young face, and the young face looked into the old face, and then they both laughed. Before they reached the old gentleman's hotel Ronald had so far advanced to a friendly footing that he had peered into the contents of the old man's pocket, had pulled out his watch, had applied it to his ear, and had even gone the amazing length of demanding one for himself. CHAPTER XXVI. TWO CUPS OF COFFEE. When Harris parted from Giles and Connie--on the very same day that Connie had gone to tea with Ronald, on the very same day that Ronald had visited Giles--he was as troubled and miserable as man could be. There was but one brave thing for him to do--he ought to confess his sin. Where Sue could be he had not the faintest idea. Why was she absent? It was days now since she had left her home--Sue, of all people--Sue, with a little delicate brother like Giles. It was unlike her to go. There could be but one reason. Harris had taken means to ascertain whether poor Sue had been up before the magistrates. He knew enough about the law, and about crime generally, to know that she would be taken up for theft to Bow Street; but beyond doubt she had never gone there. Where in all the world could she be? Harris was by no means sufficiently sorry to give himself up for conscience's sake; but he was in a state of nervousness and great distress of mind. As he walked down a side-street, his hands in his pockets, his rough fur cap--which he generally wore slouched--well off his eyes, he was suddenly accosted by a red-haired boy, who looked at him with a very innocent face and inquired meekly "ef he were lookin' for a job." "None o' yer sauce, youngster," said Harris, passing on. "I don't mean the least sauce in life, master," said the red-haired boy, still in the most humble and gentle tone. "I only thought ef we were goin' in the same direction we might p'rhaps cheer each other up." "You're a likely youngster, you ere," he said, looking down at him with the grimmest of smiles. "Yus, my mother says as I'm well grown for my hage," replied Pickles; and then, keeping pace with the tall man, he began to whistle softly. Harris returned to his interrupted thoughts, and soon forgot the small boy, who had to run to keep up with his long strides. Suddenly the little boy exclaimed in a shrill, eager treble: "I say, mister!" "Wot now, young 'un?" "You ain't of a wery obleeging turn, be yer? You couldn't help me, now, ter find a guilty party?" "You seems a wery rum chap," said Harris rather crossly. "I don't know nothink 'bout yer guilty parties. There, be off, can't yer!" "I'll be off in a twinkle, master. I ain't rum a bit; my mother allers said as I wor a real quiet boy; but when my heart is full to bustin' it seems a relief to talk to a body, and you, tho' yer puts on bein' fierce, have a kind nature." "Now, what hever do yer mean by that?" "Master, you must furgive a wery timid and heasily repulsed boy; but it ain't possible, even fur one so known to be frightened as me, to be feared of yer. I reads yer kindness in yer heyes, master, and so I makes bold to tell my tale o' woe." "Well, tell away," said Harris, who could not help laughing and looking a little less gruff than before. "You wouldn't be inclined, now, that we should have hour talk hover a pint of hot coffee? There's a heatin-house where the young man have took down the shutters and is dusting away in a manner as his real appetizing. I has fourpence in my pocket. You wouldn't mind my treating yer, jest fer once, would yer?" "Not in the least, youngster. I think it'll be a wery sensible use to put yer money to, and a deal more prudent than spending it in marbles or street plays." "Master, my mother don't allow me to play at marbles, or to hindulge in street wanities, so I has the money and can afford ter be generous. Now let's enter. I smells the coffee a-grinding hup fur hour breakfasts halready." So Harris and Pickles went in to the eating-house, where in a moment or two, over two steaming cups of excellent coffee, Pickles proceeded to unburden himself of his story. "It is only a few days agone, master, as the occurrence as distresses me happened. I wor walking along a certain street wot shall be nameless. I wor walking along bravely, as is my wont, and thinking of my mother, when I see'd a young gel a-flying past me. She wor a wery short, stout gel, and her legs they quite waggled as she ran. I never see'd a gel run so wery hard afore, and I pricked hup my senses to guess wot it hall meant. Soon wor the mystery explained. I heerd ahind of her the cry of 'Stop thief!' and a number of men and boys were a-giving of her chase. I thought as I'd run wid 'em and see what it hall meant. "Presently we shall come up wid the gel. There she wor in the arms of a policeman. He wor a-clutching of her, and trying to find hout wot wor the matter; but she wor so blown she couldn't speak fur a good bit. Then hup comes a man wot said as he had a pawnshop, and that inter the pawnshop had come a man and a gel ter buy a ring, and when they come hout there wor a diamond locket missing. He said as either the gel or the man 'ad tuk the locket; and as the man could not be found, he must get the policeman to search the gel. The poor fat gel, she looked quite scared, and said as she hadn't done it; but the nipper said as she must be searched, and he put in his hand inter her pocket and drew hout the diamond locket. She said as she had never put it there. But, in course, it worn't ter be expected as they'd believe her, so she were tuk orf ter prison. She wor tuk orf ter prison--I see'd her myself." Here Pickles paused. Nothing could have been more refined and delicate than the use he had made of his eyes during this narrative; only very quick and fleeting glances did he bestow upon his companion. When Harris at the commencement of his tale started and changed color, Pickles dropped a piece of bread, and stayed under the table looking for it until the man had quite recovered his composure. When his short story had come to an end he paused; then he said, still without bestowing more than the swiftest side-glance on Harris, "The poor fat gel were tuk orf to the lock-hup. But 'tis borne bin on me, master--'tis borne him on me, and I can't get no rest day nor night--as that yer gel were hinnercent. I believe as she never tuk the locket, and I think that ef ye're as kind-hearted as yer looks yer'll help me ter find that other guilty party." Harris rose to his feet. "Don't be a fool, lad," he said angrily. "I have no time ter give ter sech nonsense. I'm soory fur the gel, but ef she had the locket, of course she tuk the locket. There! I can waste no time. I'll pay fur my hown coffee. Good-morning." "Good-morning, master, and thank yer. I'm glad as ye're sorry fur the gel; she have a lame brother as must miss her, and her case 'ull go heavy, I fear. It seems as it might be a good work ter find the guilty party. I think as it wor the man as went with her inter the shop. I mean ter attend the trial, and I'll mention, ef permitted, my suspicions. But I won't keep yer longer. Sorry again as yer won't oblige me, I'll go home now and consult my mother." All the way back to Great Anvill Street, where Mrs. Price lived, Pickles danced a hornpipe. "I've nailed him at last," he said, chuckling and laughing and dancing all in one breath. "Now to put on the torture screw until he confesses! Oh Pickles, my boy, _wot_ a treasure you'll prove yerself in Scotland Yard!" CHAPTER XXVII. DELAYED TRIAL. It is quite true that Pickles had put on the torture screw. Harris felt exceedingly uncomfortable as he walked home. It was a fact, then, that Sue had been caught and put in prison. That disagreeable boy had seen it all; he had witnessed her rapid flight; he had heard her protestations of innocence; he had seen her carried off to prison. Sue, so good and brave and honest, would be convicted of theft and would have to bear the penalty of theft--of another's theft, not her own. What a foolish girl she had been to run away! Of course, it made her guilt seem all the plainer. There was not a loophole of escape for her. She was certain to be found guilty; probably to-day she would be brought before the magistrate and sentence pronounced upon her. He wondered what magistrate would try her; how long her punishment would last. Had he dared he would have attended her trial. But he did not dare. That red-haired boy--that most unpleasant, impudent boy--would probably be there. There was no saying what things he might say. He would probably appear as a witness, and nothing would keep that giddy tongue of his quiet. What a very queer boy he was, and how strange were his suspicions! When any one else in all the world would have accepted Sue's guilt as beyond doubt or question, he persisted in declaring her innocent. Nay, more than that, he had even declared that the man who had gone with her into the shop was the guilty person. Harris knew there was no proof against the man. No one had seen him take the locket; no one had witnessed its transfer into Sue's pocket. The man was safe enough. No one living could bring his guilt home to him. But stay a moment! A horrible fear came over him. Why did that boy speak like that? He saw Sue running away. Perhaps he had seen more than that. Perhaps he had come on the platform of events earlier in the narrative. Harris felt the cold sweat starting to his forehead as it occurred to him that that awful boy had reason for his talk--that he _knew_ to whom he was speaking. When Harris took the locket he might have been flattening his nose against the window-pane at the pawnbroker's; he might have seen all that was taking place. What was to be done? He could not confess, and yet if he didn't he was in horrible danger; his present state was worse than any state he had been in before. Suppose Connie ever found out his meanness, his wickedness. Harris was very fond of Connie just then. He had suffered during her absence. His home was pleasant to him--as pleasant as his guilty conscience would permit during those days, for little Giles was like no one else. Oh, could the awful moment ever come when Giles would look at him with reproachful eyes--when Giles would turn away from him? The miserable man felt that were such a time to arrive it would be almost as bad as the knowledge that God Himself could not forgive him. He was distracted, miserable; he must find a refuge from his guilty thoughts. A public-house stood handy. He had not really taken too much for a long time now--not since that terrible night when, owing to drink, he had turned his child from his door. But he would forget his misery now in drink. "That dreadful boy!" he muttered--"that dreadful, dreadful boy, with hair like a flame, and eyes that peered into you like gimlets!" Harris passed through the great swing-doors. His good angel must almost have disappeared at that moment. Meanwhile Connie and Giles watched and waited in vain for Sue. She was coming to-day--she was coming to-morrow. But the weary hours went by and no Sue arrived; there was no message from her. Harris went oftener and oftener to the public-house, and brought less and less of his wages home, and Giles faded and faded, and Connie also looked very sad and weary. Once Connie said to Giles, when nearly a month had gone by: "Yer'll 'ave to give up that notion 'bout the country, Giles, for 'tain't true." "Yus, I believe I must give it up," said Giles. "Ain't yer anxious now 'bout dear Sue?" asked Connie. "Not wery," said Giles. "Ef she ain't in the country, the good Lord 'ave her safe somewhere else--that's wot I'm a-thinkin' of. Father John said to me we'en he come last as trials of this sort are good for me." "You 'ave nothing but trials, poor Giles!" said Connie. "Oh no," answered Giles; "I ha' lots o' blessings--you and Big Ben, the beautiful Woice, you know. Connie, some'ow I think as my wings is growin' wery fast. I think w'en they're full-grown----" "Wot then?" asked Connie. "Why, I'll fly away. I can't 'ardly believe as a poor little lame boy like me could fly up higher than the stars, but that's wot 'ull 'appen. I picter it wery often--me no longer tied down to my bed, but with wings, flyin' about as strong as the angels. Only Father John says I'll be higher than the angels, for I'll be one o' the ransomed o' the Lord. I'll see Father John, too, an' you'll come after a bit, an' Sue 'ull come. I can't fret no, I can't." After this Connie went for the doctor, and the doctor said that the boy was very ill--that he might linger a few weeks more, but his sufferings were growing less, and that Connie's kind care was effecting wonders for him. The weeks went by. Harris grew accustomed to his sense of guilt, and Sue to her captivity. Pickles was anxiously looking forward to a crisis. Harris, after giving way to drink for several days, refrained again and worked steadily. He brought in, in consequence, good wages, and Connie and Giles wanted for nothing. It was the one salve to his conscience, this making of Giles comfortable; otherwise, notwithstanding the manifest amendment of his ways, he was scarcely happy. Indeed, Pickles took care that he should not be so. In the most unlikely and unexpected places this dreadful boy would dart upon him, and more and more certain was Harris that he not only knew his secret, but had witnessed his guilt. Harris would have fled miles from the boy, but the boy would not be fled from. He acted as a perpetual blister on the man's already sore conscience, and Harris almost hated him. His first resolve to confide in Pickles and bribe him into silence had long ago died away. He dared not even offer to bribe him; the perfectly fearless and uncorrupt spirit which looked out of the eyes of the boy would be, he knew, proof against all that he could do in the matter of either rewards or punishments. No; all that Harris could do was to maintain as imperturbable a spirit as possible while Pickles expatiated upon the cruel fate of Sue. As far as he could dare question him, he learned from Pickles that Sue had not been yet tried even before the magistrate. He wondered greatly at this delay, and Pickles, who read his wonder in his eyes, remarked lightly that the reason of this long postponement was because the police were busy looking for the guilty party. "Whether they finds him or not," concluded Pickles, "it must come off soon now, fur I'm told that the expense of keeping Sue is breaking that 'ere lock-hup. I 'spect as it 'ull be the finest bit o' a trial as have been fur many a day. I means to be there. And you'll come, won't yer, Mr. Harris?" "I'm sick o' the subject," said Harris. "Oh no, you ain't, Mr. Harris; you 'ave a wery quiet manner, as his only wot his right and becoming, but I can see yer hinterest in yer heyes. You can't keep that good-natured, human look out o' yer heyes, Mr. Harris; nor can yer help a-starting when yer sees me a-coming. Oh no, yer may say wot yer likes, but ye're real interested in that pore, misfort'nit Sue, I _knows_; so you will come to her shameful trial, won't yer?" In despair, and fearing any other reply, Harris promised. CHAPTER XXVIII. CINDERELLA WOULD SHIELD THE REAL THIEF. After one of these interviews Pickles went home and consulted Sue. "Cinderella," he said, "am I to act as yer prince or not?" "I dunno wot hever yer means, Pickles." "Well, my beauty, 'tis jest this--the Prince rescued Cinderella from her cruel sisters, and I want ter rescue you from the arms of justice. You has a wery shameful accusation hanging over you, Cinderella; you is, in short, hiding from the law. I can set yer free. Shall I?" Sue's plump face had grown quite thin during the anxieties of the past month, and now it scarcely lighted up as she answered Pickles: "I want ter be set free, but I don't want ter be set free in your way." "'Tis the only way, Cinderella. The man, Peter Harris, is the guilty party. He tuk that 'ere locket; he put it in yer pocket. I don't know how he did it, nor why he did it, but I do know that no one else did it. I have jest come from him, and lor' bless yer! I have had him on the torture hooks. I made-b'lieve as you were to be tried next week, and I axed him to come to the trial. I could a'most see him shivering at the bare thought, but fur hall that he did not dare but say he'd come. Now, Cinderella, ef you were to allow me to manage it, and I wer to get you and he face to face, why, he'd jest have to confess. I'd have a couple o' witnesses handy, and we'd write it down wot he said, and you'd be set free. I'd manage so to terrify him aforehand that he'd have ter confess----" "And then he'd be put in prison?" said Sue. "Why, in course; and well he'd deserve it. He's the right party to go, fur he's guilty. Yes, shameful guilty, too." "He couldn't manage to run away and escape afterwards?" Pickles laughed. "You think as I'd help him, maybe. Not a bit o' me! I don't harbor no guilty parties, Cinderella, as I ha' told yer heaps and heaps o' times. No, he's guilty, and he goes ter prison; there ain't nothink hard in sending him ter prison." "It ha' seemed ter me often lately, Pickles, as it must be harder to lie in prison guilty than not guilty--you ha'nt, nothink ter trouble yer mind ef yer ain't guilty." "Well then, I s'pose, in that case, as yer'll give yerself hup." "I'd a deal rayther be in hiding with yer, Pickles; but I don't feel as ef I _could_ put Mr. Harris in prison." "Then you must go yerself, fur this thing can't go on fur ever." Sue looked frightened, and her commonplace gray eyes fell to the ground. She took up the poker and began to trace a pattern on the floor: it was as intricate as her own fate just now. She was a little heroine, however, and her noble thoughts redeemed all plainness from her face when at last she spoke: "Once, Pickles, arter mother died we was brought down wery low. I had a dreadful influenzy, and I couldn't nohow go to the machining, and we were near starving. Mr. Harris lent me a shilling that time, and we pulled through. Another time I couldn't meet the rent, and Connie, she begged of her father, and he give me the money; and when I offerd it him back again he wouldn't take it. He wor a rough man, but he had a kind heart. When I were last at home he wor in a real dreadful trouble about Connie--and I loved Connie better nor any one in hall the world, arter Giles. Pickles, it 'ud break Connie's heart fur her father to be tuk to prison. I don't know why he did that--ef he really did do it--but I can't furget those two times as he wor good ter me, and hever since I have come yere he have done heverything fur Giles. No, I couldn't send Mr. Harris to prison. I couldn't rest heasy ef I thought o' him sent there by me. I'd rayther lie there myself." "Wery well, Cinderella; in course you've got ter choose, fur one or other of yer must go to prison, as it is against hall common-sense as you could stay hiding here fur ever. I hadmires yer rare consideration fur that hardened man, Peter Harris. I can't understand it--no, not the least bit in the world--but I hadmires it as I hadmires the top o' the big mountain wot I could never climb, but jest contemplate solemnly from below. I can understand better yer repugnance not to break the heart o' that purty Connie. Most plain women is hard on their more lucky sisters, and I hadmires you, Cinderella, fur rising superior to the wices of yer sex; but wot I can't hunderstand--wot puzzles me--is yer sad failure in sisterly love. There's that little brother; why, heven now he's pining hal to nothing to see yer. Don't yer think as it 'ull break _his_ heart ef yer is tuk ter prison? Why, ef yer could have seen him when he heerd me even hint at sech a thing! He said as he wished as he could knock me down." The tears rapidly filled Sue's eyes. "Pickles," she said after a moment of thought, "'tis a wonderful, wonderful puzzlement ter me. I can't least of all break the heart of Giles. Giles wor left ter me by mother, and I promised as I'd allers tend him real faithful; but wot I 'as bin thinking is that ef yer must give me hup, and not hide me any longer, and I must be locked hup fur a time, that perhaps we might manage as Giles might still think as I wor in the country. Connie would be wery good ter him, and Mr. Harris would support him jest as well as I could have done. Giles, he's that innercent that he'd easily be made ter believe as I could not help going away. He knows nothink o' life, little Giles don't; he'd never, never guess as there were ought o' the prison 'bout me, and arter a time he'd get accustomed to doing widout me. I think, Pickles, we might manage so as not to break Giles's heart, and yet fur me to go ter prison." "Then you really, really chooses to go ter prison, Cinderella?" "I choose, Pickles, never to tell on Peter Harris--never, wot hever happens. I don't want ter go to prison--not one bit--but ef I can't stay hiding, why, I s'pose as I must." "You can't stay hiding more than a day or two longer, Cinderella, and I thinks as ye're a great fool;" and Pickles walked out of the room in apparently high dudgeon. CHAPTER XXIX. A LITTLE HEROINE. Two days afterwards it was Sunday. Pickles and his mother went to church, but Sue did not accompany them. She had hitherto, notwithstanding her disguise, been afraid to stir abroad. To-day, however, when mother and son had departed, she ran eagerly up to the tiny attic where she slept. In this attic was an old box without a lock. Sue opened it in some perturbation. There were several articles of wearing apparel in this box, all of a mothy and mouldy character. One by one Cinderella pulled them out. First there was a purple silk dress. She gazed at it with admiration. Yes; no one would ever recognize Sue in silk. It would be delightful to put it on. She did so. The skirt was much too long, but with the aid of a whole boxful of pins, she managed to bundle it up round her waist. Then came a soft, many-colored Paisley shawl. Would any one in all the world think of the little machinist if she sallied forth in purple silk and Paisley shawl? Sue did not believe it possible. She put on the shawl, and tied on her head an old-fashioned bonnet, trimmed with many-colored ribbons. There was further, in the wonderful box, an old remnant of gauze. This would act as a veil. Now, indeed, she was completely disguised. She thought herself very grand, and wondered had the Prince ever bought finer clothes for the real Cinderella. She shut the box again, tripped downstairs, and out into the street. She had not been out for a whole month now, and the fresh, frosty air, even coming to her through the musty gauze, was very refreshing. She walked quickly. She had an object in view. Very purposeful was her careworn little face as she stepped briskly along. She had a problem to solve. It was too weighty for her young shoulders; she must get the advice of another. She meant to consult Father John--not by words; no, not even with him would she dare confide her secret. But he preached now both Sunday morning and Sunday evening. She would stand with the crowd and listen to his sermon. Perhaps once again there would be a message for her in it. She had not forgotten that last sermon of his; and that last message sent to her from God by his lips had been with her all through her month of captivity. It had been a sad and anxious month for Sue, and now its crisis had come, for the kind people who had protected her could do so no longer; she could no longer eat their bread, nor accept the shelter of their home. No; Sue quite agreed with Pickles that it would be impossible for her to stay in hiding always. Better go forth at once and meet the worst and have it over. She would be put in prison. Yes--that is, either she or Peter Harris would be put in prison. Pickles had quite brought her round to the belief that Harris was really the guilty party. He had done a very, very dreadful thing. Sue could not understand why he had acted so badly, so cruelly by her. Surely he was the right person to go to prison; she could not bear his crime for him. But then, again, it would be very like Jesus Christ if she did. It was wonderful how the thought of the Great Example was before the mind of this simple, ignorant child as she walked hastily on to meet the one who she believed would decide her fate. To-morow, most likely, Pickles would come to her and ask for her final decision. She must make up her mind to-day. She had a long way to walk, and when she reached the street where Father John held his weekly services the place was already crowded. The preacher had mounted on his chair and had commenced his discourse. Sue heard one or two people say, "Look at little Mother Hubbard." But others, again, admired her costume, and out of respect for the rich silk dress, made way for her to approach nearer to the preacher. "Now, Lord Jesus, please do give me the right word," whispered Sue. Then through her musty veil her eyes were fixed anxiously on Atkins. Was it more than a coincidence? This was the sentence which fell upon the expectant ear: "My dear, dear brothers and sisters, 'tis a wonderfully happy thing to be good. It gives a man rare courage. You, most of you, knew poor Bob Daily. Well, he died this morning. He was not a scrap afraid. I was with him, and he went away rejoicing. He knew he was going straight away to Jesus--straight away to the arms of Jesus. He told me a queer thing which had happened to him when he was a young man. He was falsely accused of a crime which he had not done. He was put in prison. He had to stay locked up for what he was innocent of for two years. He said he guessed who had really done the crime, but he did not like to tell on this man, who was much worse off than himself. He bore the punishment for the guilty man, and he had his reward. All the time he was in prison Jesus remained so close to him that He made his heart sing. He says that he could look back on that part of his life as the very happiest time that he had ever spent." "I'm a bit faint-like," said Sue to her nearest neighbor. "Let me out, please." The people made way for her, and for a moment or so she leant against the nearest lamp-post. She did not hear another word of the sermon. She did not need to. When she felt better she walked back to Great Anvill Street. * * * * * That night, just before Pickles went to bed, Sue sought him. "Pickles, I ha' made up my mind--I ha' made it up quite," she said. "Well?" asked Pickles. "You gave me three days, Pickles, and the time 'ull be up to-morrow. Well, I'll go to prison 'stead o' Peter Harris. I ha' that in my mind which 'ull make it come uncommon light ter me. I'll go to prison 'stead o' he." CHAPTER XXX. WHAT WAS HARRIS TO HER? Pickles went up to the very small room where he slept, threw himself on his bed, and fell a-wondering. For the first time in his life he was completely at sea. What _did_ Cinderella mean? For a whole month now she had been his special charge. He had rescued her; he had kept her in the safe shelter of his mother's house; he had been, he considered, very kind indeed to Cinderella. What a fate she would have had but for him! Sent to prison for a crime of which she was absolutely innocent, her whole future disgraced, blighted, ruined! All the time while he had been hunting up Harris, and bringing his ingenious little mind to bear down the full weight of his crime upon the guilty man, he had thought that no amount of gratitude on Cinderella's part--nay, even a whole lifetime of devotion--could scarcely repay all she owed him. But now he kicked his legs impatiently and said to himself that it was enough to provoke the best-natured boy in the universe. After all his trouble, all his hard thoughts and anxious reflections, here was this tiresome Cinderella refusing to be set free. He had, as he expressed it, nailed his man; he had put the noose round him, and all he had to do was to tighten it, and Sue would be free and Harris sent to prison. But without Sue's aid he could not do this, and Sue most emphatically to-night had refused his aid. She would go to prison herself, but she would not betray Harris. What did the girl mean? What was this cowardly Harris to her that she should risk so much and suffer so sorely for his sake? How she had dreaded prison! How very, very grateful she had been to him for saving her! But now she was willing to go there, willing to bear the unmerited punishment, the lifelong disgrace. Why? Pickles, think hard as he would, could get no answer to solve this difficulty. True, she had said she had something in her mind which would lighten the prison fare and the prison life. What was it? Pickles could stand it no longer; he must go and consult his mother. He ran downstairs. Mrs. Price had not yet gone to bed. Pickles sat down beside her by the fire, and laid his curly red head in her lap. "Mother," he said, "this 'ere detective's foiled at last." "What's up now, Jamie, boy?" asked the mother. Pickles told her. He described how he had all but brought the crime home to Harris; how he had proved to Sue that Harris was the guilty party; but that now Sue, after all his tremendous trouble, had refused to identify him. She would go to prison, she said; she would not tell on Harris. "I don't understand it one bit, mother," he said in conclusion. "But I do, Jamie, my boy," answered Mrs. Price, tears filling her kind eyes. "I understand it very well. It means just this--that Sue, dear child, is very noble." Pickles opened his eyes very wide. "Then, mother," he began, "Cinderella is----" and then he stopped. "Your Cinderella, whom you rescued, is a real little heroine, Jamie; but she must not go to prison. We must do something for her. She has been with me for a whole month now, and I never came across a more upright little soul. You surely have not been frightening her with the base idea that we would give her up, my boy?" Pickles colored and hung his head. "I own, mother," he said, "that I did put a little bit of the torture screw to bear on Sue. I didn't mean really as she should go to prison; but I thought as a small dose of fright might make her tell on that Harris. I do think that Peter Harris is about the meanest character I ever come across, and I'd like _him_ to go to prison wery well indeed, mother dear." "If he's guilty, believe me he's not a very happy man, my lad. My own feeling is that 'tis best to leave all punishment to the God against whom we sin. But about Sue? She must not sleep with the notion that she's to go to prison. I have a great mind to go to her now." "Oh! but, mother, mayn't I tell her my own self? 'Twas I as rescued her. She's my own Cinderella, after all, mother dear; and I'd real enjoy telling her. She's asleep hours ago now, mother." "Well, lad, see and have it out with the child before you go to work in the morning, and then I'll have a talk with her afterwards." CHAPTER XXXI. A STERN RESOLVE. But Sue was not asleep. She had quite made up her mind now as to her line of action. There was no longer even a particle of lingering doubt in her brave little soul; she was innocent, but as the sin which was committed must be punished, she would bear the punishment; she would go to prison instead of Harris. Prison would not be so bad if she went there innocent. Yes, Sue would certainly go to Prison. The next day she would consult Mrs. Price, and take the proper steps to deliver herself up to the police. She would go to the pawnbroker's shop and say to him, "I am the little girl in whose pocket you found that lovely diamond locket. I am very sorry I hid from you so long, but now I have come back, and you can send for the police. I will promise not to run away again when they are taking me to prison." This was Sue's resolve, but first she intended to do something else. It was because of this something else that she lay awake now; it was because of this almost passionate longing and desire that she lay with her eyes wide open. She was going to put on her disguise once more; just once again, before she was put in prison, she would wander free and unrestrained into the streets. But she must do this very, very early in the morning, and she feared that if she closed her eyes she would sleep over the right time. It was now March, and the days were lengthening. She rose before the dawn, put on again some portion of the remarkable costume she had worn the day before, and went out. Yes, she was going to prison. She was most likely going to prison that very day. But before she was locked up she would visit Harris's house. She would steal into his rooms to take one look--one long last look for how many weary months--at Giles. She knew the ways of this tenement house well. She had nothing to do but walk up the stairs and lift the latch of Harris's room and go in. Some of the neighbors locked their room doors at night. But Susan remembered with satisfaction that Harris never did so. It was quite dark when she set off, for she knew she had a very long walk from Great Anvill Street to Westminster. CHAPTER XXXII. AN UNEXPECTED ACCIDENT. By dint asking her way more than once, of some of the very policemen whom she dreaded, Sue found herself at last in the old, well-remembered neighborhood. She passed the door of the house where her mother had died and where she had been so happy with Giles, and went on quickly to the other house where Connie and Harris lived. The house door stood open, as was its wont. Sue mounted the stairs; with trembling hands she lifted the latch of Harris's room. Yes, as she had trusted, it was only on the latch. She stooped down, unfastened her shoes, and took them off; then she stole into the room. There were two bedrooms, besides a sitting-room, in Harris's portion of the house. In one of the bedrooms slept Harris, in the other his daughter, and in the little sitting-room lay the lame boy. Thus Sue found herself at once in the presence of her little brother. Her heart beat high. How easily she had accomplished her purpose! How good God was to her! Stealing over on tiptoes, she knelt down by Giles. There was scarcely any light as yet; but a little streamed in from the badly curtained window. This little had sought out Giles, and lingered lovingly round his delicate face and graceful head; he looked ethereal with this first soft light kissing him. Sue bent down very close indeed. She dared not breathe on his face. She scarcely dared draw her own breath in her fear of waking him; but she took his gentle image more firmly than ever into her heart of hearts: it was to cheer her and comfort her during long, long months of prison life. As she bent over him in an ecstasy of love and longing, Giles stirred. Instantly Sue hid herself behind a curtain: here she could see without being seen. The lame boy stirred again and opened his eyes. He looked peaceful; perhaps he had had a happy dream. "I think Sue 'ull soon now have found that cottage in the country," he said aloud. Then he turned over and, still smiling, went to sleep again. Sue's eyes filled with tears. But the light was getting stronger; any moment Harris might rise. Though she would go to prison for Harris, yet she felt that she could not bring herself to meet him. Yes, she must go away with an added weight in her poor, faithful little heart. She stole downstairs, and out into the street. Yes, it was very hard to bear the sight of Giles, to hear those longing words from the lips of Giles, and yet go away to meet unjust punishment for perhaps two long years. Still, it never entered into Sue's head to go back from her resolve, or to save herself by betraying another. Her head was very full of Bible lore, and she compared herself now to one of those three young men who had gone into a fiery furnace for the cause of right and duty. "Jesus Christ wor with them, jest as He'll be with me," she said to herself as she crossed Westminster Bridge. Yes, brave little girl, you were to go through a fiery furnace, but not the one you thought was being prepared for you. Sue's trouble, swift and terrible, but in an unlooked-for form, was on her even now. Just as she had got over the bridge, and was about to cross a very wide thoroughfare, some lumbering wagons came thundering up. They turned sharp round a corner, and the poor child, weak and giddy from her morning's most unwonted exertion, suddenly found herself turning faint. She was in the middle of the crossing, the wagons were upon her, but she could not run. She had scarcely time to throw up her arms, to utter one piercing cry of terror, before she was thrown to the ground. She had a horrible sensation of her life being crushed out of her, of every bone being broken; then followed peace and unconsciousness. One of the wagons had gone partly over her; one leg was broken. She was carried to the accident ward at St. Thomas's Hospital close by. CHAPTER XXXIII. A POINTED QUESTION. Neither had Mrs. Price slept well. All night long she either had fitful and broken dreams, in which her small guest, Sue, constantly figured; or she lay with her eyes open, thinking of her. She was surprised at the child's resolve. She recognized an heroic soul under that plain and girlish exterior. In the morning she got up rather earlier than usual, and instead of going directly downstairs, as was her custom, she went up to Sue's attic. She had promised her eccentric young son to allow him to tell his own tale in his own way; but she meant to comfort Sue with some specially loving and kind greeting. Having a true lady's heart, she knew how to give Sue a very cheering word, and she went upstairs with that heart full. Of course there was no Sue in the little chamber. The bed had been lain in, but was now cold and unoccupied. Mrs. Price went downstairs, considerably puzzled and disturbed. She sent for Pickles and told him. She was full of fear at Sue's disappearance, and told the heedless boy that she blamed him. "You did wrong, my lad--you did very wrong," she said. "You gave the poor thing to understand that she was to be put in prison, and now doubtless she has gone to deliver herself up." "No, mother. She only went out to have a little exercise. Cinderella 'ull be back in an hour or so," answered the boy. But he did not speak with his usual assurance and raillery. The fact was, the calculations in his shrewd little brain were upset by Sue's disappearance. He felt disturbed, perplexed, and annoyed. His mother being really displeased with him was a novel experience to Pickles. She blamed herself much for having allowed him his own way in this matter, and the moment breakfast was over, went out to the nearest police-station to relate Sue's story. Pickles stayed in until noon; then he also went out. He had cheered himself until this hour with the hope that Sue had only gone out for a walk. Notwithstanding all the improbabilities of his poor, frightened Cinderella venturing to show herself in the street, he had clung firmly to this idea; but when the neighboring clock struck twelve he was obliged to abandon it. He was obliged to admit to his own little puzzled heart that it was on no ordinary walk that Sue had gone. Remorse now seized him in full measure. He could not bear the house; he must vent his feelings in exercise. For the first time in his sunny and healthy young life he walked along the streets a defeated and unhappy boy. Suddenly, however, a thought occurred to him. He stood still when it flashed across his fertile brain. Then, with a cheerful shout, which caused the passers-by to turn their heads and smile, he set off running as fast as his feet would carry him. Hope would never be long absent from his horizon, and once again he was following it joyfully. He was on his way now to Harris's house. He meant to pay pretty Connie a visit, and when with her he would put to her a pointed question. It was nearly three o'clock when he reached Westminster. A few minutes later he found himself on the landing outside Connie's rooms. Here, however, he was again a little puzzled, for he wanted to see Connie and not to see Giles. Taking a long time about it, he managed to set the closed door ajar. He looked in. Connie and Giles were both within. Connie was mending her father's socks; Giles was reading aloud to her. Neither of them had noticed the slight creaking noise he had made in opening the door. He ventured on a very slight cough. This sound was heard; the reading ceased. "Come in," said Connie. This he must not do. He waited an instant, then creaked the door again. "Dear, dear! I made certain I had shut that door," said Connie. At this she rose unsuspiciously. "Jest wait a minute, Giles dear. I didn't catch that last bit." She ran to the door to put it to. Pickles placed his foot in her way. The obstacle caused her to look into the passage. There a boy, very red by nature, and with his natural color now much intensified by hard running, stood awaiting her. He pointed to the door, put his finger to his lips, then rushed down the first flight of stairs, where he turned round, and beckoned to her to follow him. "I'll be back in a minute, Giles," said Connie. She had ready wit enough to perceive at a glance that Pickles had something to say to her which he did not wish Giles to hear. Closing the door behind her, she ran downstairs. Pickles could have hugged her in his gratitude. "Ain't you a perfect duck of a darlin'?" he said, gazing hard and full into her face. "What do you want me for, Pickles?" asked Connie. "Fur one or two things of much private importance. First, tell me, how is the little lame chap as is fretting fur his sister wot is kept in the country?" "He is not so well, Pickles; he is not so well as he was. Pickles, I don't believe that story about Sue being in the country." "You don't believe me when I opens my lips to give utterance to the words of gospel truth!" replied Pickles. But his red face grew a shade redder, and his full, bold gaze was not quite so steady as usual. "Why, surely, Pickles, _you_ ain't going to be troubled wid nerves!" he said to himself. Connie, watching anxiously, entreated in her softest tones: "Dear Pickles, you might trust me. I should like to know, and I won't tell Giles." "Ay, ay, that's a woman's curiosity; but the misfortune is as it can't be gratified. No, Connie. You are as rare and pretty a bit of woman as hiver I clapped heyes on. But fur hall that you ain't going to come hover this yere boy. When I tells you, Connie, that Sue is hin the country, please believe as she _his_ in that year health-giving place. When 'tis conwenient fur me to confide in you farther, why, I'll do it. That time ain't at present. In the meantime, ef you want to real help them who ere in difficulty, you will let me know widout any more wasting o' precious time where yer father, Peter Harris, is working to-day." "Oh Pickles! wot do you want wid him?" "Nothink to hurt you, pretty one. Now, will you speak? "He's at Messrs ---- in ---- Street," replied Connie. "Thank yer; and now I'm off. Ef you'll listen to the words o' solemn wisdom, and be guided in that same, you'll not mention this stolen interview to little Giles--bless the little chap! You keep up his heart, Connie. As soon as hiver this yer young man can manage it, Sue shall come home. Lor', now! ain't the world strange and difficult to live in? Wot 'ull bring joy to one 'ull give pain to t'other, but the cause o' right must win the day. Well, good-bye, Connie. I'll wery like look in soon again." CHAPTER XXXIV. PICKLES TO THE FORE AGAIN. Connie went back to Giles, and Pickles, having obtained the information which he desired, sped as fast as his feet could carry him down the street. Once more his spirits were high, and hope was before him. "I may save you, you most obstinate and tiresome Cinderella," he said to himself. "But oh, _wot_ a mistake gels are! Why hever those weak and misguided beings was allowed to be is a puzzlement too great fur me." But though Pickles talked even to himself in this light and careless vein, there was (and he knew it) a pain in his heart--a pain joined to an admiration for Sue, which would have made him willing to fight to the very death in her behalf. The day, however, had been spent while he was rushing about, and by the time he reached the place where Connie had directed him to seek her father, the workmen were putting by their tools and preparing to go home. Pickles followed Harris down the street. Harris was talking to and walking with one of his fellow-workmen, and Pickles did not care to accost him except when he was alone. At the corner, however, of the next street the two parted; and then the boy, putting his face into grave and serious order, ran lightly after Harris. When he addressed him his very voice trembled. "Mr. Harris, I see'd you coming out of that yer shop. I'm in much perplexity and trouble in my mind, and I thought the sight of you and a talk wid you might maybe set me up." "You thought wrong, then," said Harris, replying in his gruffest voice, "for I'm in a mortal bit of a hurry, and I'm in no humor to listen to no chaff, so get away." "Oh, Mr. Harris! I'll endeavor to run by yer side for a minute or two. Mr. Harris, wot does yer think? That little Sue wot I tolled yer on--why, she has discovered who the guilty party is. She have found out who really stole the locket and put it into her pocket." "She have!" said Harris. He was so astonished and taken by surprise that he now stood still. He stood quite still, gazing helplessly at Pickles, while his weather-beaten face grew pale. "'Tis gospel truth as I'm telling yer," continued Pickles, fixing his own light-blue eyes full on his victim. "Sue knows hall about it--the whole thing; the great and awful meanness have been made plain to her. Yes, she knows all, Sue does; but, Mr. Harris----" "Yes; wot have I to say to this tale? I'm in a hurry--tearing hurry--I tell yer." "Yes, Mr. Harris; I won't keep yer. Sue knows, but Sue, she won't betray. I know who did it," she said, "but I won't tell on him. He lent me a shilling once. He is kind to my little brother wot is lame. I know wot he did, but I won't never tell, I'll go to prison 'stead of he." Harris's color had returned. He now walked so fast that Pickles had to run to keep up with him. Suddenly, seeing a passing omnibus, he hailed it, and in a second was on the roof. He did not glance at Pickles. In reply to his tale he had not answered by a single word. CHAPTER XXXV. THE WINGS ARE GROWING. Connie went back to Giles, sat down by him, and he resumed his reading. He was going through the _Pilgrim's Progress_ to her, reading short sentences at a time, for his voice was too low and weak to enable him to exert himself for long at a time. "Connie, wot were that as I read last?" Connie colored. "You weren't listening," said Giles reproachfully. "It wor a most beautiful bit. But you didn't hear me, Connie." "I wor thinking o' something else jest then," owned Connie. "I'll listen now wid hall my might, dear Giles." "Ah! but I'm tired now," said Giles; "and besides, I want to talk 'bout something else, Connie." "Well." "Sue have been a whole month in the country to-day--rayther more than a month. I don't understand it at all. I never thought as she could stay so long away from me. I suppose 'tis hall right, and cottages such as we want do take a powerful long time to find. It has been a long time--wery, wery long--but have I been patient 'bout Sue all this long time, Connie?" "Yes, indeed, dear Giles." "Oh! I'm glad, fur I've tried to be. Then, Connie, wot I'm thinking is that ef Sue don't soon come back--ef she don't soon find that 'ere cottage--why, I won't want it, Connie. Sue 'ull come back and find me--gone." "Gone!" echoed Connie. "Do you mean dead? Oh Giles! you're not ill enough to die." "Yes, Connie, I think I am. I'm so real desperate weak sometimes that I don't like even to move a finger. I used to be hungry, too, but now I never cares to eat. Besides, Connie dear----" "Yes, Giles," answered Connie. "Those wings that I told you of--why, I often seem to feel them flutter inside of me. I told you before, Connie, that when they was full grown, why, I'd fly away. I think they are growing wery fast. I'll want no cottage in the country now. I'm going away to a much better place, ain't I, Connie?" "Oh! but, Giles, I don't want to think that--I don't want to," answered Connie, the tears raining down her cheeks. "'Tis real good fur me, though, Connie. I used to pine sore fur the country; but it have come hover me lately that in winter it 'ud be dull--scarcely any flowers, and no birds singing, nor nothink. Now, in heaven there's no winter. 'A land o' pure delight,' the hymn calls it, 'and never-withering flowers.' So you see, Connie, heaven must be a sight better than the country, and of course I'd rayther go there; only I'm thinking as 'tis sech a pity 'bout Sue." "Yes, I wish as Sue was home," said Connie. "Connie dear, couldn't we send her a message to come straight home to me now? I'm so feared as she'll fret real hard ef she comes wid news of that cottage and finds me gone." "I'll look fur her; I will find her," said Connie with sudden energy. Then she rose and drew down the blinds. "I'll find Sue ef I can, Giles; and now you will go to sleep." "Will you sing to me? When you sing, and I drop off to sleep listening, I allers dream arterwards of heaven." "What shall I sing?" "'There is a land of pure delight.'" CHAPTER XXXVI. A CRISIS. Connie went downstairs and stood in the doorway. She had gone through a good deal during these last adventurous weeks, and although still it seemed to those who knew her that Connie had quite the prettiest face in all the world, it was slightly haggard now for a girl of fourteen years, and a little of its soft plumpness had left it. Connie had never looked more absolutely pathetic than she did at this moment, for her heart was full of sorrow for Giles and of anxiety with regard to Sue. She would keep her promise to the little boy--she would find Sue. As she stood and thought, some of the roughest neighbors passed by, looked at the child, were about to speak, and then went on. She was quite in her shabby, workaday dress; there was nothing to rouse jealousy about her clothes; and the "gel" seemed in trouble. The neighbors guessed the reason. It was all little Giles. Little Giles was soon "goin' aw'y." "It do seem crool," they said one to the other, "an' that sister o' his nowhere to be found." Just then, who should enter the house but kind Dr. Deane. He stopped when he saw Connie. "I am going up to Giles," he said. "How is the little chap?" "Worse--much worse," said Connie, the tears gathering in her eyes. "No news of his sister, I suppose?" "No, sir--none." "I am sorry for that--they were such a very attached pair. I'll run up and see the boy, and bring you word what I think about him." The doctor was absent about a quarter of an hour. While he was away Connie never moved, but stood up leaning against the door-post, puzzling her brains to think out an almost impossible problem. When the doctor reappeared she did not even ask how Giles was. Kind Dr. Deane looked at her; his face was wonderfully grave. After a minute he said: "I think, Connie, I'd find that little sister as quickly as I could. The boy is very, very weak. If there is one desire now in his heart, however, it is just to see Sue once more." "I ha' give him my word," said Connie. "I'm goin' to find Sue ef--ef I never see Giles agin." "But you mustn't leave him for long," said the doctor. "Have you no plan in your head? You cannot find a girl who is lost as Sue is lost in this great London without some clue." "I ain't got any clue," said Connie, "but I'll try and find Pickles." "Whoever is Pickles?" asked the doctor. "'E knows--I'm sartin sure," said Connie. "I'll try and find him, and then----" "Well, don't leave Giles alone. Is there a neighbor who would sit with him?" "I won't leave him alone," said Connie. The doctor then went away. Connie was about to return to Giles, if only for a few minutes, when, as though in answer to an unspoken prayer, the red-headed Pickles appeared in sight. His hair was on end; his face was pale; he was consumed with anxiety; in short, he did not seem to be the same gay-hearted Pickles whom Connie had last met with. When he saw Connie, however, the sight of that sweet and sad face seemed to pull him together. "Now must I give her a blow, or must I not?" thought Pickles to himself. "It do seem 'ard. There's naught, a'most, I wouldn't do for pore Cinderella; but w'en I have to plant a dart in the breast of that 'ere most beauteous crittur, I feels as it's bitter 'ard. W'y, she 'ud make me a most captiwatin' wife some day. Now, Pickles, my boy, wot have you got in the back o' your 'ead? Is it in love you be--an' you not fourteen years of age? Oh, fie, Pickles! What would yer mother s'y ef she knew?" Pickles slapped his hand with a mighty thump against his boyish breast. "That's the w'y to treat nonsense," he said aloud. "Be'ave o' yerself, Pickles--fie for shame, Pickles! That 'ere beauteous maid is to be worshipped from afar--jest like a star. I do declare I'm turnin' po-ettical!" "Pickles!" called Connie at this moment. "Stop!" "Pickles be 'ere," replied the youth, drawing up before Connie and making a low bow. "Giles is worse, Pickles," said Connie, "an' wot's to be done?" Pickles's round face grew grave. "Is 'e wery bad?" he asked. "So bad that he'll soon go up to God," said Connie. Her eyes filled with tears; they rolled down her cheeks. "Bright as dimants they be," thought the boy as he watched her. "Precious tears! I could poetise 'bout them." "Pickles," said Connie again, "I have made Giles a promise. He sha'n't die without seeing Sue. I'm sartin sure, Pickles, that you could take me to Sue now--I'm convinced 'bout it--and I want you to do it." "Why do you think that?" asked Pickles. "'Cos I do," said Connie. "'Cos of the way you've looked and the way you've spoken. Oh, dear Pickles, take me to her now; let me bring her back to little Giles to-night!" Once again that terribly mournful expression, so foreign to Pickles's freckled face, flitted across it. "There!" he said, giving himself a thump. "W'en I could I wouldn't, and now w'en I would I can't. I don't know where she be. She's lost--same as you were lost--w'ile back. She's disappeared, and none of us know nothink about her." "Oh! is she really lost? How terrible that is!" said Connie. "Yus, she's lost. P'r'aps there's one as could find her. Connie, I 'ate beyond all things on 'arth to fright yer or say an unkind thing to yer; but to me, Connie, you're a star that shines afar. Yer'll fergive the imperence of my poetry, but it's drawn from me by your beauty." "Don't talk nonsense now, Pickles," said Connie. "Things are too serious. We must find Sue--I must keep my promise." "Can you bear a bit o' pine?" said Pickles suddenly. "Pain?" said Connie. "I've had a good deal lately. Yes, I think--I think I can bear it." "Mind yer," said Pickles, "it's this w'y. I know w'y Sue left yer, and I know w'y she ain't come back. It's true she 'aven't give herself hup yet, although she guv me to understand as she were 'bout to go to prison." "To prison?" said Connie, springing forward and putting her hand on Pickles's shoulder. "Sue--the most honest gel in all the world--go to prison?" "Oh yes," said Pickles, "yer might call her honest; but w'en she goes into a pawnshop an' comes hout agin wid a golden dimant locket a-hid in her pocket, there are people as won't agree wid yer, an' that's the solemn truth, Connie." Connie's face was very white. "I don't believe it," she said. "Yer don't?" cried Pickles. "But I were there at the time. But for me she would ha' been locked up long ago. But I tuk pity on her--'avin' my own suspicions. I hid her and disguised her. Wot do yer think I come 'ere for so often but jest to comfort the poor thing an' bring her news o' Giles? Then all of a suddn't my suspicions seemed confirmed. I guessed wot I see is workin' in your mind--that some one else done it an' putt the blame on 'er. Oh, I'm a born detective. I putt my wits in soak, an' soon I spotted the guilty party. Bless yer, Connie! ye're right--Sue be honest--honest as the day--noble, too--more nobler nor most folk. Pore Sue! Pore, plain Cinderella! Oh, my word! it's beauteous inside she be--an' you're beauteous outside. Outside beauty is captiwatin', but the hinner wears best." "Go on," said Connie; "tell me wot else you 'ave in yer mind." "It's this: yer may own up to it, an' there's no use beatin' about the bush. The guilty party wot stole the locket an' transferred it by sleight-of-'and to poor Sue is no less a person than yer own father, Connie Harris." Connie fell back, deadly pale. "No--no!" she said. "No--no! I am sartin sure 'tain't that way." "Yus, but it be that way--I tell yer it be. You ax 'im yerself; there's no time for muddlin' and a-hidin' o' the truth. You ax the man hisself." "Father!" said Connie. "Father!" Harris, wrangling with another workman, was now seen approaching. When he perceived his daughter and Pickles, his first impulse was to dart away down a side-street; but Pickles, that most astute young detective, was too sharp for him. "No," he said, rushing at the man and laying his hand on his shoulder. "Giles is bad, an' we can't find Sue no'ow, and yer must tell the truth." Harris did not know why his heart thumped so heavily, and why a sort of wild terror came over him; but when Connie also joined Pickles, and raising her eyes to the rough man's face, said, "Be it true or be it lies, you are my own father and I'll niver turn agin yer," her words had a most startling effect. Harris trembled from head to foot. "S'y that agin, wench," he muttered. "You're mine--I'll not turn agin yer," said Connie. "Then why--wot 'ave I done to deserve a child like this? There, Pickles! you know--and you ha' told Connie--it's all the truth. There come a day w'en I wanted money, an' I were met by sore temptation. I tuk the dimant locket w'en the pawnbroker 'ad 'is back turned on me; but as I were leavin' the shop--Sue bein' by my side--I suddenly saw him pokin' his finger into the place where it had been. I knew it were all up. I managed to slip the locket into Sue's pocket, and made off. I ha' been near mad since--near mad since!" "Small wonder!" said Pickles. "An' do yer know that she 'ad made up her mind to go to prison 'stead o' you?" "You told me so," said Harris--"at least you told me that she was goin' to prison instead o' the guilty party." "Wull," said Pickles, "yer own 'eart told yer 'oo was the guilty party." "That's true, youngster." "Father," said Connie, "we can't find Sue anywhere, and Giles is dying, and we must get her, and you must help." "Help?" said Harris. "Yes, I'll help. I won't leave a stone unturned. She wanted to save me, knowing the truth. Wull, I'll save and find her, knowin' the truth." "I will come with you," said Connie. "I want to go wid yer; only wot am I to do with Giles?" "Don't worrit 'bout him," said Pickles. "I'm 'ere to be o' sarvice to you, Miss Connie--and to you, sir, now as you 'ave come ter yer right mind." "Then I will come with you, father," said Connie. "We'll both go together and find Sue." As Pickles was entering the house he popped his head out again. "I forgot to mention," he said, "as hinquiries o' the most strict and dertective character 'ave been institooted by yer 'umble sarvant for poor Cinderella--I mean Sue. They've led to no results. There's nothing now but one o' the hospitals." It is very doubtful whether Pickles believed himself the clue he had unexpectedly given to Harris and Connie, but certain it is that they immediately began their investigations in those quarters. From one hospital to another they went, until at last they found Sue in bed in St. Thomas's Hospital--flushed, feverish, struggling still to hide her secret in order that when she was better she might save Peter Harris. The poor child was rather worse than usual that evening, and the surgeon who had set her leg was slightly anxious at her feverish symptoms. He said to the nurse who was taking charge of the little girl: "That child has a secret on her mind, and it is retarding her recovery. Do you know anything about her?" "No, sir. It is very awkward," said the nurse, "but from the first she has refused to give her name, calling herself nothing but Cinderella." "Well," said the doctor, "but Cinderella--she doesn't seem touched in the head?" "Oh no," said the nurse; "it isn't that. She's the most sensible, patient child we have in the ward. But it's pitiful to see her when she thinks no one is listening. Nothing comforts her but to hear Big Ben strike. She always cheers up at that, and murmurs something below her breath which no one can catch." "Well, nurse," said the doctor, "the very best thing would be to relieve her mind--to get her to tell you who her people are, and to confide any secret which troubles her to you." "I will try," said the nurse. She went upstairs after her interview with the doctor, and bending over Sue, took her hot hand and said gently: "I wish, little Cinderella, you would tell me something about yourself." "There's naught to tell," said Sue. "But--you'll forgive me--I am sure there is." "Ef you was to ask me for ever, I wouldn't tell then," said Sue. "Ah! I guessed--there is something." "Yes--some'ut--but I can't bear it--the Woice in the air is so beautiful." "What voice?" asked the nurse, who feared that her little patient would suddenly become delirious. "It's Big Ben hisself is talkin' to me and to my darling, darling little brother." "Oh! you have a little brother, Cinderella?" "Yus, a cripple. But don't ask me no more. The Woice gives me strength, and I won't niver, niver tell." "What does Big Ben say? I don't understand." "No," said Sue; "and p'r'aps ye're not wanted to understand. It's for me and for him, poor darling, that Woice is a real comfort." The nurse left her little charge a few minutes afterwards. But before she went off duty she spoke to the night nurse, and confessed that she was anxious about the child, who ought to be recovering, and certainly would but for this great weight of trouble on her mind. All these things, which seemed in themselves unimportant, bore directly on immediate events; for when Connie and Harris arrived at St. Thomas's Hospital and made inquiries with regard to a little, freckled girl, with an honest face and sturdy figure, the hall porter went to communicate with one of the nurses, and the nurse he communicated with turned out to be the night nurse in the very ward where Sue was lying--so suffering, so ill and sorely tried. Now, the nurse, instead of sending word that this was not the hour for visiting patients, took the trouble to go downstairs herself and to interview Connie and her father. Connie gave a faithful description of Sue, and then the nurse admitted that there was a little girl in the hospital who was now in the children's surgical ward. She had been brought in a day or two ago, having a broken leg, owing to a street accident. She was a very patient, good child, but there was something strange about her--nothing would induce her to tell her name. "Then what do you call her?" asked Harris. He was still full of inward tremors, for at that moment he was thinking that of all the sweet sights on earth, that sight would be little Sue's plain face. "Have yer no name for the pore child?" he repeated. "Yes," said the nurse. "She calls herself Cinderella." "It's Sue! It's Sue herself father! God has led us to her--and it's Sue her very own self!" Poor Connie, who had borne up during so many adventures, who had faced the worst steadfastly and without fear, broke down utterly now. She flung herself into her father's arms and sobbed. "Hush, wench hush!" said the rough man. "I am willin' to do hall that is necessary.--Now then, nurse," he continued, "you see my gel--she's rather upset 'bout that pore Cinderella upstairs. But 'ave yer nothing else to say 'bout her?" "She acts in a strange way," said the nurse. "The only thing that comforts her is the sound of Big Ben when he strikes the hour. And she did speak about a little cripple brother." "Can us see her?" asked Connie just then. "It is certainly against the rules, but--will you stay here for a few minutes and I'll speak to the ward superintendent?" The nurse went upstairs. She soon returned. "Sister Elizabeth has given you permission to come up and see the child for a few minutes. This, remember, is absolutely against the ordinary rules; but her case is exceptional, and if you can give her relief of mind, so much the better." Then Connie and her father followed the nurse up the wide, clean stairs, and down the wide, spotless-looking corridors, until they softly entered a room where many children were lying, some asleep, some tossing from side to side with pain. Sue's little bed was the fifth from the door, and Sue was lying on her back, listening intently, for Big Ben would soon proclaim the hour. She did not turn her head when the nurse and the two who were seeking her entered the ward; but by-and-by a voice, not Big Ben's, sounded on her ear, and Connie flung herself by her side and covered her hand with kisses. "You don't think, Sue, do yer," said Connie, "that _us_ could stop seekin' yer until we found yer?" Sue gave a startled cry. "Connie--Connie! Oh Connie! 'ow is Giles?" "'E wants yer more than anything in all the world." "Then he--he's--still alive?" "Yus, he's still alive; but he wants yer. He thought you was in the country, gettin' pretty rooms for you and him. But oh, Sue! he's goin' to a more beautiful country now." Sue didn't cry. She was about to say something, when Harris bent forward. "God in 'eaven bless yer!" he said in a husky voice. "God in 'eaven give back yer strength for that noble deed yer ha' done for me an' mine! But it's all at an end now, Susan--all at an end--for I myself 'ave tuk the matter in 'and, an' hall you 'as to do is to get well as fast as ever yer can for the sake o' Giles." "You mustn't excite her any more to-night," said the nurse then, coming forward; "seeing," she added, "that you have given the poor little thing relief. You can come again to-morrow; but now she must stay quiet." Late as the hour was when Harris and Connie left St. Thomas's Hospital, Harris turned to Connie. "I've some'ut to do--and to-night. Shall I take yer 'ome first, or wull yer come with me?" "Oh, I will come with you, father," said Connie. "Wull then, come along." They walked far--almost as far as Cheapside. Connie could not imagine why her father was taking her into a certain dingy street, and why he suddenly stopped at a door which had not yet been shut for the night. "I thought as there were a chance of findin' him up," he said. "Come right in, gel." Connie entered, and the next minute Harris was addressing the pawnbroker from whom he had stolen the locket. "I 'ave a word to say with you," he remarked; and then he related the circumstances of that day, several weeks ago now. "But we found it," said the pawnbroker, "in the pocket of the young gel." "It was I as put it there," said Harris. "It was I--the meanest wretch on 'arth. But I've come to my senses at last. You can lock me up ef yer like. I'll stay 'ere; I won't even leave the shop ef yer want to deliver the real thief over to justice." The pawnbroker stared at the man; then he looked at Connie. There is no saying what he might have done; but Connie's face, with its pleading expression, was enough to disarm any one. "The fact is," he began "this sort o' thing ought to be punished, or however could poor folks live? But it's a queer thing. When the young gel vanished, as it seemed, into the depths of the 'arth, and I 'ad got my property back, I tuk no further trouble. In course, now that you 'ave delivered yerself up, it seems a'most fair that the law should take its course." "That's wot I think," said Harris. "Make a short job of it, man. Call in a constable; 'e can take me to Bow Street to-night." "No 'urry, man," said the pawnbroker. "I want yer to tell me some'ut more. Is that other little party alive or dead? It seems to me as though the 'arth must 'ave swallered her up." "I will tell you," said Connie; and she did relate Sue's story--as much as she knew of it--and with such pathos that even that pawnbroker, one of the hardest of men, felt a queer softness about his heart. "Wull," he said--"wull, it's a queer world! To think o' that child plannin' things out like that! And ef she ad come to me, I might ha' believed her, too. Wull now, she be a fine little crittur. An' s'pose"--he glanced at Harris--"I don't prosecute you, there's no call, to my way o' thinkin'. And the fact is, I'm too busy to be long out of the shop. Don't you steal no more, neighbor. You ha' got off dirt-cheap this time, but don't you steal no more." CHAPTER XXXVII. THE HAPPY GATHERING. There came a day in the early spring of that year when a great many pleasant things happened to the people who have been mentioned in this story. Connie's room was very bright with flowers--spring flowers--which had been sent to her all the way from Eastborough by Mrs. Cricket. Quantities of primroses were placed in a huge bowl, and the sun came feebly in at the window and seemed to kiss and bless the flowers. There were also some early buttercups and quantities of violets. Giles was neither better nor worse, but perhaps on this day he was a little bit on the side of better. It was so beautiful to think that Sue was coming back! Oh, this was a wonderful day! Sue was well again; Connie was happy; Harris was never tired of doing all he could both for Connie and Giles; and other people were happy too, for Sue's return was to be marked by a sort of holiday--a sort of general feast. To this feast was invited--first, Mrs. Anderson; then Ronald, who happened to be staying in London and was deeply excited at the thought of seeing Connie once more; and also dear Father John, who would not have missed such an occasion for the wide world. Of course, Pickles could not be left out of such a gathering; but he could scarcely be considered a guest, for did he not belong, so to speak, to the family, and was not dear Sue, in particular, his special property? Mrs. Anderson supplied the good things for the feast. This she insisted upon. So Connie spread quite a lordly board--cold meats not a few, some special delicacies for Giles, and a splendid frosted cake with the word "Cinderella" written in pink fairy writing across the top. This special cake had been made by Mrs. Price, and Pickles had brought it and laid it with immense pride on a dish in the centre of the table. "Yus," said Connie, "it do look purty, don't it? Wot with good things to eat, and wot with flowers, it's quite wonderful." When everything was arranged, Connie went into a little room to put on once again her dark-blue dress, and to unplait her thick hair and allow it to fall over her shoulders. "It's for Ronald," she said. "Ronald wouldn't know me without my hair down." Then, one by one, the visitors made their appearance--Father John, who sat down by Giles's side and held his hand, and by his mere presence gave the boy the greatest possible comfort; and Pickles, whose face was shining with hard rubbing and soap and water, and whose red hair stuck upright all over his head. Then Mrs. Anderson came in and sat down, and gave a gentle look first at Giles and then at Connie; and Connie felt that she loved her better than ever, and Giles wondered if he would meet many with faces like hers in heaven. In short, every one had arrived at last except the little heroine. But hark! there was a sound outside as though some vehicle had stopped at the door. Giles's breath came fast. There were steps on the stairs, and two porters from the hospital carried Sue in between them. "Oh, I can really walk," she said. "And oh, Giles--Giles!--Please put me down, porter; I really, really can walk." "Jest as himpatient as ever, Cinderella!" said Pickles, who always tried, as was his custom, to be specially funny in pathetic times. Sue glanced at him, but could not speak just then. There are moments in our lives when no words will come. She went up to Giles and hid her face on his pillow. Poor little Sue had a bitterly hard fight with herself, for that face, which belonged not to earth, unnerved her, notwithstanding the rapture of seeing it once again. But Giles himself was the first to recover composure. "We are 'avin' such a feast!" he said. "An' it's all _so_ beautiful! Now then, Sue I do 'ope as ye're 'ungry." After that Ronald spoke and made the others laugh; and Sue bustled about, just as though she were at home, and Connie helped her; and very soon they all crowded round the table, except Giles, who had his dainty morsels brought to him by Sue's own hands. Thus they ate and laughed and were merry, although perhaps the laughter was a little subdued and the merriment a trifle forced. It was when the feast was quite over that Father John spoke a few words--just a very few--about the love and goodness of God, and how He had brought His wandering sheep home again to the fold, and how He had helped Connie in dark times, and Ronald in dark times, and Sue in dark times. "And He is helping Giles, and will be with him to the end," said the street preacher. "And now," he added, "I think Giles is very tired and would like to be all alone with Sue. Suppose, neighbors, we go into the next room." The opening of the door of the next room was one of the surprises which had been planned by Connie and her father. As he was now earning such really excellent wages, and as he had taken the pledge and meant to keep it, he felt he was entitled to another room. It was neatly furnished. There was a fire burning in the grate, and there were white muslin curtains to the windows. Connie spoke of it with great pride as the "drawing-room," and Pickles assured her that even to set foot in that room was enough to make Connie a "lydy" on the spot. When they were alone Sue and Giles talked softly one to the other. "The blessed Woice," said Sue, "'ave been with me all the w'y." "And with me," said Giles. "You won't go jest yet, Giles," said Sue. "Wery soon--but not quite yet," he answered. Sue smiled and kissed his hand, and they talked as those who have been long parted, and know they must be parted soon again, will talk, when heart meets heart. In the other room people were not more cheerful, but at least more glad. "There is nothing left to wish for," said Pickles. "It's just the best thing in all the world for little Giles to get quite well up in heaven. Ain't it now?" he added, looking at Father John. "Yes," said Father John very briefly. Then he turned to Connie. "You must never forget all that you have lived through, Connie," he said. "You'll be a better and a braver girl just because of these dark days." "She's the best wench on 'arth," said Harris. Suddenly Ronald sprang forward and spoke. "Uncle Stephen said I was to tell you he has bought the cottage in the country where Mrs. Cricket lives and he's adding to it and making it most beautiful, and dear Mrs. Cricket is to be housekeeper, and you're all to come down in the summer--all of you--even Giles; and Giles is to stay there as long as he lives. Uncle Stephen is a splendid man," continued Ronald. "It was after him my darling V. C. father took when he became so great and brave and manly, and I love Uncle Stephen better than any one except father. Father hasn't come home yet, and perhaps I won't see him until Giles sees his father. But I'm a very, very happy boy, and it's all because of Uncle Stephen. Now, the rest of you can be happy too in my cottage--Uncle Stephen says it _is_ my cottage--in the beautiful country." * * * * * These things came to pass, and even Giles went for a short time to the beautiful country, where the flowers grew in such abundance, and where the birds sang all day long. "Now you can guess," he said to Sue after they had been there a fortnight or more, "some little bit about the joys of the Land of Pure Delight." * * * * * Transcriber's Notes 1. This book makes extensive use of dialect. Original spellings of words in dialect have been retained. 2. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. 3. Table of Contents added in this text was not present in original edition. 4. One word has been changed from the original to correctly identify the speaker, Agnes, replying to Connie's question: p. 27 original: "Wot sort?" asked Connie. replacement: "Wot sort?" asked Agnes. 
20052	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 20052-h.htm or 20052-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/0/5/20052/20052-h/20052-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/0/5/20052/20052-h.zip) WE TEN Or The Story of the Roses by BARBARA YECHTON Author of "Ingleside," "A Matter of Honor," "Gentle-Heart Stories," "Two Knights-Errant," "Little Saint Hilary," "Christine's Inspiration" With Illustrations by Minna Brown [Illustration: "'OH, PAPA! _PAPA_! SURELY YOU ARE NOT GOING TO _BURN_ THE _FETICH_!'"] New York Dodd, Mead and Company 1896 Copyright, 1896, by Dodd, Mead and Co. All rights reserved. University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. TO MY DEAR ONES. _"Thou hast done well thy part, if Thou hast done thy best; As sure as I am God, I answer For the rest."_ CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. ROSES AND ROSES 1 II. IN THE STUDY 17 III. CONCERNING A PERFORMANCE 25 IV. AND A FETICH 43 V. A FRACAS AND AN ARRIVAL 53 VI. DISPOSING OF A FETICH 72 VII. NEW FRIENDS 92 VIII. A RESOLUTION 109 IX. MAX'S WARD 123 X. IN THE SCHOOLROOM 145 XI. AN AFTERNOON RECEPTION 165 XII. IN THE SHADOW 182 XIII. THROUGH THE SHADOW 200 XIV. A MISSION OF THREE 213 XV. SOME MINORS 230 XVI. AND A MAJOR 254 XVII. NORA'S SECRET 274 XVIII. EXPERIENCES AT ENDICOTT BEACH 283 XIX. HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER 322 XX. A SOLEMN PROMISE 346 XXI. THROUGH THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND 367 XXII. AUF WIEDERSEHEN 378 WE TEN, OR THE STORY OF THE ROSES. I. ROSES AND ROSES. TOLD BY JACK. When papa said positively that only Phil could go to college, we all felt so badly for Felix that we held a council in the schoolroom that very afternoon. At least, six of us did; the other four had been ruled out by Felix, who declared that "kids were not allowed in council." Paul and Mädel didn't mind so much,--they're the twins, they're only seven years old; nor did Alan,--he's the baby; but Kathie was awfully mad: you see, she's nearly ten, and she does love to hear all that's going on. When she gets crying, there's no stopping her, and I tell you she made things pretty lively round that schoolroom for a little while. How she did howl! We were so afraid she'd start Alan, and that the noise would reach papa's study; good-bye then to our council. We got provoked with Kathie; it was so silly of her to stand there crying like a big baby, and keeping us back that way. First Phil called out, "You just stop, this minute, Kathie!" and then, when she kept right on, he threw the old sofa pillow at her, and told her to go smother herself; Nora said, "Horrid child!" in her most disgusted tone, and Nannie and Betty coaxed and coaxed, trying to quiet her. [Illustration: "THE SCHOOLROOM VIXEN."] But nothing had any effect until Felix limped over to his easel. Felix is lame,--dear old Fee!--but my! isn't he clever! Greek and Latin are just as easy as--as--anything to him, and he writes stories and poems,--though nobody knows this 'cept us children and Miss Marston, and we wouldn't tell for the world,--and he paints the most _beautiful_ pictures you ever saw. Well, as I was telling you, he limped over to his easel, and took up his brush. "Just keep that charming expression on your face a few minutes longer, Kathie," he said, "until I get it on canvas; and I'll paint your picture as the 'Schoolroom Vixen,' and send it to the Academy. That's right, open your mouth _just_ a little wider--what a wonderful cavern!--hullo! why'd you stop crying? I'm not half through." That quieted my lady! You see she was afraid he was in earnest; and after Nannie had wiped her eyes for her, and given her the last piece of chocolate in her box, off she went to the other end of the room, and began playing house with the twins and Alan under the schoolroom table, as nicely as you please. Then the council began. Nannie said it was called to discuss "ways and means." I suppose by that she meant to see if there was any way that Felix could go to college too; but, as usual, in a very little while everybody began to take "sides," and then, the first thing we knew, we were all talking at the same time, and just as loud as ever we could. That's a way we have,--all talking and nobody listening. What a din there was, until Felix scrambled up on a chair and pounded on the floor with his cane, and shouted out louder than anybody else: "Who _am_ I talking to? I _will_ be heard!" That made everybody laugh, and brought us back to business; but in a few minutes we were just as bad again. We're the greatest family for taking sides that you ever heard of, and we do get so excited over things! Anybody that didn't know would surely think we were quarrelling, when really we'd just be having a discussion. I can't see where we got it from, for dear mamma was always just as sweet and gentle, and goodness knows papa doesn't say ten words in a day, and those in the very quietest voice. I can't explain it, but it's a fact all the same that we are a noisy family,--even Nora. Miss Marston--she's our governess--says it's very vulgar to be noisy, and that we ought to be ashamed to be so boisterous; but nurse declares--and I think she's right--that the reason is 'cause "the whole kit an' crew" (she means us) "come just like steps, one after the other, an' one ain't got any more right to rule than the other." You see Phil is seventeen and Alan is five, and between them we eight come in; so we are "just like steps," as she says. [Illustration: "PLAYING HOUSE WITH THE TWINS AND ALAN UNDER THE SCHOOLROOM TABLE."] Perhaps I'd better tell you a little about each of us, so you'll understand as I go on: Well, to begin, Phil is a big strong fellow, and just as full of fun and mischief as he can stick; he just _loves_ to play practical jokes, but he isn't so fond of study, I can tell you, and that vexes papa, 'cause he's got it all laid out that Phil's to be a lawyer. Being the eldest, he seems to think he can order us children round as he pleases, and of course we won't stand it, and that makes trouble sometimes. But Phil's generous; he'd give us anything he's got, particularly to Felix, he thinks so much of him,--though of course he wouldn't say so,--so we get along pretty well with him. Next come Felix and Nannie; they're twins too. I've told you 'most everything about Fee already. He's awfully cross sometimes, when he isn't well, and, as Nora says, he really orders us about more than Phil does; but somehow we don't mind it, 'cause, with all his queerness, he's the life of the house, and he's got some ways that just make us love him dearly: mamma used to call him her "lovable crank." Nannie is devoted to Felix; they're always together. They're trying to teach themselves the violin, and she reads the same books and studies the same lessons as he does, to keep up with him; she's clever, too, now I tell you,--- I'd never get my Greek and Latin perfect if she didn't help me,--though she doesn't make any fuss over it. Nannie is an awfully nice girl,--I don't know what we'd do without her; since mamma died, she's all the time looking after us children, and making things go smoothly. She doesn't "boss" us a bit, and yet, somehow, she gets us to do lots of things. She is real pretty, too,--her eyes are so brown and shiny. It's queer, but we don't any of us mind telling Nannie when we get into scrapes; she talks to us at the time, and makes us feel sorry and ashamed, but she never makes us feel small while she's doing it, and we never hear of it again. But you wouldn't catch us doing that to Nora! She comes next, you know, and she's really _very_ pretty, though we never tell her so, 'cause she's so stuck up already. Felix puts her into lots of his pictures, and I heard Max Derwent say once that she was beautiful. Max is papa's friend; he is a grown-up man, though he isn't as old as papa. He used to come here a lot, and we children like him first-rate; but now he's in Europe. Well, to come back to Nora: she likes to be called Eleanor, but we don't do it; she is so fussy and so very proper that Felix has nick-named her Miss Prim, and we _do_ call her that. Miss Marston thinks Nora is the best behaved of us all; and sometimes, when Nannie is in papa's study, she lets her go in the drawing-room and entertain people that call. You should see the airs that Nora puts on when she comes upstairs after these occasions; it's too killing for anything! We boys make lots of fun of her, but she doesn't care a jot. And yet, isn't it queer! with all her primness and fine airs, of us all, Nora cares most for Phil, and he's so untidy and rough; she almost runs her legs off waiting on him, and half the time he doesn't even say thank you! The next after Nora is Betty, our "long-legged tomboy," as Felix calls her, 'cause she is so tall and so full of mischief. Just to look at her you'd think she was as mild as a lamb; but in reality she's wilder than all of us boys put together. I've seen her slide down the banisters of three flights of stairs, one flight after the other, balancing papa's breakfast tray on one palm; and for warwhoops and the ability to make the most hideous faces, she goes ahead of anything I've ever heard or seen. She is as bad as Phil for playing jokes, and when she gets in one of her wild moods, the only way Miss Marston can manage her is to threaten to take her to papa's study; that brings her to terms every time. For that matter, we none of us like to go there, though I'm sure papa never scolds, as some people's fathers do,--I almost wish he would sometimes; he just looks at us; but, all the same, we don't like to go to the study. I hope you won't think from what I've said that Betty is a disagreeable girl, for she isn't at all; I'm really very fond of her, and we're together a great deal, because I am the next in age to her. She's awfully quick-tempered, and flies into a rage for almost nothing; but she's very honest, and she'll own up to a fault like a soldier. Once in a while we have a falling out, but not often, 'cause I won't quarrel. Nannie says that I give in sometimes when I oughtn't to,--she means when it isn't right to; I guess that's my fault, but I do hate to squabble with any one,--it's such a bother. I don't know what to tell you about myself, except that I'm not very bright at my books, though I love to read stories. It does seem so strange that we shouldn't all be smart, when papa, as everybody knows, is such a wonderfully clever man. I'm Jack, or, rather,--to give my full name,--John Minot Rose. I think that's rather a nice name, but you can't think what fun the whole family make of it; they call me "a Jack rose," and "Jacqueminot," and "Rosebud," and a "sweet-scented flower," and all sorts of absurd names. Of course it's very silly of them. Betty gets furious over it; but I don't really care, so what's the use of being angry. Kathie comes next to me; she is a nice little girl, only she does love to tattle things, and that makes trouble sometimes. She's very gentle, and just as pretty as a picture, with her long light curls and pretty, big blue eyes; but my! isn't she obstinate! She doesn't fly into rages, like Betty, but she keeps persisting and persisting till she carries her point, and when she once starts in crying, you may make up your mind she isn't going to stop in a hurry. But she doesn't mean to be naughty, I'm sure; and she's the most polite child, and so willing to do things for people! Then come the other twins, Paul and Mädel. Paul is a standing joke with us, he's so solemn; and yet he says such bright, funny things, in his slow way, that we have to laugh: we call him the "Judge." Mädel is a little darling, just as jolly and round and sweet as she can be; nurse says she's going to be a second Nannie. We all make a great deal of her,--much more than we do of Alan; for though he's the baby, he's so independent that he doesn't like to be petted. So now you know all about the Roses; it does seem as if I'd been a long time telling about them, but you see there are such a lot of us. Well, to go back to the council. Fee was awfully cut up over his disappointment, and cranky too; but nobody minded what he said, until, all at once, Nora got in a tantrum, and declared he was "acting _very_ mean to Phil," that he needn't always expect to have things his own way, and that papa was perfectly right to give Phil the first chance. That set Fee off, and in about two minutes we were all mixed up in the fuss,--taking "sides," you know; that is, all but Phil,--he just sat hunched up on the arm of the old sofa, swinging one of his long legs, and scowling, and chewing away on a piece of straw he'd pulled out of the whisk-broom, and he didn't say a word until Nora turned on him, and asked him, very indignantly, how he could sit there and let Felix bully her in that way. Then all at once he seemed to get very mad and just pitched into Fee. I don't remember what he said, and I'm glad that I don't, 'cause I _know_ Phil didn't mean a word of it; but Felix felt awfully hurt. He got two bright red spots on his cheeks, and he set his lips tight together, and when Phil stopped to catch his breath, after an unusually long speech, he got up and pushed his chair back. "It is so pleasant to hear one's family's honest opinion of one's self," he remarked, in that sarcastic way he has. "I shall try to remember all that you've said," bowing to Phil and Nora, "and I shall endeavour to profit by it. And as long as I'm such a contemptible and useless member of the community, I'll relieve you of my company." His voice shook so he could hardly say the last words, and he started for the door, stumbling over the furniture as he went. Between you and me, I think his eyes were full of tears, and that they blurred his glasses so he couldn't see,--did I tell you that Felix is near-sighted? Well, he is. "Oh, Phil, how _could_ you say such mean things to your own brother!" cried out Nannie; and with that she flew after Felix. That cooled Phil down, and if he didn't turn on Nora! "It's all your fault," he said angrily; "you just nagged me on to it. You're never happy unless you're quarrelling." This was pretty true, but I don't think it was at all nice of Phil to say so, and I felt very sorry for Nonie when she burst out crying. Betty and I were trying to quiet her, when in walked Miss Marston, to know what all that loud noise and banging of doors meant. We didn't tell her about the _fracas_, 'cause, though she's pretty good in a way, she isn't at all the person one would want to tell things to. She carried the little ones off for their early dinner, and Nora and Betty too,--"to help," she said. But I stayed in the schoolroom. I knew if I went down stairs they'd just keep me trotting about waiting on them all, and that's such a nuisance! so I curled up on the sofa and read for a while. The fire was so bright, and everything was so cozy, that I did wish some of the others would come in and enjoy it. I was really pleased when Major and Whiskers came walking in and settled down near me. They're our dog and cat, and they're good playfellows with us; but they will fight with each other now and then. At first I enjoyed my story immensely; it was about a boy who was having the wildest kind of adventures among the Indians. I wouldn't go through such exciting times for anything; but I enjoy reading about 'em, when I'm all safe and comfortable at home. Well, when it grew too dark to read, I laid my book down and began to think, and presently it seemed as if a whole pack of Indians were dancing like wild round me, in full war-paint and feathers, and nipping little pieces out of my arms and legs. I stood it as long as I could, and then I began to hit out at 'em. All at once one of the creatures commenced flourishing his tomahawk at me, getting nearer and nearer all the time. "I _have_ tried, but I can't get in," he said, grinning horribly, and the voice sounded just like Phil's; "he's locked his door, and he won't even answer me,--he's madder than hornets." [Illustration: "'WHY, _JACK_!' SAID NANNIE."] "I'm sure you can't blame him: what you said was very unkind, Phil; I didn't think it of you!" The voice was certainly Nannie's; and yet there was that horrid old Indian still nipping me. "I know it, Nan; you needn't rub it in," groaned Phil,--the Indian. "But really, I didn't mean one word of it, and he ought to have known that. Why, Fee's got more brains than the whole crowd of us put together, and if only one of us can go to college, he ought to be that one. I've screwed up my courage, and I'm going to speak to father about it." "Oh, Phil, don't, please don't; it'll be no use. You know there is no changing papa when his mind is made up. Better let things stand as they are until Max gets home; it won't be very long, you know. And besides, I'm sure Felix wouldn't let you give up college for him. But you're a dear, generous boy, to propose it." "No, I'm not; I'm a great clumsy, cantankerous animal. Now if I could only talk as Felix can, I wouldn't mind interviewing the _pater_ to-morrow; but just as sure as I undertake to say anything to him, I get so nervous and confused that I act like a fool, and that provokes him. He seems to paralyse me. But, all the same, I'm going to talk to him about this matter to-morrow, Nannie,"--the Indian's voice sank so low that I could hardly hear it; "I have a feeling that mother would want Fee to go to college." I sat up and rubbed my arms that had gone to sleep, and looked around; I was still on the old sofa, and just a few feet away from me sat Phil, on the edge of the schoolroom table, and Nannie in a chair beside him. Confused and only half awake as I was, my one idea was to slip away quietly and not let 'em know I'd heard what they had been saying, for I was sure they wouldn't like that. Nannie says I ought to have spoken right out; but I do hate to make people feel uncomfortable. So I swung myself softly to my feet, and--landed hard on Whiskers's tail! Of course, after that, there was no hiding that I was there. Poor Whiskers gave a howl of pain, and, flying at Major, boxed the solemn old doggie's ears, much to his surprise and wrath, and they had a free fight on the spot. "Why, _Jack_!" said Nannie; and I got hot all over, for I just felt by her tone that she thought I'd been listening. "Our Jacqueminot, I declare!" cried Phil. "You are a nice young rosebud, I must say, to be snooping around this way! Come here, sir!" He made a dive for me, but I drew back. "I _didn't_ listen!" I called out. And then I remembered that I really had, only I thought it was the Indians talking; and, dipping under his arm, I rushed out of the room as hard as I could go, before he could catch me. II. IN THE STUDY. TOLD BY JACK. I thought very often of what Phil had said, I couldn't help it; but I don't suppose I would ever have really understood what he meant if I hadn't heard something more the next day. Poor me! it just seemed for those two days as if I did nothing but get into people's way and keep hearing things that they didn't want me to. This time it was partly Betty's fault,--at least, she was what Phil calls the "primary cause." I suppose it was because it was such a lovely day out-of-doors, that I couldn't seem to put my mind on my books at all, and when Betty pulled two feather-tops out of her pocket, and offered me one, I took it very willingly, and we began to play on the sly. Of course we got caught: my feather-top must needs fly away from the leg of the table, which was our mark, and stick itself into Kathie's leg. I don't think it hurt her so very much, but she was startled, and didn't she howl! Miss Marston was all out of patience with me already, and when, soon after that, I made a mess of my Latin, she got very angry, and walked me right down to the study. Papa listened in dead silence to all she told him; then he just lifted his eyes from his writing, and pointed to a chair a good way from him: "Sit there," he said, "and study your lesson, and don't disturb me." So I took my seat, and Miss Marston shut the door and went away. My! how quiet it was in that room! Not a sound except a faint scrabbling noise now and then from the L behind the portière,--where some very old reference books are kept,--and papa's pen scratching across the paper, and even that stopped presently, and he began to read a book that lay open beside him. As he sat there reading, with sheets upon sheets of the Fetich scattered all round him, I looked and looked at him; I don't know why it is, but somehow, when I'm anywhere alone with papa, I just have to keep looking at him instead of anything else. He's a tall man, and thin, and he stoops round his shoulders; he wears glasses, too, like Felix, and he always looks as if he were thinking of something 'way off in his mind. Nurse says she's sure he'd forget to eat, if the things weren't put right under his nose; you see that's because he's all the time thinking of books. Oh, papa's awfully clever! [Illustration: "PLAYING FEATHERTOP."] After a while I found a lollipop in my pocket, and I began to suck it,--just for company, you know; and truly the room was so quiet I was afraid papa'd hear me swallow. Every now and then there was that little scrabble behind the portière; I made up my mind papa must have some one there making references for him, and I wondered who. But just then came a quite loud knock at the study door, and before papa had finished saying "Come!"--he never does say it right away,--the door flew open, and in bounced Phil, as if he were in an awful hurry. He marched straight to papa's desk, and began, very quickly, "Father, I'd like--" But papa just waved his hand at him, without looking up: "In a few minutes," he said, and went right on reading. You should have seen Phil fidget: he stood on one foot, then on the other; he put his hands in his pockets and jingled the things he had there, till he remembered that papa doesn't like us to do that, then he took his hands out. He straightened up, and shook his coat collar into place, and he cleared his throat; but nothing had any effect until he accidentally knocked a book off the desk. Then papa started, and peered up at him in the near-sighted way that Felix does sometimes: "H'm, too bad!" he said, taking the book from Phil; then he sighed, put his finger on the page of his book to mark the place, and said, in a resigned sort of way, "Well, what is it you want?" And I tell you, Phil didn't take long to come to the point; he pitched right in, in that quick, headlong way he has when he's awfully in earnest. "I want to ask you, father, please to let Felix go to college in my place. As long as we can't both go, I think he ought to be the one. You know, sir, he's a thousand times cleverer than I am, and he'll be sure to do you twice the credit that I shall. I do wish you'd consider the change." "And what do _you_ propose to do in that case?" papa asked, peering up at him again. "Go into business,--lots of fellows do at my age,--if I can get anything at all," answered Phil, squaring his shoulders. Papa sat and thought and thought for several minutes, without a word; then he said, in that quiet tone of voice that we children know always settles a question, "No, I prefer that the present arrangement should be carried out." Then he began reading again. I thought Phil would have gone, after that; but no, he got quite excited: "It isn't fair to Felix," he cried, thumping his hand down on the desk with such force that the pages of the Fetich just danced,--you'll hear more about the Fetich by and by,--"indeed it isn't! He's got the most brains of the whole lot of us put together, and he _ought_ to have some advantages. And besides, sir, you know he was mother's boy." Phil's voice shook so that a big lump came in my throat. "I'm sure she would want him to go to college; for her sake, let us change places." Papa put up his hand quickly, and shielded his eyes from the light, and he didn't answer right away. "It was--her wish--that you should go," he said presently, stopping between the words. "Because she expected there'd be money enough for us both," Phil began eagerly; but all of a sudden the portière that hung over the L was pushed aside, and who should come limping up to them but Felix! His eyes were shining, even through his glasses, and he didn't seem to mind papa one bit. "So that's what you're up to, is it?" he said to Phil, "trying to give me your birthright!" By this time he'd reached Phil's side, and he threw his arm right across Phil's shoulders. "_Dear_ old Lion-heart!" he said,--how his voice did ring out! "And I thought you didn't care!" And papa just sat there and looked at them, without a word, from under his hand. Now I suppose you think I was a very mean sort of a boy to sit there and take in all this that wasn't intended for me to hear; but really it wasn't my fault. You see, I was so surprised when Phil walked in and began to talk like that, that I never thought of saying anything; but pretty soon I remembered, and I felt very uncomfortable. I got up then, and walked a few steps forward, but nobody noticed me. And when Phil got so excited, I _couldn't_ get a word out. Then Felix came out, and I really got desperate,--I felt I _must_ let 'em know I was there; so I just called out twice, quite loud, "Please, I'm here!" They all jumped, they were so surprised, and Phil wheeled round on me in a minute. "That ubiquitous 'Jack rose' _again_!" he exclaimed; and taking me by the collar,--that was really _very_ mean of Phil,--he walked me very fast over to the door. Then he opened the door, and said, "_Skip!_" and gave me quite a hard shove into the hall, and shut the door again. I tell you what now, my feelings were awfully hurt; I just wished Betty were there; I know she'd have given it to Phil! "Jack!" somebody called just then, and there was Nannie seated in the niche at the head of the stairs. I ran up and squeezed in alongside of her, and she snuggled me up to her, and made me feel ever so much better. I told her the whole story, and somehow, by the time I got through, instead of being angry any more, I really felt sorry for the boys. "Oh, Nannie," I said, "I do wish Fee _could_ go to college!" Nannie caught my hand tight between her two palms. "Jack," she said softly, "say our verse for the day, will you?" So I repeated it: "'I say unto you, that if two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven. For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.'" "That has comforted me all day," whispered Nannie. "That's what we can do for Felix: we can pray--you and I--that God will make a way for him to go to college. Will you, Jackie-boy?" "Yes," I said presently; "but--but--perhaps, Nannie, you'd better not say anything to Betty about it, 'cause--well, you know she _might_ make fun of me." "Oh, no, she won't," said Nannie, "because you and I are the 'two,' Jack, and she's the 'three'; she's praying for Felix, too." Well, I _was_ dumfounded,--Betty, of all people! Just then the study door opened, and Phil and Felix came out; Phil had his arm over Fee's shoulder, and he began helping him up the steps. I felt they'd want Nannie to themselves,--and, besides, Phil might just have said something to tease me again; so I ran up stairs alone, and left them to talk together. All this happened some weeks ago, and though Phil has commenced college, no way has come yet for Felix to go; but we "three" still keep on praying for it. III. CONCERNING A PERFORMANCE. TOLD BY NANNIE. So many and such unexpected things have happened lately that I scarcely know where to begin, or how to tell everything. The very first surprise was two letters that came for Felix and me from our godmother, aunt Lindsay. She is not really our aunt, though we call her so, and I'm named Nancy after her; but she knew dear mamma when she was a girl, and she is the only person except mamma that we ever heard call papa "Jack." Aunt Lindsay is quite an old lady, and she's very eccentric. She lives in a big old house in Boston, and very seldom comes to New York; but twice a year, on our birthday and at Christmas, she sends us a letter and a present,--generally a book,--and Fee and I have to write and thank her. How we dread those letters! It was hard enough when we had mamma to talk them over with before we began them; but now it's a great deal worse, for Miss Marston does not help us in the least. She says we are quite old enough now to do them alone, and I suppose we are. But we can't express ourselves in the same way time after time, and it is so difficult to think of new things to say that are interesting and not frivolous,--for aunt Lindsay wouldn't permit that. Sometimes we really get low-spirited over our efforts, and I'd be ashamed to tell how many sheets of paper and envelopes are spoilt in the undertaking. Once, in a fit of desperation, Felix bought a "Complete Letter-Writer," and we hunted through it; but there seemed to be nothing in it suitable for an occasion such as ours, and besides, the language used in the "Letter-Writer" was so very fine and unlike our former efforts that we were afraid aunt Lindsay would, as Phil vulgarly puts it, "smell a mice." So that had to be given up, and finally, after many and great struggles, with the help of the whole family, we would manage to write something that Miss Marston allowed us to send. On the principle that brevity is wit, some of these productions of ours are really remarkable. And now, though it was neither Christmas nor our birthday, here came two letters from our godmother which would have to be answered. We groaned as we received them, and the family, even to Kathie, gave us their sympathy,--Phil suggesting that perhaps "the old lady" had sent us a whole library this time, which would of course call for a special expression of gratitude. Think, then, how we felt when we opened the letters and found that our godmother wrote to tell us she had made arrangements for Felix to take painting lessons for one term, and for me, violin lessons for the same length of time! To say we were astonished doesn't at all express our state of mind. The questions that occurred to us when we got over the first shock were, how could aunt Lindsay have known just what would best please each of us, and why had she remembered us at this time of the year, which was no particular occasion? And then we thought of her kindness, and were _so_ ashamed! Fee and I looked at each other, and though we didn't say it, the same thought came to us both,--that we would write her the nicest letter of thanks that we could compose, if it took every sheet of note-paper we owned. Of course we read aunt Lindsay's letter aloud,--that and talking them over is the best part of receiving letters,--and of course we all got very much excited over our unexpected good fortune. Felix said right away that he would give Nora lessons in drawing two afternoons in the week,--she really draws very nicely, and is so anxious to get on,--provided she'd promise not to "put on any airs or frills;" and I told Fee I'd help him--in the same way--with his violin playing. Then Phil proposed, and the whole family approved, that we should on the following evening--which was papa's night at the Archæological Society--celebrate the happy event by what we call "a musical performance." Though we are very fond of these "performances," we have not had one for quite a while, because some of us older ones haven't felt up to it; for, as Fee truly says, "it really requires very good spirits indeed to make a festive occasion go off successfully." Since that day in papa's study that Jack has told about, nothing more has been said of Fee's going to college,--though we all want it just as much as ever, and Jack and I feel that it _will_ come,--and Felix himself seems to have quite given up the idea. He laughs and jokes again in his old merry way, particularly when Phil is at home; Nora and he have made friends, and Betty and Jack have got over staring at Fee with big round eyes of sympathy, and dear old Phil no longer skulks in and out of the house as if he were ashamed of himself; now he tells us bits of his college experience, and--as of old--gets Felix to help him with his studies. Things look as if everybody was satisfied; but, though he never alludes to it, I know Fee's heart is sore over his disappointment,--you see, he is my own twin, and, while I love all my brothers and sisters, Felix is more dear to me than any one else in the whole wide world, and I understand him better than anybody else does. Fee is not like the rest of us; in the first place, he is more delicate, and his lameness makes him very sensitive. Then, too, though we all, from Phil to Alan, confide in him our troubles and pleasures, he rarely, if ever, opens his heart to any of us. And when we talk things over among ourselves, and so in a way help one another along, Fee keeps his deepest feelings to himself. Very often we children talk of dear mamma, particularly when we're together in the firelight Sunday afternoons and evenings,--it's a comfort to us; but Felix simply listens,--he never speaks of her, though he was mother's boy. But I know, all the same, that he misses her every day of his life, and that as long as he lives he'll never forget one tone of her voice, or one word she has said to him. Fee used to have a dreadful temper; he'd say such cutting, sarcastic things! and when mamma would speak to him about it, he'd declare that he _couldn't_ help it, and that the sharp ugly words _would_ come. But now, since she's gone, he is so much better, and I'm sure that he's trying to control himself, because he remembers how grieved she used to be when he got into a rage. I don't mean to say that he has entirely gotten over it,--I don't suppose that will ever be; but he doesn't flash out as he used to, and sometimes when he is very angry, he sets his lips tight together, and limps out of the room just as fast as ever he can go, to keep the ugly words from being spoken. Once in a great while, if I am alone in the schoolroom, he'll come and throw himself down on the old sofa beside me, and, putting his head in my lap, lay my hand over his eyes. I know then, as well as if he had told me, that he is thinking of dear mamma and longing for her; and such a rush of love comes into my heart for him that I think he must feel it in my very finger-tips as they touch him. He was more with mamma at the last than any of us, because he is so gentle and helpful in a sick-room; but when the end had come, and we children were standing about the bed, crying bitterly, with our arms around one another, I missed Felix. From room to room I hunted, and at last I found him, huddled up in a heap on the floor of the old store-room at the top of the house. And never shall I forget the white, utterly wretched face that he turned on me, as I knelt down by him and put my arms round his neck. He held my shoulders with his two thin hands so tight that I could feel his finger-nails through my sleeves. "Oh, Nannie!" he said, in such a hoarse whisper I'd never have known it for Fee's sweet voice, "if I could only _die_ this very night!" Then he sank down, and lay there trembling from head to foot, and sobbing, sobbing! I pulled a quilt down from one of the shelves and threw it over him; then I sat on the floor and drew his head into my lap and just smoothed his forehead and hair for the longest while, without a word, until he quieted down. I felt, somehow, that he would rather not have me say anything. Don't imagine, from what I've said, that Fee is a dismal sort of person, for indeed he isn't; he's the merriest of us all, and the prime leader in all the mischief and fun that goes on; and just as soon as it was settled that we should have a performance, he began to plan what each person should do, and to arrange the programme. We always have a programme: it saves confusion and people's feelings getting hurt; for, of course, then one can only go on in one's turn and for the special part set down; otherwise, everybody would be on the stage at once, and there'd be no audience. The large closet in the schoolroom is our dressing-room on these occasions, and as we have no way of making a stage, the younger children, Paul and Mädel and Alan,--Kathie is too big for that now,--stand on a table near the closet and deliver their parts. Felix makes up the funniest names for us on the programme, and we answer to them as readily as if we were in the habit of doing so every day. We were all very busy that afternoon and evening and the next afternoon preparing our parts for the performance; but, with all that, Fee and I got our letters off to our godmother. I felt so truly grateful both for him and for myself, that I didn't have nearly as much trouble composing it as I had expected. But all day I was in a perfect fever to get up to the Conservatory, where aunt Lindsay had entered my name, and to make arrangements for taking my violin lessons. Miss Marston and I talked the matter over, and found that when all the little home duties and my regular studies were finished, there was but one hour that I could set aside regularly for my new work. For though I should only take two lessons a week, I should have to have time to practise, or I'd be able to make no progress at all. She said I might go up that afternoon; so right after school Nora and I started out to the Conservatory. I was very nervous, and my violin is not a very good one; Phil says it's nothing but a fiddle, and that the old second-hand dealer from whom we bought them--Fee has one, too,--cheated us. They certainly do squeak dreadfully, at times, when you least expect it; but then we didn't pay much for them,--you may know that, when we saved for them out of our allowance!--and, as nurse says, "If you want a good article, you've got to pay for it;" still, they're a great deal better than nothing. But to go back to my story: Nora says that, considering how very nervous I was, and the poor instrument I had, she thinks I did fairly well. I love violin music! I can't express what a delight it is to me to play; and the prospect of being able to improve myself in it made me very happy. The professor that aunt Lindsay wanted to be my teacher told us his classes were very full, and that the hour I named for Wednesday and Saturday afternoons was the only time he could give me; then he said something kind about my playing, that gave me a little confidence, and sent me home quite radiant. As I came out of the room which Betty and I share, after putting away my things, nurse opened the nursery door and beckoned me in: "Miss Nannie," she said impressively, "I'm kinder worried 'bout your pa. He's never had no appetite to brag of; but for a week past he's been eatin' like a bird. Mornin' after mornin' he ain't touched nothin' but his tea, an' I'm afraid something's wrong. I don't want to frighten you, my dear, but I thought by tellin' you, maybe you could find out if anything ails him, and get him to send for the doctor. I think he looks kinder bad, and--lors! child, if anything happened to him, what _would_ become o' you all!" I got very nervous, until I remembered how easily nurse gets alarmed; if the children feel the least under the weather, she is apt to imagine that they are going to be seriously ill. "No," I said, "I haven't noticed that he looks badly; but thank you, nursie, for telling me. I'll look closely at him this evening at dinner, and I'll try my best to find out if he isn't well." Papa always has his breakfast and lunch in the study, and dines with us. We older ones think that he does this as a duty, for we are pretty sure that he doesn't enjoy it; you see, papa does not really care for children, and there is no grown person now for him to talk to,--except Miss Marston, and she is not very interesting. Poor papa! He sits at the head of the table, but Phil does the carving; and though very often he does not say a dozen words throughout the entire meal, yet even our daring Betty is subdued into good behaviour by his presence. There is no reason for it that we know of,--papa has never forbidden our talking at table,--but somehow, since dear mamma has gone, we have very little conversation at dinner; though we make up for it at other meals, I assure you. I sit in mamma's place now, and this evening, as I looked carefully at papa across the long table, I could see that he did look thinner: there was a tired expression on his face, too, that troubled me. As I passed through the hall, about half an hour later, he stood there in overcoat and hat, putting on his gloves before starting out for a meeting of the Archæological Society; and when I asked, "Papa, are you feeling well? really quite well?" he put on that bored expression that always makes me feel miles away from him. "Well? Oh, yes!" then he added, with more animation, "Nannie, I wish you would get me that pamphlet that is lying on my desk. I nearly forgot it." [Illustration: "ALAN MADE HIS BOW."] He took the pamphlet when I brought it, and began fingering it aimlessly, giving me a disagreeable feeling of being in the way; and as I turned and ran up the stairs, he went into the drawing-room. He wasn't there but a minute or two,--before I reached the second floor I heard the front door close behind him,--and the next morning, when Nora and I were dusting the drawing-room, we found the pamphlet on the floor before mamma's picture. After all, he had forgotten it. I ran on up to the schoolroom, and there everybody was in a great state of excitement, preparing for the performance, which was to begin and end early on account of the younger children. There was no attempt at costume, but we girls wore a ribbon--they belong to our "stage property"--tied from shoulder to waist, the boys carried a paper rose in their button-holes, and Kathie and the twins and Alan were decorated with huge paper-muslin sashes and fancy caps, so that we all presented quite a festive and unusual appearance. The chairs were ranged in rows; the invited guests--Murray Unsworth, and his cousin, Helen Vassah (they always come to our "festive occasions")--arrived; nurse, and Hannah, our maid, came in and took their places at the back, cook stealing in a little later; a bell tinkled; Alan walked out of the closet, was assisted to the table by Felix,--who was master of ceremonies,--and made his bow to the audience with one hand on his heart and a trumpet in the other, and the performance began. [Illustration: "VIOLIN DUO, RENDERED BY THE WORLD-RENOWNED VIOLINISTS, MLLE. NANINA AND MONS. FELIX."] The programme was elaborately printed in two or three colours, on heavy light-brown paper, and it was tacked up on the schoolroom wall in full view of all, so that each person would know when his or her turn had come, and could disappear in the dark closet,--no lights were allowed there for fear of fire,--to reappear immediately before the audience, amid a storm of applause. This is the way the programme read:-- "Yankibus Doodlum," trumpet solo by the Infant Prodigy, Master Alano Enrico Rosie. "Eight White Sheep," vocal duet, rendered with appropriate finger-play by the Celebrated Twin Singers, Fräulein Mädel and Herr Paulus. "Little White Lily," charming vocal solo by the Famous Prima Donna, Mlle. Kathé. "Charge of the Six Hundred," favourite recitation by the Distinguished Elocutionist, Prof. Jacqueminot. Extraordinary exhibition with Indian clubs by the Remarkable Strong Girl, Signorina Bettina, with piano accompaniment by Signorina Eleanora Nonie. "Serenade," Gounod, violin duo, rendered by the World-Renowned Violinists, Mlle. Nanina and Mons. Felix. "Le Soupir," piano solo by the Brilliant Pianist, Signorina Eleanora Nonie. { "Swanee River." { "Feniculi." { "Good-night, Ladies," college songs, with banjo accompaniment, by the Wonderful Tenor Singer and Banjoist, Prof. Philipo. Curtain down! Lights out! Everything went off beautifully, from Alan's opening bow to Phil's parting obeisance, with two exceptions,--the small boy fell off the table and scraped his shin, and so had to be comforted, and Kathie got so excited when she knew her turn was coming that she jumped up from her chair and raced round and round the schoolroom table, scuffing her feet on the floor and making her hand squeak on the wooden surface of the table, thereby interfering with the effect of Fräulein Mädel and Herr Paulus's vocal efforts. She was captured, however, and brought to reason and good behaviour by the threat of having her name crossed off the programme. With these two trifling exceptions, the performance was most creditable, the _artistes_ were warmly received and enthusiastically applauded,--in one or two instances they even applauded themselves. Hastily manufactured bouquets of newspaper and paper-muslin were showered upon the stage, and when all was over nurse and cook surprised us by refreshments of cookies and lemonade, served on the schoolroom table. How we enjoyed it! Not a cake was left, nor a drop of lemonade. Nora was shocked, and I was so glad Miss Marston had not accepted our invitation to be present! When it was all over, and we were putting away the things, I told Felix what nurse had said, and asked him if he had noticed that papa wasn't well. Fee looked at me with reflective eyes for a moment or two. "Yes," he said slowly, "come to think of it, the _pater_ _has_ looked rather seedy lately. And another thing," he added, "he hasn't let me make a single reference for him this whole week; and yesterday, when I went in somewhat abruptly, he was sitting at his desk with pages of the Fetich before him, but not writing or reading, just resting his head on his hand. I don't think I've ever seen him do that before." Again that horrid apprehension came over me. "Oh, Fee," I said nervously, "do you suppose he is ill,--that anything is going to happen to him? _Do_ tell me frankly what you think!" Felix bent over the stage property he was doing up, as he answered: "I've thought for some time past that he misses--mother--more than ever." Then he walked off with his bundle. How utterly ashamed I felt! Nurse had noticed how badly he looked; Felix had, too,--and perhaps he had guessed the trouble truly; Phil, even, might have seen it, and I, papa's eldest daughter, who had promised mamma to take care of him, had been too selfishly absorbed in my own affairs to even think of him! It was no comfort to tell myself that papa was hard to get at; I felt I had neglected him. "Don't worry, twinnie," Felix said, kindly, coming back to me. "You know care once killed a feline, in spite of his nine lives; so don't you go in for that sort of thing, or you'll get the worst of it. Go to bed now, and have a good sleep; by daylight things will look very much brighter; and at any rate you have your violin lessons ahead of you, and the performance behind you,--two good things. Good-night." IV. AND A FETICH. TOLD BY NANNIE. BUT my first thought in the morning was of papa, and I wondered what I ought to do for him; how I longed for dear mamma! If even Max were home!--for he was a great favourite with papa, and might be able to persuade him to see Dr. Archard. Though papa is so quiet and gentle, he is really a very difficult person to get to do things that he doesn't want to; and he never wants to have a physician for himself. I was feeling very blue, when something Betty said reminded me of my violin lessons, and then the very thought made me more cheerful. Betty and I room together, and Nora and Kathie have the next apartment; and what did Nora and Betty do but put their heads together while we were dressing to think of a place in the house where I might go to practise every afternoon without disturbing papa. One or the other of the girls practises every afternoon, and the combination of violin squeaks and piano exercises would, we knew, disturb papa very much. Miss Marston, we were sure, would not permit them to neglect their music,--Nora is a fine musician, and Betty would be if she'd only put the same interest into that that she does into some other things, such as Indian clubs, and sliding down banisters, and playing practical jokes,--and we couldn't plan where my violin hour could best come in, when Nora thought of the old store-room at the top of the house. That was a good idea, because, by closing the door and hanging a thick quilt over it, not much of my scraping would escape to mingle with the piano scale-running, and so annoy papa. The girls' arranging for me in this way quite cheered me up,--the question of practising having troubled me a good deal, for I knew a noise of that kind would seriously interfere with papa's writing, and delay still longer the completion of the Fetich. Years and years ago, before Phil was born,--indeed, before mamma and papa were ever married,--papa began to write a book, and it is not yet finished, though there are pages and pages of it. Of course it is _very_ deep and _very_ clever, for papa is a great scholar. Max Derwent says that if papa would only finish the book he thinks he knows of a publisher who would accept it at once; and that would be a great help to us, for papa has lost a lot of money this year, and we have to be _very_ economical. That is the reason Fee can't go to college as well as Phil; papa explained this to the boys that day in the study, after Jack had been put out. Dear Jack! he is such a gentle, old-fashioned little fellow, it really seems as if he ought to have been the girl, and Betty the boy. But, for all that Max said, papa can't seem to get to the end of his work; he writes and re-writes, and keeps making changes all the time. Sometimes I have wondered if he has worked over it so long that he hates to part with it. The title of this great piece of work is "The History of Some Ancient Peoples," or something very like that,--it's about the Egyptians and Phoenicians and Chaldeans; but among ourselves we children call it the Fetich. Long ago Fee gave it that name, because he says it rules the house, and everything and everybody has to give way to it; and he isn't very far wrong, I'm sorry to say. Ever since we older ones can remember, the Fetich has engrossed papa's entire attention, and kept him so occupied that he has had no time for anything else,--not even for his children. In our own home we have to go quietly and soberly about as if in a stranger's house,--to creep softly through the halls and steal up the back stairs, and to subdue our voices when the natural childish impulse is to run gaily and speak out merrily. It has kept our father apart from us and made him almost a stranger to his children; and, as we look back, some of us grudge the hours of dear mamma's time that were spent each day in the study,--away from us,--reading and copying off the Fetich, and helping and encouraging papa. Dear, blessed mother! what a brave, loving spirit hers was! Even to the last, when she was almost too weak to speak, she would have papa carry her to the study, and, lying there in the invalid-chair, she'd smile at him as he kept looking up at her from his writing. The very last talk we had together,--after she had been taken back to her room,--when we had spoken about the children and she had told me different little points about their dispositions, and some ways in which I might be able to help them after she had gone, she said very earnestly, "And always be very good to your father, Nannie; he will be in sore need of comfort, for he will miss me more than any one else." "Oh, mamma, mamma!" I cried, choking, "no one _could_ miss you more than we shall!" Mamma stroked my hand softly as it lay on the bed beside her. "Dear," she said presently, "I know my boys and girls will _never_ forget me, not even the very youngest, for they will hear of me from you older ones. Oh, if it had been my Father's will, how gladly would I have remained with you all! But you are all young; life and hope are strong within you, and you love one another. He--your father--is so different; he will grieve--alone--and grow farther and farther from human love and sympathy. Nannie, dear little daughter, remember how very, _very_ happy he has made me all these years, and oh, be good to him, and very patient and loving when I am gone!" Her very last look was given to papa; her last word was "Jack!" [Illustration: "I GAVE A VERY FAINT KNOCK."] For a good while I did try to do things for him, and to let him see that I loved him; but I had a feeling all the time--as in the hall that night--that he didn't want me near him, and would rather not have me in the study: so gradually I gave up going there, except for a few minutes each morning to ask if he needed anything. But this morning dear mamma's words came back to me, and I felt very guilty as I ran up to the study after breakfast; I had tried faithfully to look after the brothers and sisters, but I had neglected papa; and I am afraid, in the lowness of my spirits, that I gave a very faint knock on the door. After waiting a minute or two, I opened the door, as no answer came, and stepped into the study. Papa's breakfast, which had been sent up more than half an hour before, lay cold and untasted on his desk, and papa himself knelt on the hearth; there was no fire, and in the empty grate, laid criss-cross, were pages and pages of closely written manuscript. On the chair beside him, and on the floor, were more pages of manuscript in bundles. In my father's hand was a match, which he had just drawn and was about to apply to the papers. My heart gave a tremendous throb that seemed to send it right into my throat, and I sprang forward, crying out, "Oh, papa! _papa!_ surely you are not going to _burn_ the _Fetich_!" The match fell from papa's fingers, and he looked up at me with an expression that was half bewilderment, half relief. "Eh! burn _what_?" he said. "I--I--mean--were you going to burn--your book?" I remembered in time that he did not know we called it the Fetich. "Oh, papa," I pleaded, "_why_ are you doing this? Your wonderful book, that mamma was so proud of!" Papa got up and sat in his chair, and the sadness of his face made me think of Fee's that awful night; the tears came rushing to my eyes, and I knelt down and took his hand in my two and held it fast. He let me keep it, and peered earnestly at me for a few minutes in his near-sighted way. "It might as well be destroyed; I shall never finish it--_now_" he said presently, in a low voice, as if he were speaking to himself, and looking beyond me at the Fetich in the grate. "She is no longer here to praise and encourage--my lifelong work,--a failure!" Then, all at once, a daring idea came to me; and, without giving my courage time to cool, I said quickly: "Papa! dear, dear papa,"--how my voice shook!--"_please_ let me help you with your work of an afternoon, something as mamma used to do!" I thought I saw a refusal in his face, and went on hastily: "I know quite a good deal of Latin and Greek, and I write a plain hand; I could copy for you, anyway, and I would be _very_ careful. Will you? Ah, _please_! I know she would like me to do it. And perhaps"--the words faltered--"perhaps she can see and hear us now; and if she can, I _know_ she will be glad to have me do this for you." Papa gave an eager, startled glance around the room; then he drooped his head, and covered his face with the hand I wasn't holding, and for several minutes we didn't speak. Presently he said slowly,--and the unsteadiness of his voice told me more than his words did,--"I suppose I could let you try; for I do need--some one. You might be useful to me, my dear, if you could come regularly to help me--every day; on that condition I will accept your offer, and thank you for it--" "I can--I will; _indeed_ I will!" I broke in. A look of relief came over papa's face, a faint little smile stirred his lips, and he gently patted my shoulder. "You are like your mother," he said; and turning up my chin he kissed me,--a light little kiss that just brushed my face, but I knew what it meant from him. Then, as he stooped over and began to gather up the Fetich, he added, in his usual voice: "These are some chapters that I've written lately, and become somewhat discouraged over. Help me put them back in their place on my desk, Nannie; and be careful to keep every page in its regular order." I did so, and listened attentively while he explained, with great care and insistence, what I should have to do, and how much time he would require me to spend in the study. It was not until I had left him, and was on my way to the schoolroom, that I remembered that the hours I had promised papa were those I had set aside for my violin lessons and practice. And then--I am sorry and ashamed, but I _couldn't_ help it--I ran swiftly away and hid in a corner by myself, and cried bitterly. It wasn't that I wished I hadn't made papa that offer, for I would have done it over again, even while I felt so badly; but, oh, how hard it was to give up my dear music! And I really didn't know what to do about my teacher and aunt Lindsay. [Illustration: "'I CAN--I WILL; _INDEED_ I WILL!'"] But it all came right after a while; dear old Felix came to the rescue, as he generally does, and offered to go to the conservatory and take the lessons for me, and then give them to me in the evenings in the old store-room,--that is, if aunt Lindsay didn't object. Of course I was thankful; for while Fee does not love violin music as I do, he is very thorough, and would, I know, do his best for me. So I wrote and explained to aunt Lindsay, and she did not object in the least; in fact, her letter was the nicest she has written us yet. And this is the way that things stand at present: Papa is still writing the Fetich, and I am helping him; evenings, Fee and I have great times in the store-room, with the door closed and heavily muffled, giving and receiving music lessons, and practising with our squeaky violins,--we really do have lots of fun! And now to-day comes the good news from Max that he will soon be home; he writes that he has a "surprise" for us, and of course we are all very curious. Dear old fellow! It will be such a comfort to have him among us again! V. A FRACAS AND AN ARRIVAL. TOLD BY BETTY. Of all people in the world, _Jack_ has been in a fight! Phil brought him in, and such a sight as he was! his nose bleeding, his coat torn, and a lump on his forehead as big as a hen's egg! "Why," said Phil, "I couldn't believe my eyes at first; but true it was, all the same,--there was our gentle 'rosebud' pommelling away at a fellow nearly twice his size! And what's more, when I pulled him off, and separated them, if my young man didn't fly at the other fellow again like a little cock sparrow! I could hardly get him home." "Yes, and I'd do it again!" cried Jack, ferociously, mopping his wounded nose with his handkerchief, while Nannie rushed to get water and court-plaster. "What'd he do?" asked Phil and Fee and I, all together. We knew it must have been something very dreadful to rouse Jack to such a pitch; for, as nurse says, he is one of the "most peaceablest children that ever lived." But he wouldn't tell. "Never you mind," was all he'd say. By this time Nannie had brought a basin of water and the other things, and when Fee waved his arm and called out tragically, "Gather round, gather round, fellow-citizens, and witness the dressing of this bleeding hero's wounds," we crowded so near that Nannie declared we made her nervous. Jack did look so funny, with a big bath-towel pinned round his shoulders, and the basin right up under his chin, so the water shouldn't get over his clothes! And of course, as we looked on, everybody had something to say. "Tell you what, Jack," said Phil, "you could paint the town red now, and no mistake, just from your nose; _what_ an opportunity lost!" "And I shouldn't wonder if the bridge of that classic member were broken. Oh the pity of it!" put in Fee, in mock sympathy. "You'll be a sight to-morrow,--all black and blue," remarked Nora, eyeing him critically. "I thought you were too much of a gentleman to fight on the street, Jack,--just like a common rowdy!" "I'm glad you didn't get beaten," I said; "but my! won't Miss Marston give it to you to-morrow!" She was out this afternoon. "Your nose is all swelling up!" announced Judge, solemnly, and Kathie murmured sympathetically, "_Poor_ Jack!" [Illustration: "'GATHER ROUND, GATHER ROUND, FELLOW-CITIZENS, AND WITNESS THE DRESSING OF THIS BLEEDING HERO'S WOUNDS.'"] Even Nannie--and she isn't one bit a nagger--said, "Oh, Jackie, I'm _so_ ashamed of you! Mamma wouldn't want her gentle boy to become a fighter." "Yes, she _would_ so, if she knew what this fellow did," asserted Jack, as positively as he could with the water pouring down over his mouth. "_What_ did he do?" we all shouted. "Tell us, what _did_ he do, Jack?" But Jack got furious. "None of your business!" he roared; and twisting himself away from us, he dashed out of the room, Nannie following after him, basin in hand, imploring him to let her finish dressing his nose. We really didn't mean to make him angry,--it's just a way we have of speaking out our minds to one another; but Nannie felt very sorry,--she said we had teased Jack. I felt sorry, too, when he told me all about it,--Jack generally does tell me things,--after making me promise "truly and faithfully" that I would not say "one word about it to any single person we know." Many a time since I've wished that I hadn't promised,--it isn't fair to Jack himself; but he won't let me off. Jack is really a _very_ odd boy. Well, it seems that as Felix passed along the street where Jack and some of his friends were playing, one of the boys caught up a piece of straw, and twisting it across his nose like a pair of spectacles, limped after Fee, mimicking his walk, and singing, "H'm-ha! hipperty hop!" Jack clinched his hands tight while he was telling me. "Betty," he said, "I got such a queer feeling inside; I just _swelled_ up, and if he'd been _three_ times as big, I'd have tackled him. I waited for Fee to turn the corner,--you see I didn't want him to know what Henderson was doing behind his back,--and _then_ didn't I just _go_ for him! I _tell_ you, I whacked him!" My blood fairly boiled to think that anybody could have been so contemptibly mean as to mock our dear old Fee,--as if he didn't feel badly enough about being near-sighted and lame! I would like to have gone right out and thrashed Henderson all over again; but, as Jack very truly said, "that would only make a grand row, and then the whole thing'd be sure to get to Fee's ears, and that's what we don't want." So I had to cool down. This was the reason Jack wouldn't tell the others what the trouble was--and there Felix himself had been teasing him! Nor has he said one word to anybody but me about it, though he has been blamed and punished for fighting on the street, when, if he had only told, or let me tell for him, the true reason for his acting so, I'm sure everybody would have changed their mind at once; but he will not. This was very nice of Jack,--he has some ways that really make me very fond of him; but he is also a very queer and provoking boy sometimes, as you will hear. The worst was to get through dinner that evening without papa's noticing. Of course Miss Marston would be sure to tell him as soon as she knew, and of course Jack would be punished; but he did want to put off the evil hour as long as possible. His seat at table is quite near to papa, but I come between, and I promised I'd lean as far forward as I could, all through the meal, so as to shield him. We got downstairs and settled in our places safely; but Jack was as nervous as a cat. I really think he wouldn't have minded taking his dinner _under_ the table for that one occasion; and no wonder, for everybody, even to Hannah, kept looking at him, and Phil and Felix kept passing him all sorts of things, with such unusual politeness as was enough to fluster anybody. Still, everything went well until we came to dessert; it was cottage pudding,--Jack's favourite,--and I suppose he got reckless, or forgot, in his enjoyment of it, and leaned a little too far forward, for presently papa said, very quietly, "Betty, sit properly in your chair." Of course I had to obey, and that brought poor Jack into full view. A broad strip of white court-plaster across one's nose, and a big bruised lump on one's forehead _are_ rather conspicuous things, and, I tell you, papa did stare! but he didn't say a word. Neither did Jack speak, though he knew papa was looking at him; he just kept right on eating very fast. He said afterward he'd have eaten the whole pudding, had it been before him, for he was so nervous he didn't really know what he was doing; but he got redder and redder in the face, and presently he choked,--a regular snort! I immediately flew up and pounded him on the back; but papa made me sit down again, and as soon as Jack had stopped coughing violently, he said, "Leave the table, sir, and come to my study to-morrow morning at nine o'clock." I think, had we dared, we could all have roared with laughter as Jack got up and walked out of the room; not because we didn't feel sorry for him, for we did,--I especially, knowing how it was he got into this scrape,--but he did look _so_ funny! I don't know why it is, but Jack is a person that makes one laugh without his intending in the least to be funny; it's the way he does things. I can't begin to tell you how I urged Jack to tell papa why it was he had gotten into that fight. I scolded, and coaxed, and talked, _and_ talked, but I _couldn't_ get him to say he would, nor to let me tell; in his way, I do believe he is as obstinate as Kathie. Even the next morning, when he stood at the study door, ready to knock, though his hands were as cold as ice, and he looked awfully scared, all he'd say to my repeated, "_Do_ speak out like a man, and tell it, Jack," was, "_Perhaps_." I would like to have gone right in and told papa the whole matter myself, but you see I had promised; and besides, we are none of us very fond of going into the study,--though Nannie is in there pretty often lately,--I'm sure I can't say why it is, for papa never scolds us violently: whatever he says is very quietly spoken, but I tell you every word goes home! The schoolroom bell rang while I was talking to Jack; so of course I had to go, and it was fully half an hour before he walked in and took his place. His face was very red, even his ears, and he didn't look happy; but it wasn't until after school that I had a chance to ask him anything, and he wasn't very amiable then. He had a book,--some story of wild adventure and hair-breadth escape, and he hated to be interrupted. For all that Jack is such a quiet, gentle sort of a boy, he likes to read the most exciting books, about fighting and shipwrecks and savages,--though I'm _sure_ if an Indian should walk into the room, he'd fly into the remotest corner of the closet and hide,--and the hymns he loves the best are the ones that bring in about war and soldiers. You should hear him sing, "The Son of God goes forth to war," in church! he positively shouts. So when I said, "Well, Jack, how'd you get along this morning?" he went right on turning over the leaves to find his place, and answered shortly:-- "Oh, no play out-of-doors for a week, and a double dose of that vile Latin, and a sound rating for getting into a row on the street,--that's all." "But didn't you tell him--" I began indignantly, but Jack interrupted. "He didn't ask why I did it, and I didn't tell him," he said. "What a _silly_ you are!" I cried, I was _so_ mad! "That Henderson ought to be told about and punished--now!" "Henderson is a beast!" Jack said severely; then, having come to his place in the story, he added: "Now please go away, and don't bother me, Betty; I want to read." He settled himself on the schoolroom sofa in his favourite position, with his back against the arm of the sofa, and his legs straight out along the seat, and began to read. I knew he'd get cranky if I said any more, so I went away. But for all that he called Henderson names, what did Jack do but go and make _friends_ with him just a day or two after he was allowed to go out! I was so provoked when I heard of it, that I fairly stormed at Jack; he took it all in the meekest way, and when I finished up,--with a fine attempt at sarcasm,--"If _I'd_ been you, I would have snubbed such a mean boy for at least a _week_ longer," he grinned and said, "If you'd been I, you'd have done just as I did." Then he added, in that old-fashioned, confidential way he has, "I couldn't help it, Betty; you see the boys wouldn't have a thing to do with him, or let him join in any of the games, until I had forgiven him, and I just _couldn't_ stand seeing him hanging around and being snubbed." "Oh, yes, you're very considerate for him; but _he_ will make fun of _your_ brother again to-morrow, if he feels like it," I said, still angry. "No, he _won't_" asserted Jack, positively; "'cause I told him--not disagreeably, you know, but so he'd feel I was in earnest--that if he ever did, I'd just have to thrash him again. And he said, 'A-a-h, what d'you take me for? D'you s'pose I knew 'twas _your_ brother?' And that's a good deal from Henderson, for he's an awfully rough boy. You know, Betty, you've _got_ to make allowances for people, or you'd never get along with 'em. And, besides, he looks worse than I do," went on Jack, feeling of his nose and forehead. "I really felt ashamed to think I'd hit him so hard, and,"--shuffling his feet, and looking very sheepish,--"well, you know, the Golden Rule is my motto for this year, and, as I thought to myself, what's the use of a motto, if you don't act up to it? So I just made friends with Henderson. I knew you'd say I was silly to do it, but I don't care,--I feel better; I do hate to be mad with people!" And with that he walked off, before I could think of anything to say. A lot of things happened that week. To begin with, some new people moved into the house opposite us, that has been empty for so long. It's a small house,--nurse says it used to be a stable, and was turned into a dwelling-house since she has lived here,--set quite a good way back from the street, and with a low stoop to one side and a piazza off that. A tall iron railing, with an ornamental gate, encloses a front yard in which are some forlorn-looking shrubs, a rosebush or two, and a couple of scraggy altheas. Workmen had been about the place for some time, putting everything in order, and of course we took the liveliest interest in all that went on, from the pruning of the shrubs to the carrying in of the furniture; and the day the new people moved in, Miss Marston could hardly keep us younger ones from the windows: indeed, for that matter, Nora was just as curious as we were, for all she talks about "vulgar curiosity." They came in a carriage, and there were three of them,--a tall, black-bearded man, a little, fragile-looking lady, and a tall, lanky boy, perhaps as old as Felix, with a rather nice face, who shouldered a satchel and the travelling-rugs, and brought up the rear of the procession to the house, with the end of a shawl trailing on the ground behind him. Jack heard from Henderson--who has become his shadow--that the gentleman has something to do with a newspaper, and that the boy goes to college, and Phil saw him there the other day; but it wasn't until the following Sunday, nearly a week after, that we heard their name and who they were,--and that came by way of a grand surprise. We were sitting round the schoolroom fire, talking and singing hymns, when the door opened, and who should come walking in but--Max Derwent! We _were_ surprised; for though he'd written to say he was coming, we didn't expect it would be so soon. Dear old Max! we were delighted to see him, and I do believe he was just as glad to see us. But just at first we couldn't any of us say very much; dear mamma was with us when Max was here last! After a while, though, that feeling wore away, and I tell you our tongues did fly! Max measured us all by the closet door, where he took our measurements before he went away, and he says we have grown wonderfully,--particularly Nannie. He was so surprised when he first saw her, that he just held her hands and looked at her, until Nannie said, "Why, Max, you haven't kissed me; aren't you glad to see me?" I think she felt a little hurt, for he'd kissed the rest of us,--even to Phil and Felix,--and Nannie and he used to be such good friends. "Why, Nancy Lee," Max said, "you have grown such a tall young lady since I've been away, that I didn't know whether you'd still allow me the dear old privilege; indeed I will kiss you;" and with that he stooped,--Max is tall,--and kissed her on her forehead, just where the parting of her hair begins. But Max couldn't get over her being so grown, for he kept on gazing and gazing at Nannie, and she did look sweet, sitting there in the firelight. Nora is very pretty,--her features are so regular; but Nannie has a _dear_ face: her brown eyes are big and shining, and her hair is so thick and pretty; it's light brown, and little locks of it get loose and curl up round her forehead and ears, and when she talks and laughs I think she's every bit as pretty as Nora. Somehow there's a look about Nannie's face that makes you know you can trust her through and through; I tell you I'm awfully glad she's in the family; in fact, I don't know what we'd any of us do without her, from papa to Alan. Well, we told Max every single thing that had happened--good, bad, and indifferent--since he went away, including, of course, about Phil's going to college, and Fee's not going, and about aunt Lindsay's present to Fee and Nannie,--all talking together, and as loud as we pleased (we always do with Max) until we came to the new people that had moved in across the way--and what do you suppose? Max knows them! "They are the Ervengs," he said, "and the boy's name is Hilliard,--Hilliard Erveng. The father is a partner in a large Boston publishing house that has just opened an agency here, and I shouldn't wonder if Erveng were in charge of the agency by his taking a house in New York. That's the firm I thought would buy your father's book, if he'd only finish it; but from what he told me this afternoon, it's still a long way from completion." He glanced at Nannie as he spoke, and she nodded her head sadly. "I used to know Erveng; he was a classmate of mine," went on Max, thoughtfully, wrinkling up his eyebrows at the fire. "I wonder how it would do to rake up the acquaintance again, and bring him over unexpectedly to call on the professor,"--papa's friends all call him Professor Rose,--"and surprise him into showing Erveng the manuscript!" [Illustration: "'THE BOY'S NAME IS HILLIARD ERVENG.'"] "Oh, Max, that would never, never do," cried Nannie, quickly. "You know how averse papa is to showing his work to any one; he couldn't do it, I'm sure, and it might make him very angry." "And yet, if he _did_ show it, think what a benefit to you all it might be; for I am convinced the work is one that would be an acquisition to the reading public; and Erveng would recognise that at once. Think of what it means for all of you, Nancy Lee," urged Max,--"college for Felix, drawing lessons for Nora, a fine violin for you, gymnasium for Betty, a splendid military school for Jack,"--here Jack broke in rudely with, "_Don't_ want any military school, this one's bad enough," and was silenced by Phil's hand being laid suddenly and firmly over his mouth,--"and all sorts of good things for everybody, if only Erveng sees the manuscript of the Fetich" (Max knows what we call it). Nannie still looked dubious, but Nora exclaimed: "I say, do it, Max! It does seem a shame to have us suffering for things, and that manuscript just lying down there; and perhaps then papa would stir himself a little and finish it. I declare I would like to take some of the pages over and show them to Mr. Erveng myself!" We all knew that she wouldn't; but as she said the words, an idea popped into my head, such a splendid idea--at least I thought it was then--that I nearly giggled outright with delight, and I had positively to hold myself in to keep from telling it. Happening to look up suddenly at Phil, I caught him with a broad grin on _his_ face, and winking violently at Felix, who winked back. That did not surprise me,--those two are always signalling to each other in that way; but when they both straightened their faces the instant I saw them, and assumed a very innocent expression, then I began to suspect that they were up to some mischief: little did I dream what it was, though! Phil is a _fearful_ practical joker; you never know where he's going to break out. I'm pretty bad, but he is ever so much worse; and Felix helps him every time. "What sort of a man _is_ Mr. Erveng?" asked Felix, with an appearance of great interest. Max laughed. "Well, he used to be considered rather eccentric," he said. "I remember the fellows at college nick-named him 'Old-Woman Erveng,' because--so they said--he had a large picture in his room of a fat old woman in a poke bonnet; and at the social gatherings to which he could be induced to go, he always devoted himself to the oldest and fattest ladies in the room, without noticing the young and pretty girls. _I_ thought he was rather a nice sort of fellow; what's the matter, Betty, want any assistance?" What Max said fitted in so well with the plan I had in my mind that--though I tried to keep it back--I had chuckled, and now they were all looking at me. "When Elizabeth 'chortles' in that fashion you may be sure there's mischief in her mind," Felix remarked, eyeing me severely. "Out with it, miss." "Or I'll have to garote you," put in Phil, leaning over toward me with extended thumb and finger; but I skipped away and got beside Max. "Indeed, it's you and Felix that are up to something," I retorted. "I can see it in your faces." "Oh, tell us what your 'surprise' is, Max," put in Nannie, quickly. I think she wanted to turn the conversation, and so keep us from wrangling, this very first evening that Max was with us. "Why, I've brought back a ward," answered Max. "His name is Chadwick Whitcombe. He went to-day from the steamer to stay a week or two with an old friend of his father's; then I shall bring him to see you, and I'm going to ask you _all_"--here Max looked at each one of us--"to be nice and friendly to him, for poor Chad is singularly alone: he has not a relative in the world. Though he will come into a good deal of money by and by, the poor fellow has knocked about from place to place with his former guardian, who has just died, and he has had no home training at all. May I count on your being kind to him?" Of course we all said yes,--couldn't help ourselves,--but I heard Fee sing, under his breath, so it shouldn't reach Max's ears:-- "Here comes Shad, Looking very sad; We'll hit him with a pad, And make him glad!" and when I laughed, Phil scowled at me, and muttered something about "giving him to Betty to lick into shape." I couldn't say anything, for I was right close to Max; but I made one of my worst faces at Phil. Soon after this, Max went down to the study to spend the rest of the evening with papa. VI. DISPOSING OF A FETICH. TOLD BY BETTY. I might as well tell you that my plan was to dress up, some afternoon that week, in one of nurse's gowns, and her bonnet and veil,--if I could possibly induce her to lend them all to me without having to tell why I wanted them,--and to go and call on Mr. Erveng in regard to the Fetich. What I should say when I met him didn't trouble me; you see there was really only to tell him about the book, so he might make papa an offer for it; but what _did_ weigh upon me was how to get dressed up and out of the house without being caught: there are such a lot of us that somebody or other's sure to be hanging around all the time. For several days I couldn't get a chance: Monday it rained; Tuesday afternoon Phil took Paul to the dentist, and nurse went along,--Judge is one of her pets; Wednesday afternoon Jack and a whole lot of boys played close to the house, and of course I couldn't walk right out before them,--it would have been just like Jack to run up and say something, perhaps offer to assist my tottering steps down the stoop. But at last, on Thursday, the coast seemed clear: Nannie was in the study with papa, Nora was practising, Jack was on the schoolroom sofa reading, the children in the nursery, and Phil and Felix up in Fee's room; I could hear a murmur of voices from there, and every now and then a burst of laughter. This was my opportunity. The door of nurse's room, which was next to the nursery, was open, and as I stole in, hoping she was there, that I might ask her, I saw her wardrobe door open, and hanging within easy reach a dress and shawl that would just serve my purpose. But her bonnet and veil were not in their usual place, which rather surprised me, for nurse is very particular with us about those things, and I had to hunt before I found even her oldest ones, in deadly fear all the time that I'd be caught in the act. You see, I made up my mind I'd borrow the things, and then tell her about it when I brought them back. Flying into my room, I locked the door, and just "jumped" into those clothes, as the boys would say; and I did look so funny when I was dressed, that I had to laugh. In the first place, Max had said Mr. Erveng liked fat old women; so I stuffed myself out to fill nurse's capacious gown to the best of my ability, with pillows and anything else I could lay my hands on; I think I must have measured yards and yards round when I was all finished. Then I pinned my braid on the top of my head, put on nurse's bonnet, and dividing the veil so that one part hung down my back and the other part over my face, I was ready to start. I had slipped on a pair of old black woollen gloves that I found in the pocket of my new skirt, and, stealing cautiously down the stairs, I got out of the house without meeting any one. But I can't tell you how queer I felt in the street,--it seemed as if everybody looked at me, and as if they must suspect what I was up to. I forgot all about walking slowly, like an old woman, and fairly flew up the flagged path to the Ervengs' stoop; and the ring I gave to the bell brought a small boy in buttons very quickly to the door. "I wish to see Mr. Erveng on business," I said, disguising my voice as well as I could. Then, as he murmured something about "card,"--I had entirely forgotten that,--I pushed my way past him, saying, "It is something _very_ important, that I _know_ your master will be glad to hear." This seemed to satisfy him, and he ushered me into a room which looked to be half drawing-room, half study: there were in it a sofa, some fancy chairs, a set of well-filled Eastlake book-shelves, and a desk almost as big as papa's. Portières hung at the end of the room. I took a seat near one of the long windows opening on the balcony, and began to arrange in my mind what I would say to Mr. Erveng, when suddenly, glancing toward the gate, I saw some one open it and come slowly up the walk,--a stout, elderly female, dressed in a black gown, a black shawl, and a bonnet and veil, _precisely_ like the ones I had on! Her veil was drawn closely over her face, she wore black woollen gloves, and held in one hand a black reticule--which I would have declared was nurse's--and in the other a clumsily folded umbrella. As I sat and stared at the advancing figure, I wondered if I were dreaming, and actually gave myself a pinch to assure myself I was awake. But who _could_ she be,--this double of mine? I wouldn't like to tell Jack or any of the others, you know, but I would really not have been sorry to have been at home just then. At this moment the old lady entered the room. Buttons closed the door, and we were left alone facing each other,--for I had got up when she came in,--and I must say the unknown seemed as much surprised as I was. Then all at once she began to walk round and round me; and as I didn't want her to get behind me, I kept turning too,--just as if I'd been on a pivot; I believe I was fascinated by those big eyes glaring at me through the thick black veil. "Betty! 'by all that's abominable!'" suddenly exclaimed my double; and _then_ I knew who it was. "_Phil!_ you _mean_ thing!" I cried, intensely relieved; and darting forward I caught hold of his bonnet and veil. "Hands off!" he called out, wriggling away; "an ye love me, spare me 'bunnit.'" Then, as he got to a safe distance, and threw back his veil: "Look here, old lady, if you lay violent hands on me again, I'll yell for help, and bring the house about your ears. _Then_ you'll rue it." This provoked me. "You're the one will rue it," I said. "You've just spoilt the whole thing by spying on me and following me here--" "Well, I like that!" Phil interrupted. "It seems to me the shoe's on the other foot. What are _you_ doing here, in that outrageous costume, and in a stranger's house? Whew! wouldn't there be a small circus if the _pater_ should see you! I'd feel sorry for you, I tell you. And what excuse do you propose to offer Mr. Erveng when he makes his appearance here, as he will in a few minutes?" Sidling up to me, he nudged my elbow, and added persuasively: "'There _is_ a time for _dis_-appearing.' Say, Betty, my infant, one of us has _got_ to go, so I'd advise you to fly at once. Buttons is out of the way, and in an excess of brotherly affection I'll escort you to the door myself. Come--fly!" And he nudged me again. "No," I said obstinately, "I won't go; I was here first. I'm here, and here I'll remain." "Oh, very well," said Phil, in a resigned sort of tone, seating himself in a most unladylike attitude on a three-cornered chair. "Then come sit on the edge of my chair, you little fairy, and we'll pose for the Siamese twins." [Illustration: "'COME SIT ON THE EDGE OF MY CHAIR, YOU LITTLE FAIRY.'"] But I was so disappointed I was afraid I'd cry. I had hoped _so_ much from this interview with Mr. Erveng, and here was Phil spoiling everything by his silliness. "I think you are simply _horrid_," I broke out, very crossly. "I just wish Mr. Erveng would come in and beat you, or turn you out, or _something_." "If the old man shows fight, I'll have his blood," cried Phil, tragically, springing from his chair. "Gore, _gore_! I _will_ have gore!" He did look _very_ funny, striding up and down the room and scraping his toes along the floor in our most approved "high tragedy" style, with nurse's shawl hanging over one shoulder, his bonnet crooked and almost off his head, and shaking the umbrella, held tight in a black-woollen-gloved fist, at an imaginary foe. Angry as I was, I _had_ to laugh, and I don't know what next he mightn't have done--for Phil never knows when to stop--had we not just then caught the sound of a distant footstep. Phil didn't seem to mind, but I got so nervous that I didn't know what to do. "Oh, _won't_ you go?" I cried in despair. "He'll think we are crazy! Oh, where _am_ I to go?" "Goodness only knows!" answered Phil, trying to straighten his bonnet; then, glancing around the room, "There isn't a piece of furniture here large enough to hide your corpulent form," he said. "There he comes! _Now_, I hope you're satisfied; you _wouldn't_ go when you could." Sure enough, the footsteps were almost at the door. I looked frantically about. I would gladly have escaped through the window, and climbed over the balcony to the ground; but to put aside the delicate lace curtains and unlatch the sash would have taken more time than we had to spare. Suddenly Phil cried, "The _portières_, you dunce!" giving me a push in that direction, and like a flash I got behind them. I heard Phil say "Bother!" under his breath, as he stumbled over a footstool in his haste to get seated, then the door opened, and some one entered the room. Provoked as I was with Phil, I couldn't help hoping that his bonnet was straight, and that he had on his shawl, for his figure wasn't as good as mine. I heard a strange voice--Mr. Erveng's--say: "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long, but I am extremely busy. Will you be kind enough to state your business as briefly as possible?" Then Phil began, imitating an old lady's voice to a nicety: "Having heard that you publish a great many books, I thought you would like to know of a very clever--really _re_markable--work which is being written by a well-known scholar who lives in this street, and that perhaps you would call on him and make him an offer for it." I knew the moment I heard this speech that Felix had made it up, and just coached Phil; it was certainly better than what I had thought of. The portières behind which I had hid only covered a door, and, though I squeezed up as tight as I could, I was awfully afraid they would part and show me underneath. But, all the same, I couldn't resist peeping to see what was going on. Phil had his back to me, but Mr. Erveng sat facing me in the swing-chair that was by his desk, and I noticed at once that he was the black-bearded man we'd seen the day the family moved in. I listened eagerly for Mr. Erveng's answer. He said very coolly: "It is not our custom to make an offer for a work of which we know nothing. Manuscripts are generally submitted to us. What is the title of this 'remarkable work'?" I didn't like the way he said this, and I thought he looked very suspiciously at Phil; but Phil didn't seem to notice it, for he answered eagerly: "It's called the Fe--'History of Some Ancient Peoples,' and I've brought you a chapter or two to look at." Here I heard a rustling, and peeping between the portières, what should I see but Phil handing Mr. Erveng some _pages of the Fetich_! I was so perfectly amazed that I had to stuff the portière into my mouth to keep from calling out; how _had_ Phil ever got hold of those chapters without papa's knowledge? I knew Nannie would never have helped him after what she had said on Sunday to Max, and how had Phil _dared_ to bring them here! What would papa say if he should know what he had done,--indeed, what we had both done! Oh, how sorry I was that I hadn't gone when Phil urged me to. When I got over my surprise a little, and again looked through the portières, Mr. Erveng stood holding the Fetich in his hands, and looking over the pages with a frown on his face. "This is curious," I heard him say. And then, suddenly, before I could guess what he was going to do, he crossed the room and drew my portières aside! At first I held on to them, with a desperate desire to lose myself in the scanty folds; but they were firmly withdrawn, and there I stood,--a fac-simile of the fat, black-robed, black-veiled person who sat on the three-cornered chair by Mr. Erveng's desk! "_Whew!_" whistled Phil, then tried to look as if he hadn't uttered a sound, while Mr. Erveng took hold of my arm and walked me over to where Phil stood. "Now," he said sternly, "I should like an explanation of this extraordinary behaviour." But not a word said either of us,--I couldn't, I was so frightened; I assure you I wished myself home! And while we stood there--Mr. Erveng waiting for an answer--the door opened, and the boy that Max had said was Hilliard Erveng came into the room. "Oh, I beg your pardon," he exclaimed, turning back, "I didn't know any one was with you." But his father called out to him, "Stay here, Hilliard!" Then turning to us he said _very_ sternly, "I have reason to think that this manuscript"--he still held the Fetich in his hand--"has been stolen from its rightful owner, of whom I have heard, and to whom I shall take pleasure in restoring his property. Unless you both at once take off what I am convinced is a disguise, and offer a full and satisfactory explanation, I shall be under the painful necessity of calling in a policeman and giving you in charge." "Oh, no! no! _no!_" I cried out. "We _didn't_ steal it--at least, it belongs to our father, and--" [Illustration: "THERE WE STOOD; A FINE PAIR WE MUST HAVE LOOKED!"] But Phil strode over to my side. "Hush, Betty," he whispered; "I'll explain." Sweeping off his bonnet and veil, he threw them--nurse's best Sunday hat!--on a chair, and faced Mr. Erveng. You can't think how comical he looked, with his handsome boy's face and rumpled hair above that fat old woman's figure. And in a moment or two, I think, I must have looked almost as comical too; for before Phil could begin, Mr. Erveng said, "I insist upon that person removing her bonnet and veil as well." So off went mine, and there we stood; a fine pair we must have looked! That boy Hilliard gave a little giggle,--Phil said afterwards he'd like to have "punched" him for it, and I felt awfully foolish,--but Mr. Erveng frowned. Then Phil began and told who we were, and how something that had been said by a friend of ours had given him, and me,--though neither knew about the other,--the idea of coming over and asking him, Mr. Erveng, to buy the Fetich (of course Phil called the Fetich by its proper name), and thinking he might like to see some of the manuscript, he had got hold of two chapters and brought them along to show. "But why this absurd disguise, if all this is true?" asked Mr. Erveng of us, looking from one to the other. I began: "Because Ma--" but Phil gave me a hard nudge of the elbow: "Max mightn't like us to tell that," he mumbled, which ended my explanation. But I was determined to get in a few remarks: "Papa doesn't know a thing about our doing this," I said very fast, for fear Phil would interrupt again, "and we don't want him to. We just came here and told you about the Fe--his book, because we were sure he'd never tell you, or let you see it, himself, and we thought if you knew of it, you would want to buy it from him, and that would make him finish it up,--papa's been _years_ writing that book,--and then Felix could go to college and--" "_Betty!_" broke in Phil, in such a sharp, angry tone, and with such a red face, that I moved away from him. "That's where I've seen you,--at college," exclaimed the boy; he talks in a slow, deliberate way, something like Judge. "They _do_ live across the way, father; I've seen him"--with a nod of his head at Phil--"going in there." "Ah, really, how kind of you to remember me!" cried Phil, with sarcasm. "Please let me have that manuscript, Mr. Erveng, and we will go home." "No," remarked Mr. Erveng, very decidedly. "There is something about the affair that I don't understand, and I shall not feel satisfied until I have restored this manuscript, which I know is valuable, to its owner, and found for myself that the story you have told me is true." "All right, then," Phil cried recklessly. "Come, Betty, let's put on our 'bunnits' and go face the music." Deeply mortified, we "dressed up" again, and went home under the escort of Mr. Erveng and his son. Hannah opened the door, and how she did stare at the two fat, black-robed, closely veiled ladies who waddled past her into the drawing-room! Hilliard did not come in with us, and when Mr. Erveng found that neither Phil nor I would answer Hannah's "Please, what name shall I say?" he took a card out and gave it to her, saying, "Ask Mr. Rose if he will be kind enough to let me see him for a few minutes." While we sat waiting, Fee came limping down the stairs and looked in on us. "Hullo!" he exclaimed in astonishment; "_two_ here? What's up?" Then he saw the stranger and stopped. "Oh, we've had a dandy time!" said Phil, throwing back his veil, "and it isn't over yet. Mr. Erveng, allow me to introduce to you my brother, Felix Rose." While the introduction was going on, papa came into the room, and the expression of his face was something that can't be described when he found that the two ladies to whom he had bowed when he entered were indeed Phil and I. Mr. Erveng stated the case as briefly as possible, making much more light of it than we had expected, and handed to papa the pages of the Fetich that Phil had brought to him. Papa said very little, but his face grew quite pale, and he accompanied Mr. Erveng to the door, where they stood talking for a few minutes; then Mr. Erveng went away. Fee had disappeared with our bonnets and veils,--we would willingly have divested ourselves of the other garments as well, but we knew he was not equal to the accumulation of pillows, shawls, and gowns which that would involve,--and we were sitting in dead silence when papa returned, and, opening the folding doors, motioned us to go into the study. Nannie sat there writing; but the merry little laugh with which she greeted our entrance died quickly away as she guessed what we had been doing, and her low, "Oh, Phil, oh, Betty, how _could_ you!" made me feel more ashamed than a scolding would have. Papa put the two chapters of the Fetich carefully away; then he took his seat at his desk and said, "Now I wish to hear the meaning of this most extraordinary and unwarrantable behaviour." For an instant neither of us spoke; then, just as I opened my mouth, Phil began. He made a very short story of it,--how, through Max, we had heard of Mr. Erveng's being a publisher, and how the story about his liking fat old ladies had put the idea into our heads to dress up and call on him, and interest him in papa's book. Papa frowned at us over his glasses. "What has Mr. Erveng to do with my book?" he asked, sternly. "And why did my son put my most cherished work into a stranger's hands without my knowledge?" "Because--" began Phil; then he got as red as a beet, and stood plucking at the skirt of nurse's gown without another word. I felt sorry for Phil. I knew that, like me, he had done it in the interest of the whole family; so when papa said a little sharply, "I am waiting for an answer, Philip," I said very quickly, "Please don't be angry with Phil, papa; we did it because we thought if Mr. Erveng knew of the Fet--book, he'd want to buy it, and then perhaps you would finish it, and sell it for a lot of money, and then Fee--um--eh--we could do lots of things." Just then the study door opened, and in came Felix, quite out of breath from hurrying up and down stairs. He saw Phil's downcast face, and hastening forward, laid his hand on Phil's shoulder, saying, "I deserve a full share of Phil's scolding, father. Betty evidently carried out her scheme without assistance, but I dressed Phil, and helped him to get off without being seen. So I know, sir, that I ought to share his punishment." "I see; then this was a conspiracy to force me to finish my work and sell it," said papa, slowly, with a grieved, shocked look in his eyes; then, turning to Nannie, he asked unsteadily: "Are _you_ in it, too? Margaret--your mother--used to urge me to--write slowly--but--perhaps I have lingered too long over it. I thank you," with a look at us, "for recalling me to my duty, though I think it would have been kinder to have spoken to me, rather than to have gone to a stranger in this way. I will finish the History--as soon--as I can." There was no anger in papa's voice, but a hurt tone that went right to my heart, and made me horribly ashamed, while Nannie flew to his side and threw her arms around his neck. "Don't take it to heart, dear papa," she pleaded, pressing her cheek against his face. "It was only thoughtlessness on their part; they _didn't_ mean to grieve you, I know they didn't. Oh, boys, Betty, speak up and assure papa of this." I began to cry out loud. I _despise_ crying, and I know papa hates it, but I simply _had_ to sob, or I would have choked. The boys felt badly, too. Fee leaned on the desk and said, low and very earnestly, "I am _so_ ashamed of myself, father. And I know Phil is, too." "I've made a great ass of myself," growled poor Phil. "I wish, sir, that you'd give me a thrashing, as if I were a little shaver,--a sound one; I know I deserve it." But papa loosed Nannie's arms from about his neck, and put her gently from him. "My dear," he said wearily, "I--I--wish you would make them all go; I want to be alone." * * * * * Papa did not come down to dinner that evening, and we were a very subdued party, though Nora tried to cheer Phil up by telling him that she knew he had done what he had for the benefit of the whole family,--she didn't tell _me_ that! "Yes," answered our eldest brother, gloomily, "it was my first attempt at that sort of philanthropy, and it'll be my last--stop staring at me, Jack, or I'll throw a bread-pill at you." "Is that what you call it, Philip?" said Miss Marston, lifting her eyebrows. "It seems to me more like that love of practical joking and the self-will that your mother was so constantly warning you and Betty against." "Indeed, then, you're right, ma'am," put in nurse, who happened to be in the room, adding, with a pointed glance at me, "I wonder what the dear lady would 'a' said to this day's conductions!" And not one of us had a word to say in reply, for we well knew how grieved she would have been. VII. NEW FRIENDS. TOLD BY BETTY. "Betty! _Bet-ty!_" called Nannie from the foot of the stairs, "tell Jack that he's got just about three minutes more, as papa has started to put on his overcoat, and he does so dislike to have us late for church. Do make him hurry!" But that, as I knew very well, was easier said than done, for Jack hates to hurry. Almost at the last minute, when we had gathered in the schoolroom to let Miss Marston see us before we started out with papa for church, it was discovered that Jack's boots needed cleaning. So now he was up in the attic, brushing away at them, and singing with all his might,-- "Thy gardens and thy goodly walks Continually are green, Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen. Right through thy streets, with pleasing sound, The living waters flow; And on the banks on either side, The trees of life do grow." Jack was just beginning the last line of this verse when Nannie called to me; so I let him finish, then I shouted up the attic stairs, "Jack, you've just got about two minutes and a half; papa has started to put on his overcoat. Are you ready?" "Most," Jack answered; "I've got one more heel to do,"--as if he'd had a dozen or so! and he actually started on another verse of the hymn. I flew up the attic steps and gazed indignantly at him through the railings: "You are the most provoking boy I ever knew," I said, "and the biggest poke! I do believe you _love_ to be late. There's everybody down in the hall ready to start, and here you are loitering as if you had hours to spare." [Illustration: "'BETTY! _BET-TY!_' CALLED NANNIE."] "Are you two coming, or are you not?" cried Phil from the hall below. "The procession is ready to start, and woe to stragglers! If service began at twelve instead of eleven o'clock, Jack, you'd still be late. Come on, Betty." "I declare, if you aren't all the greatest pack of naggers!" exclaimed Jack, impatiently, throwing down the blacking brushes and snatching up his hat; then he raced after us down the stairs and brought up the rear as we filed out of the front door. There are always so many of us to go to church--all of us children (except Alan, who goes to the children's service in the afternoon), and Miss Marston and papa--that we do make, as Phil says, a regular procession as we walk down the avenue and across the park to the old brown church every Sunday. I don't mind going in the procession, nor does Jack,--unless he's _very_ late; but Nora thinks it's horrid, and Phil and Felix always hang back for the very last, and try to look as if they didn't belong to us at all. Nannie and Mädel go with papa, Kathie and Paul with Miss Marston, and the rest of us straggle along as we like until we get to the church. It's brown and very large, and has a good deal of ivy growing all over it. It's the church where Murray Unsworth and Helen Vassah stood sponsors for their little cousin Paul; they go there and their grandfather and grandmother. Papa likes to sit away up front; so up the middle aisle we go,--oh, how the boys and Nora hate this part!--and file into the first two pews. We are always early, and sometimes it does seem so long before service begins. Jack and I sit at the upper end of the first pew, and I couldn't tell you how many times we have read the Creed and Commandments that are printed back of the chancel, and the memorials on each side. Then we look out the hymns for the day, and read them all through. Jack likes to do this; he has all sorts of odd ideas about them; for instance, he says that when he sings, "Christian! dost thou see them On the holy ground, How the powers of darkness Rage thy steps around? Christian! up and smite them, Counting gain but loss; In the strength that cometh By the holy cross," he somehow always thinks of the picture in papa's study of St. Michael and the Angel. He says he can see, right in his mind, the great beautiful angel of light triumphant in the strength of God, and under his feet the stormy evil face of the conquered Lucifer. I've got so now that I too think of the picture when I sing the hymn, and of the hymn when I look at the picture. Then in the other hymn, where it says, "Finding, following, keeping, struggling, Is He sure to bless? 'Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs, Answer, Yes,'" Jack says he sees--just like a picture--a steep hill up which a whole lot of people are striving, with all their might, to climb; they're poor and tired and sick and lame, but they struggle bravely on; and by the beautiful gates at the top of the hill stands One grand and white and shining, wearing a golden crown. He bends forward and takes hold of each tired traveller as soon as he is within reach, and helps him safe within the gates; and in the hands that do this are "wound-prints." Jack always shuts his eyes and lowers his voice when he tells us about this thought of his; only Nannie and I know of it, and while I am hearing about it I always feel quiet. How he _does_ enjoy singing! His little body seems to expand, and you'd be astonished at the noise that he can make. This particular Sunday that I am telling you about my ears were fairly ringing as Jack joined in the chorus of "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and I wasn't sorry when Phil leaned over from behind and whispered, "Say, Rosebud, you're not detailed to lead the choir, you know." Even the choir-master looked at him; but, perfectly regardless of everything and everybody, Jack sang through the five long verses, and sat down with the air of having thoroughly enjoyed himself. I made up my mind, though, that I'd say something about it on our way home; but just as we were coming down the church steps Jack gave my arm a nudge. "There are your friends," he said, with a grin,--"the two of 'em; just see Phil and Felix scoot!" And when I turned quickly to see, who should it be but Mr. Erveng and Hilliard! Mr. Erveng has been over to call on papa since that horrid afternoon that he escorted Phil and me home; but Hilliard didn't come with him, and we weren't sorry,--I mean Phil and I,--for we both felt foolish about meeting him; we hadn't forgotten that giggle of his when we took off our bonnets and veils that day in his father's library, and I think we both felt that we didn't want to know him any better. Mr. Erveng and papa walked across the park together, talking, and as we all followed behind,--Felix and Phil were out of sight,--who should come up beside me and lift his hat but that Hilliard! "May I walk with you part way home?" he asked, "I want to say something to you." He speaks slowly, deliberately, and has a way of half-closing his eyes when he's talking, that gives him a sleepy look,--though he can open them very wide too, sometimes; and he's sallow, and has lots of freckles. Altogether, he isn't nearly as good-looking as our boys, or Murray Unsworth; still he has rather a nice face, and we've found out that he is just as gentle and nice as a girl to his mother,--I mean in waiting on her and doing things for her. But all the same, I don't know whether I like him or not; you see he's never had a sister, never been much with girls, and he's got such silly, prim ideas about them. Well, to go back: when he asked that, I said, "Oh, yes, I suppose so;" but Jack says my tone wasn't very polite. I didn't mean to be impolite, but seeing him brought that horrid afternoon right to my mind, and I could just hear him giggle all over again; I assure you Phil and I'll not try that sort of thing again,--not if the Fetich never gets sold. And evidently that was in his mind, too; for he said, "I want to apologise for being so rude as to laugh that day in my father's office,"--that's the way he talks, so formal, as if he were as old as papa,--"and for guarding--" "We didn't think it was at all polite, I must say," I broke in. But he went right on; that's another of his ways,--if one interrupts him fifty times in a remark, he'll listen, but make no reply until he's finished what he started out to say. Now I think that's provoking,--I wonder how he'd get on if he lived in our family!--and it makes the person that interrupts feel very small and nettled, too. "And for guarding you and your brother home, as if I doubted your word," he finished. Well, now, do you know, I hadn't ever thought about that part,--his going along to guard us,--until he said this; and then, all at once, I felt very angry. "I think it _was_ very, _very_ rude of you," I said decidedly, "and I really wish you would go away and walk with your father, or by yourself--" "Why, _Betty_!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise; then, leaning across me, he said politely, "_Please_ don't think that Betty is a rude girl, for indeed she isn't; but she is awfully quick-tempered, and when she gets mad she is apt to say lots of things that she doesn't mean. She is really quite a nice girl. I'm Jack Rose, her brother; so you see I ought to know." "So you should; I'm glad to meet you," Hilliard said, shaking hands with Jack. Then he added to me: "I _do_ hope you and your brother will let us be friendly. I've told my mother about you both, and she wants so much to know you and your sisters. Perhaps some of you would come over and see her? She is very much of an invalid, and is not able to go out, except for a drive now and then; but when she is well enough to see them, she enjoys having visitors." I was ashamed of having spoken so sharply, but I _didn't_ want to go and see Mrs. Erveng; so all I could say was, in a lame sort of way, "Thank you; perhaps--if papa says we may." Instead of letting the matter drop there, he must needs go on: "I have tried several times to speak to your brother,--at college, and once on the street,--but he seems to avoid me," he said. "I wanted to explain to him; I was afraid you might think my father was severe, but he really didn't beli--he didn't suppose--that is, the young people we've known--" He stopped, looking awfully red and embarrassed, then ended up with, "I'm afraid I'm making an awful muddle of it, but I'm really very sorry; I hope you and your brother will understand that." By "brother" I think he meant Phil, but Jack took it to himself. "Of course, oh, certainly," he said, nudging my elbow to say likewise, and bobbing his head round my shoulder. But I wouldn't, for I understood, just as well as if Hilliard'd said it, that he--they all--thought our coming over to his house, as we had done, to sell the Fetich, was a very queer proceeding. Miss Marston had said that they must think me very unladylike. She so often tells me people think that of me that I've got used to it and don't mind; but I felt _very_ uncomfortable when it occurred to me that perhaps this boy and his father and mother thought so too. "Why didn't you say right out that you thought my dressing up and coming over to your house that way was very queer and unladylike?" I demanded. "I know it's what you think." He opened his mouth to speak, but I went on quickly: "Pooh! that's _nothing_ to what I _can_ do. I can slide down three flights of banisters without one swerve, and make worse faces than any one we know, and whistle, and brandish Indian clubs, and fence and climb besides, and, oh! lots of other things that only boys do; why, I'm strong enough to be able to thrash Jack--there _now_!" "I'd just like to see you try it!" put in Jack, hastily, ruffling up; then, in an undertone, with a nudge of his elbow, "Oh, come now, Betty, _do_ behave yourself." But Hilliard just looked at me--his eyes were wide enough open now--as if I were some strange kind of animal; he really looked shocked. I wondered what he would think of some of my performances at home, and I couldn't resist saying, "I suppose the girls that you know never do such things?" "Not when they are as old or as tall as you are," he answered quietly. Just then Miss Marston and the little ones and Nannie and Nora came up to us, so I introduced Hilliard to them, and as soon as we saw that Nora was talking to him, Jack and I dropped behind and kept there. "Betty," said Jack, severely, as we turned away, "you are really a most provoking girl! I told that boy that you were nice, and you turned right round and acted _abominably_. What possessed you? I didn't hear him say one thing to make you angry." "Jack," I answered, "sometimes you're as dense as a London fog. That boy is a conceited poke because he has no sister; and you'd be just like him if I weren't here to train you." "Well, I declare!" exclaimed Jack, indignantly. "Talking about conceit,--where do you put yourself?" Two hands came suddenly between us; a pleasant voice said, "Let's talk about the sermon, and see which of us remembers most of it;" and there was Max. He had been in church, he said, but stopping to speak to some one had detained him, and he was now going home to have dinner with us,--which meant a visit with papa after dinner, and then a nice long talk with us in the schoolroom. Max is so nice about that; he never slights us. In fact, I think he spends more and more time with us, for he and Nannie have started in to play violin and piano duets together, and he comes one week-evening to practise. He has lent her his violin,--a beauty!--and he takes the piano part. His ward--"the great Shad," as Phil and Felix call him--has not yet arrived; but Max told us this Sunday, as we walked along, that he expected him to be in the city very soon, "and then," he said, "I shall bring him round to be introduced to you young people." When we reached our house, Hilliard said good-bye, and ran across to his own gate; but Max, Mr. Erveng,--Max has been to call on the Ervengs, and has renewed acquaintance with his college-mate,--and papa stood talking for a few minutes before they separated. As we entered our door, Nannie was right behind me, and I heard her say to Felix in a low voice, "Look at papa as he stands between those two men; don't you think he looks _very_ old and worn?" "Well, he's years older than they, isn't he?" asked Fee, turning to look. I too craned my neck for a glimpse, but barely caught sight of the top of papa's hat over Phil's shoulder. "Not so many," Nannie said; "he is eight years older than Mr. Erveng, and ten years older than Max. Not enough to show such a difference." "Why, he looks twenty years older than either of them;" then, lowering his voice,--but I heard him,--Felix added, "Poor old _pater_! He seems to enjoy talking to Mr. Erveng; but do you know, Nannie, I'm _awfully_ sorry we played that joke about the Fetich. I fancy he hasn't been quite the same since." "No, he hasn't, and he's working desperately to get the book finished; he even works in the evening, when he used to read as a recreation. I hope he won't get ill." Then the front door closed, and there was a general rush upstairs to take off coats and hats. I wasn't very happy the rest of that day; Nannie's remark about papa, and what that disagreeable boy across the way had said, kept coming back and coming back to me, so that I really got quite unhappy over it, until I told Nannie the whole thing that night, and then I began to feel better. Though Nannie always tells you right out if you've been wrong, she is also sure to say something to comfort you. I was in the schoolroom the next afternoon, practising, when suddenly the door flew open, and in bounced Jack, in a state of wild excitement. "Oh, think of it! _think_ of it, Betty!" he exclaimed joyously, "I'm going to sing--to _sing_! just think of it!" "Why, you've been doing that for a long time, haven't you?" I asked, with a lively recollection of what I had endured only yesterday. "Oh, but this is different; it's to be in church,--I mean in the _choir_,--and I'm to be _paid_ for it!" "What! really?" I gasped in astonishment. "Why, Jack! _Do_ tell me all about it!" [Illustration: "'WHY, YOU'VE BEEN DOING THAT FOR A LONG TIME, HAVEN'T YOU?' I ASKED."] This he was only too delighted to do; but he was so excited that he could not sit still, and he kept walking backward and forward before me while he was speaking. "Well, it was this way," he said; "just now, while I was playing in the yard, Hannah said papa wanted to see me. Of course I thought right away that something must be wrong, and I didn't feel very happy over it, I can tell you; but when I got to the study, there was papa with a big piece of news for me. Mr. Hawkins from our church had come to see him to ask if he would let me sing in the choir, and was waiting in the drawing-room for my answer! Why, I'd have been glad to sing there for nothing, you know; but when papa went on, and said I would get fifty cents for each Sunday that I sang, I was so delighted, Betty, that I really couldn't say a word. But I guess papa knew by my face how overjoyed I was, for he patted my shoulder and said, 'Well, then, you can go in the drawing-room and tell Mr. Hawkins that you will accept his offer, and be at rehearsal on Friday evening;' and then he spoke about what an honour it was to be chosen to sing God's praises in His own house. I tell you what, Betty, I'm going to try to be a very, _very_ good boy; now aren't you glad for me?" Indeed I _was_ glad, and I told him so; and then what do you think he said? Why, he came close to me, with his clasped hands behind his back, and rocked himself to and fro on his heels and toes; his eyes were shining with delight. "Betty," he said, "I'm to get fifty cents a week at first, and more, Mr. Hawkins says, just as soon as I can read music readily. Now I'm not going to spend one cent of it,--not a single penny. I'm going to save it up until I get a lot, and then,--what d'you think? I'm going to _send Felix to college_! Isn't that a splendid scheme? now isn't it? You see," he went on eagerly, "I've been praying for a way for Fee to go,--you have, too, haven't you? and Nannie,--and I think God has just answered our prayers by letting me get this." "Yes; but won't it take an awfully long time at that rate to save enough to send Fee?" I asked. "Oh, not so _very_ long," Jack replied cheerfully. In the exuberance of his joy he took hold of the schoolroom table and threw his heels in the air; he looked so funny that I could have roared with laughter,--Jack is as clumsy as a cow! Then all at once he remembered something, and coming over to me said, very impressively, "Now, remember, Betty, you're not to say one word about this to Fee,--not a word; I sha'n't mention it to any one beside you, but Nannie, and she wouldn't tell; and then, when we've got enough, we'll give it to Fee, and tell him what it's for. Hoopla!" And again he embraced the table and threw his heels in the air. VIII. A RESOLUTION. TOLD BY BETTY. Two or three days after this--after school hours--Nannie came flying into the schoolroom, where we all were, and announced that some of us had been invited to take tea with the Ervengs that afternoon. While we sat in surprised silence, she went rapidly on to explain: "Such a nice little note to papa, written by Mrs. Erveng: this is one of her 'good days,' and she would like so much to make our acquaintance; would four of us come over and take tea, etc. Hilliard brought the note just now, and papa told him that some of us would be happy to accept." She paused and looked mischievous as a groan broke from us. "I know you are all dying to hear who are to go," she said, "so I'll put you out of your suspense at once; Phil--" "No, you don't! I haven't any 'bunnit,'" broke in Phil. "You don't catch me going over there again in a hurry, I can tell you." "But you ought to go, Phil, really you ought," Nannie said. "You and Betty ought to go over and apologise to Mr. and Mrs. Erveng for the way in which you two Goths invaded their house. Fee, papa says you are to go, too," she added to her twin. "Oh, but this is too bad of the _pater_!" exclaimed Felix, colouring up; "he knows how I hate to go among strange people. I declare, I _won't_ go!" "Go tell the governor so--go _now_, while you're in the humour for it," urged Phil, with suspicious eagerness; "and--um--while you're about it, you know, just mention incidentally that those are my sentiments, too, will you?" "Nonie, you're to lend grace to the entertainment," went on Nannie, with twinkling eyes. "Who, me? I?" exclaimed Nora, quickly. "Oh!" Then, recovering herself the next minute, she said coolly, "Well, I'm perfectly willing to go; for that matter" (with that superior air that does so provoke us), "some of us ought to have gone long ago, and called on the Ervengs,--Miss Marston says so, too,--to apologise for and explain the, to say the least very peculiar, conduct of some other members of our family." And here she looked at me,--just as if Phil were not more to blame than I in that horrid affair of the Fetich! I made a face, and Phil said: "Oh, come, now, Nora, we've heard that before; so do spare us the rest. Who else is to be a victim, Nancy?" "Betty fills up the sum of the 'some,'" answered Nannie; "papa thinks she certainly ought--" "I _won't_ go, I won't, I will not," I interrupted. "That boy is too conceited for anything, and I'm not going over there to be criticised,--so now! I don't want any of their old tea, and I'd just like to be ill or to hide away or something, so's not to go." "Let's you and I run away," suggested Phil, in a stage whisper behind his hand; then, striking an attitude, he extended his long arms: "Come, fair damsel, come, we'll fly to other climes,--the attic or the cellar, _anywhere_, so it be not to the Ervengs'." He made a sudden snatch at me, but I was prepared,--I know him of old!--and, dodging under his arm, darted round the table and soon put a wide distance between us. "Then nobody's going," asserted Jack; he sat on the edge of the schoolroom table, grinning and hugging his knees, which were drawn up to his chin. "Not a one!" "No, _sir_!" "No, _indeed_!" answered Phil, Felix, and I, in one breath. "I do think you are all the rudest, most unmannerly creatures!" exclaimed Nora, indignantly. "These people have been polite enough to invite us to their house, have taken the trouble to prepare for us, when really the attention should have come from us to them, and here you all act as if they had insulted us. Positively, you are a most uncouth set. _I_ am very much pleased with Mrs. Erveng's invitation, and I am going, if no one else does. Rude things!" She started for the door; but Phil got before her, and salaamed to the floor. "What _would_ we do without you, O most noble and elegant Eleanora!" he cried, as he bobbed up and down; and limping over, Fee stared at her through and under and over his glasses. "Friends," he exclaimed, turning to us and putting on an expression of intense astonishment, "allow me to call your attention to this remarkably healthy variety of a well-known plant, Miss"--with a wave of his hand toward Nora--"Miss Prim Rose." "You think that's very smart, don't you?" Nora said, getting red, and tossing her head. Jack flew down from the table, and over to Nora's side, calling out, "Now you just stop teasing her, Felix!" and Phil threw an arm round her, and pulled her down on his lap, saying, "Don't ruffle yourself over such trifles, old lady; keep cool!" I laughed, and Nannie put in quickly, "Nora is quite right: it _was_ our place, as old residents, to call first on the Ervengs,--particularly under the Fetich circumstances; and when they are kind enough to overlook our remissness, and invite us to visit them, we ought at least to appreciate the attention, not rail at it. Anyway, it was papa who decided which of us should go. I would certainly have been included in the number had I not something to do for him this afternoon and evening; I would have liked to go. So do behave yourselves!" "Nancy Lee on etiquette," said Felix, with a grimace, while Nora struggled away from Phil's encircling arm with a sharp, "Of _course_ I am right!" and stalked out of the room, her nose in the air. Now perhaps you think because we said all this that we didn't go to the Ervengs'; well, we did, the whole four of us, and that very afternoon. Though we fret and fume over things beforehand, we generally end by doing just as papa says about them. One reason for this is that, when it comes to the point, none of us are willing to tell him that we won't obey. Papa's very gentle, but he expects us to do as he says, and dear mamma always made us mind; so, as I said, it generally ends by our following orders. Still, sometimes it is a great satisfaction to "spunk up" beforehand, as Phil calls it, and just speak out our minds in the bosom of our family. And after that,--it's the funniest thing! but do you know, we'll almost always turn right round and do just what we said we wouldn't do, as meek as lambs. I don't know if all large families are like this, but it's our way. Well, to go back to the tea. Nora was very glum on the way over,--she usually is when she's on her high horse,--but the boys seemed to be in great spirits, for they just giggled to the Ervengs' very door, and barely had a straight face when Buttons appeared. I fancied that he looked curiously at me, and I wondered uncomfortably if he knew that Phil and I were the two fat old black-robed ladies he had admitted the other day. Mr. Erveng was out, for which Phil and I weren't sorry; but Hilliard met us in the hall and took us upstairs to his mother's sitting-room, where she was lying in an invalid's chair with a white shawl round her shoulders. She's very pretty,--Hilliard isn't a bit like her,--but she looks very delicate and fragile; why, her hands are like _mites_, and she's very, _very_ gentle, and speaks in a low voice. She welcomed us very cordially, and said she thought it was so kind of us to come,--here I thought of our remarks at home, and didn't dare look at Phil and Fee,--and she and Nora seemed to get on nicely. [Illustration: "HILLIARD SHOWING HIS MICROSCOPE AND HIS 'SPECIMENS.'"] Very soon Hilliard carried the boys off to show them his microscope and his "specimens," and what he called his home-gymnasium. I should have loved dearly to go, too, but nobody asked me; so there I had to sit primly on a chair and listen while Mrs. Erveng and Nora talked of books and pictures and music and all sorts of things. And while they talked I looked around the room; Nora said afterward that I stared at everything, until she was ashamed,--but what else was there for me to do? And it was such a pretty room! furnished in light blue, with touches of yellow here and there; some lovely pictures hung on the walls, a graceful bronze Mercury stood on a pedestal between the curtains of one of the windows, growing plants were scattered about, and everywhere were books and flowers. It was all very sweet and lovely: it matched well with Mrs. Erveng, who looked daintiness itself lying back on her silken cushions, and I ought to have enjoyed it; but in some way or other it made me feel uncomfortably big and clumsy and overgrown, and I couldn't get over the feeling. Nora, however, didn't seem to be troubled in this way; I couldn't but notice how pretty she looked, and how well she talked. You mustn't think that Mrs. Erveng slighted me, for she didn't,--she was very polite; but I had a feeling all the time that she just looked upon me as a great rough tomboy,--thinking of that horrid Fetich affair! for she certainly didn't treat me as she did Nora, and there are only fourteen months between us, if Nora _is_ so tall, and acts so grown up. At home we make great fun of Nora's airs and graces, and even that night Phil nudged me, when no one was looking, and whispered, "Do see the frills Nonie's putting on!" but all the same I think both Felix and he were very glad that she could carry off things so well. We had tea in the cosiest little room on the same floor, and we couldn't but notice how Hilliard waited on his mother,--just like a girl would have done; indeed, he was very much more gentle and helpful than I could have been, I am afraid,--though Fee used to be like that with mamma. After tea Nora played; I was asked, too, but I could no more have got through a piece without breaking down than I could have flown. She didn't feel so, though, and did splendidly; she is really a fine pianist, Miss Marston says. After that we sang college songs, and about nine o'clock, or a little after, we four went home. "Unfortunately, I am not able to return any visits," Mrs. Erveng said, when we were leaving, "but if you or your sisters will take pity on my loneliness, and come over to see me whenever you can spare an afternoon or evening, I shall consider it very friendly, and I shall be very glad to see you." She looked at Nora, and Nora answered very sweetly, "Thank you for our pleasant evening, Mrs. Erveng; we shall be glad to come again." Now I never would have thought of saying that! Then we all bade good-night and went home. Hilliard walked to our door with us, and as he shook hands for good-night he said to me, "I'm very glad you came over; mother and I enjoyed it. I hope you'll come again; you see we get very quiet sometimes, just she and father and I." I was surprised that he didn't say this to Nora, for he had talked almost entirely to her,--very little to me during the evening; but I suppose he did it so I shouldn't feel slighted,--as if I cared! Phil admits that he likes Hilliard better than he did, and Felix, who had a long talk with him, says "he's bright, and 'way up in the classics." Well, he may be all that, but all the same I think he's a poke. I don't like him very much. I have a feeling that he went home and told his mother what I said about making faces and sliding down banisters, and that--with the Fetich affair--she thinks I'm a great rough girl. I don't really care, you know, for I have other friends who like me and think I am nice,--Murray and Hope Unsworth and Helen Vassah are always glad to have my company,--but still it _isn't_ comfortable, now that I'm growing older, to be treated as if I were a child. I didn't say much while Nora and the boys were giving Nannie an account of our evening,--they had enjoyed it; but later, when we were alone up in our room, it all came out. She said: "What's wrong, Miss Elizabeth?"--that's one of her pet names for me. "You look as sober as a judge; didn't you enjoy yourself this evening?" And then I told her all about it, though really there wasn't much to tell when we came to it, for Mrs. Erveng had been very polite and nice, and the boy had treated me politely, too. I was afraid Nannie would think I was making a mountain out of a molehill, as nurse says. But that's one of the lovely things about Nannie,--she understands just how things are, and so quickly. She came over and sat on the edge of the bed, and taking one of my hands in hers, kept smoothing it while she talked. "It means this, dear," she said, "that you are getting to be quite grown up, and that the time has come for you to put away rough, hoidenish ways, and to begin to be gentle and dignified, like the true lady that we all know you are at heart. You see we are accustomed to your ways, and while we may tease and scold one another here at home, we also make allowances for the different ones as an outsider would never do, because we love one another--see? Mrs. Erveng and Hilliard simply know you as a tall girl who looks quite a young lady, and naturally they are surprised when you act like a tomboy. You know, Betty, you are nearly as tall as Nora; now just imagine her sliding down the banisters, wrestling with the boys, climbing the fence in the yard, hanging to the tops of the doors, and making the horrible faces that you do!" But my imagination couldn't picture such an impossibility as Nora and I acting alike. "I couldn't--I _couldn't_ be like Nora," I declared, sitting up in bed. "I know she's got nice manners and all that,"--I had never really thought so till that evening,--"but, oh! I _couldn't_ be as prim and--and--proper as she is--" Here my voice began to shake, and I got so sorry for myself that the tears came. Then Nannie put her arms round me, and gave me a hug. "You needn't be like anybody but yourself," she said,--"the nicest, gentlest, and best part of yourself. Give up one hoidenish way at a time; that will be easier than trying to do all at once, you know. Suppose you begin by walking down the stairs to-morrow morning to breakfast, instead of sliding down on the banisters, as you usually do." "Oh, but you don't _know_ how awfully hard that'll be to do," I said tearfully; "our banisters are so broad and smooth, and one goes so swiftly down them,--almost like flying--" "I don't suppose it will be easy to give up the habit," broke in Nannie, wiping my eyes with her handkerchief; "but all the same, Miss Elizabeth, I am confident that if you really make up your mind to stop sliding, you'll do it. You can't keep up such a tomboyish trick all your life, and now is a good time to begin, _I_ think. Dear mamma used to say that everybody had to have some responsibility or other; why not begin to take up yours now? Helen Vassah is only about six months older than you are, and here she has the responsibility of being little Paul's godmother. And there's Hope Unsworth a little younger than you; you know how she helps her grandmother in her charitable work. They are certainly not 'prim or proper;' they are full of fun, yet they wouldn't either of them ever think of doing the rough things that you do,--now would they?" I had to admit that I knew they wouldn't. "Then," said Nannie, "don't you do them either. Take yourself as your responsibility, and show us what you can accomplish in that line. Will you, dearie?" She snuggled her head close up to mine on the pillow as she said this. "Oh, _dear_!" I sighed, "I do wish Jack had been I, and I'd been Jack!" "Even then you would have had to stop such childish tricks some time or other before you grew up. With all his larks, Phil doesn't do them; and think of papa's coming down to breakfast on the banisters!" Nannie and I had to laugh at the very thought. "Well," I said presently, "perhaps I'll try; but that conceited boy'll think he's made me do it." "Oh, no, he won't!" Nannie said, in a tone of conviction that was very comforting. "If he does think now that you're inclined to be a hoiden, why, he'll soon change his mind, when he finds what a nice, sweet little lady you are from day to day. _Don't_ look so dismal, Miss Elizabeth; there's lots of fun left for you!" "I'll try; but I _know_ I'll forget, time and again," I said, sighing heavily. "I don't think there'll be so very many slips," Nannie answered cheerfully; "but if there should be, we'll just do as Rip Van Winkle did,--'we won't count' them." "And will you promise not to tell anybody that I'm trying--not a single creature--not even Felix or Jack?" I asked anxiously. "I _will_ promise not to tell anybody--not a single creature--not even Felix or Jack," Nannie replied, laughing. "Does that satisfy you? Now," she added, "I'm going to say my prayers here beside you, and I'm going to ask our Lord to help you keep your word; you'll ask, too, won't you?" I nodded, and as she knelt down slipped my hand into hers; a few minutes after I was asleep. IX. MAX'S WARD. TOLD BY BETTY. No less than three birthdays in our family fell in the next week: first Fee's and Nannie's,--which I suppose I ought really to count as one, as they are twins,--and then Nora's. As these birthdays _will_ always come together, and to avoid hurting people's feelings, as Jack would say, we celebrate them alternately,--Fee's and Nannie's one year, and Nora's the next; and this was Nora's year. We had had several performances lately, so Fee said he'd try to think of something else, if we'd all promise to do just as we were told. Of course we promised; then he and Phil invited the Unsworths and Helen Vassah and that boy across the way,--I didn't want _him_, but all the others did, so he was asked. Hope was at her grandma's, so she couldn't come; but Murray and Helen did, and, _of course_, Hilliard. The birthday fell on a Friday, and as papa is always at home on that evening, we were afraid he wouldn't allow us to celebrate it; but to our great joy he told Nannie to tell us that we might have all the fun we wanted, as long as we behaved ourselves and kept the doors closed, so the noise would not escape. So right after school hours Phil and Felix took possession of the schoolroom, and after having got us to give them all our presents for Nora, they locked themselves in. "We're going to have a bang-up entertainment, now, you'll see," Felix said, just before he closed the door,--"something unique, unprecedented, etc.; and no one is to put even a nose into the banqueting hall"--with a wave of his hand over his shoulder--"until the doors are thrown open and the music strikes up. Now remember--" "Yes, and no snooping or hanging around either!" put in Phil, standing on tip-toe to rest his chin on Fee's crown and glare at us. Then the door was locked. Such a hammering and dragging about of furniture you never heard; and when every now and then Phil would come out for something or other, Fee would open the door very cautiously, as if afraid somebody'd see something, and shut and lock it with a bang when he re-entered. As you may imagine, our curiosity was excited to the highest pitch to know what we were going to have. Then just before dinner Jack came running in, in a great state of excitement; he had been to rehearsal, and had done so well in the piece he had to sing that Mr. Hawkins had really engaged him, at fifty cents a week, with the promise of more as he improved. Jack was almost wild with delight. "Isn't it fine! Isn't it just jolly! You should have heard me sing; really, it didn't sound bad!" he exclaimed about twenty times; and the knowing looks and nudges and winks that he bestowed on me couldn't be counted. No amount of snubbing could repress him. It seemed to us as if dinner would never be over; but at last it came to an end, and Jack and I and the younger children flew upstairs and stood waiting for the signal to enter the "banqueting hall." In a few minutes more up came Nora, with Helen and Murray and Hilliard. I was sure Murray and Helen would enjoy the "festive occasion," for they like the things that we do; but I didn't know how that boy would take it. He was very smiling, however; and I heard him tell Nora, as he presented her with a lovely bunch of roses, that it was "very kind of her to allow him to be of the party." Just then the schoolroom doors were thrown open, and the strains of the wedding march from Lohengrin floated sweetly out to us from violin and piano. At the same moment Phil appeared with a paper flower in his buttonhole, and arranged us in couples,--Nora and he going first,--and so we marched into the schoolroom. I think perhaps I ought to describe the schoolroom to you, for it is playroom, sitting-room, schoolroom, and everything to us. It's on the top floor,--so that our noise sha'n't disturb papa,--and takes in the whole width of the house and half its length, making an immense room. There are some back rooms on this floor, and the large open space on each side of the stairs is what we call the attic. Though almost everything in it is old and shabby, we do have royal times in the schoolroom, for it is our own, and out of study hours we can do there as we please. Here are Phil's banjo and his boxing-gloves, and a lot of what nurse calls his "rubbish"; Fee's easel is in this corner, and a couple of forlorn, dirty old plaster casts which--unless he has a painting-fit on him--generally serve as hat-rests for Phil and himself. Pictures in various stages of completion stand about. Here, too, are Nannie's and Fee's violins, resting against a pile of old music that Max gave them before he went away. In the next corner, the other side of the low, deep-silled windows, hangs Nora's china-shelf, on which are ranged what the boys call her Lares and Penates,--vases and pretty cups and saucers that have been given to her. Here, too, are her plants, conspicuous among which is a graceful fan-leaved palm, known in the family as Lady Jane. These are the front corners; and between the windows stand our book-shelves,--they are in a clumsy, unsteady old case, that rocks from side to side if you touch it, and is only held together by the wall against which it leans. The shelves are rather short,--now and then a shelf slips off its notches and spills our library,--and they are so narrow that books constantly fall down behind, and lie there until house-cleaning or a sudden desire for one of those volumes brings them all to light, and they are restored to their places. One of the other--back--corners is mine; and here I have my "gymnasium,"--my Indian clubs and dumb-bells; here, too, are my tennis racket (I love to play!) and two old walking-canes with which (when I can get him to do it) Jack and I fence,--dear me! I wonder if I shall have to give _that_ up too, now that I have given that promise to Nannie! Then comes our sofa: it's an old-fashioned, chintz-covered affair, with a high back and high arms that stick straight out at each end, and it's dreadfully shabby now; but all the same there isn't one of us--except, perhaps, Nora--that would be willing to exchange it for the handsomest piece of furniture that could be offered us. The times we've played house and shipwreck, and gone journeys on it, and romped and pranced all over it, can't be counted! This is Jack's favourite place to sit and read; and under it, concealed from public view by the deep chintz flounce that runs around the front and sides of the sofa, are stored his treasures,--his books and stamp album, a queer-looking boat that he has been building for ages, and a toy steam engine with which he is always experimenting, but which, so far, absolutely refuses to "go." I have frequently offered to share my corner with Jack, and I couldn't understand why he always refused, until one day I accidentally over-heard him speaking about it to Nannie. "You see, Nannie, Betty means well," he said, "but she does hit out so with those clubs! I'd be sure to get hurt some time or other; and then, besides, she'd just own my things more than I would myself." Of course this last part isn't really so, for he hasn't a thing that I'd care for; but still he sticks to the sofa. [Illustration: "THE 'QUEEN OF THE REVELS.'"] Kathie and the twins and Alan have the other corner with their doll's house, a tail-less hobby horse, known both as the "palfrey" and the "charger," and blocks and toys without number. We've a piano in the schoolroom for practising, and in the middle of the floor is a large table, round which we sit in and out of school hours. This table has no cover; it is liberally besprinkled with ink stains, and adorned in many places with our initials, and with circles done in red ink,--goals for feather-top playing,--and pieces have been hacked out of the edges, trying the sharpness of sundry new knives. The old table is not at all ornamental, but we couldn't get on without it, and we older ones have quite an affection for our old Jumbo. Some pictures--three or four of them by Felix--are hung up on the walls. And now you know how our schoolroom looks. But a grand transformation had taken place: all our stage property had been utilised; the pictures were draped with red, white, and blue paper muslin; the "statuary" and plants were arranged about the room with an eye to a fine effect; great bunches of paper flowers bloomed in every available place,--even on the gas fixtures! The large table was too heavy to be pushed aside, but it was covered with Murray Unsworth's big flag, which gave it quite a festive appearance; while the smaller table over in the corner, though partially concealed by the dining-room screen, gave tempting glimpses of "refreshments." Nannie was at the piano, and beside her was Fee, playing away on his violin with all his might. At the farther end of the room, on a dais, was Miss Marston's chair, covered with red paper muslin, and here, after we had promenaded several times round the room, Phil seated Nora, announcing her the "Queen of the Revels," which so struck Jack's fancy that he gave his hand a little upward jerk, and shouted, "Hurray for we!" And then, though of course we oughtn't to have done it, being for ourselves, you know, we every one joined in a "three times three" hurrah! Kathie and the little ones got so excited that they fairly yelled, and we had some difficulty in quieting them. When order was restored, Phil and Felix brought from the closet a large clothes-basket, piled full of neatly tied-up parcels of all sizes, which they placed beside Nora. Fee then made a sign to Phil. "Begin!" he whispered. Phil struck an attitude, with his hand on his heart, and began, "Fair Queen!" then stopped, looked astonished, put his hand to his forehead, gazed at the floor and the ceiling, then burst out with:-- "When these you see, Fair maid, remember we; As we've remembered you, And given you your due." "_That_ isn't what you were to say, you goose!" exclaimed Felix, wrathfully. "That isn't your speech!" "Don't talk to me about your old set speeches, when a man can rise to an occasion like _that!_" remarked Phil, loftily, straightening up and throwing back the lapels of his coat with a great air. "_Poetry!_--d'ye mind that, Mr. Wegge? The genuine article, and at a moment's notice! At last I've struck my vocation." Of course we laughed uproariously; we were in the mood for it, and would have laughed if some one had held up a finger at us. Felix then made his speech, expressing our love and wishes for many, many (I believe there were six manys) happy returns of Nora's birthday, and he began to hand her her presents, reading out the inscription on each as he did so, she opening them. The first was "Nora, with love and birthday wishes from Max," and when the wrapper was off, it proved to be a lovely print of Von Bodenhauser's Madonna. Max had given Nannie a picture on her birthday, and Nora was delighted to get one as well. Next came smaller gifts from Helen Vassah, Jack, Felix, and Nannie, and then Felix fished up a large, rather bulky parcel, the inscription on which he read very distinctly: "Dearest Nora, with love from the 'Twinsies,'"--that's the name we give to Felix and Nannie to distinguish them from the younger twins. "Why!" exclaimed Nora, in surprise, as she took the parcel on her lap, "you have both already given me something, you dear, generous creatures; I'm afraid you've been extravagant. And so nicely done up, too; thank you, thank you very much!" and she kissed them warmly. "Oh, that's all right; don't speak of it," said Felix, modestly, while Nannie began wonderingly, "Why, I didn't--" "Ought to be something very fine," hastily interrupted Phil, "_four_ wrappers!" The next minute there was a shout of laughter from us all as, after carefully unfolding the last paper, Nora drew out nurse's work-basket, piled high with innumerable pairs of our stockings and socks which were waiting to be darned! I expected Nora would have been provoked, but she only laughed as heartily as the rest of us. It was a fortunate thing she was in such a good humour, for three more times the boys played that joke on her before the basket was emptied. One was her own choicest cup and saucer, "with love from papa;" the next, the drawing-room feather-duster, "a token of appreciation from the family,"--Nora _hates_ to dust! and the third, an unfinished sketch which she began months ago, and which was for Phil when completed; this was "from her affectionate brother, Philip." And they were so cleverly sandwiched in between the real birthday gifts that Nora got caught each time, to our great enjoyment. After this we had games, and refreshments were served early on account of the little ones. As soon as they had said good-night we played more games, and then the boys began to get noisy; that's the worst with boys,--at least our boys,--just as soon as they begin to enjoy themselves, it seems as if they _must_ make a noise and get rough. Ever since Nannie and I had that talk, I've been trying my best to act like a young lady, and this evening I was particularly on my good behaviour; but, oh, it was tiresome! and I could see that the boys didn't know what to make of it,--Murray Unsworth asked if I didn't feel well, and Fee looked very quizzically at me, though I pretended I didn't see him. I was so afraid he'd say something right before that boy! Well, as it happened, all my pains went for nothing,--and just through Fee's nonsense. Murray and I were looking at Phil's boxing-gloves,--Phil was out of the room,--and as we talked, I slipped on one of the gloves, when Felix came up behind me and took hold of my arm. "That's Phil opening the door," he said quickly; "let's play a joke on him." And before I had the least idea of what he was going to do, Fee had raised my arm and given the person who was entering such a whack on the shoulder with the boxing-glove as whirled him completely round, so that he got in the way of another person who was behind him, and nearly knocked him over. In a moment more we saw that the two persons were papa and a stranger,--a young man! There was an instant's awful pause, broken by a nervous little giggle from Jack at the sight of Phil--behind papa--with his hands clasped, his knees bent as if in abject terror, and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling. Then, settling his glasses--which had been nearly knocked off--straight on his nose, papa looked around at us and asked, "Is this the way you welcome your guests, Nora?" adding, to me, "Take off that glove, Betty!" I got awfully red, I know; but before I could say anything Felix stepped forward and explained, and Nora advanced with a smile, saying, "We are very glad to see you, papa." Then papa introduced the young man, and who should he be but Max's ward, "the great Shad," or, to give him his proper name, Chadwick Whitcombe! He had expected to meet Max at our house, and had waited some time downstairs for him; then, as the evening wore on and Max did not appear, papa had thought it best to himself bring him up and introduce him to us. Of course we all looked at him,--and the more so that he isn't at all like what we had any of us expected. In the first place, though Max says he's just nineteen, he acts as if he were years older than that, and altogether he is different to any of the boys we've ever known. He's not quite so tall as Fee, though he wears very high heels on his boots; and his features are so delicate, his complexion so pink and white, that in spite of a tiny moustache, which he's very fond of caressing, he looks a great deal more like a girl than a boy. His hair is as yellow as Mädel's; it's wavy like a girl's, and he wears it long and parted in the middle; and his eyes are large and very blue,--Phil says they are "languishing," and he and Felix have given him another nick-name of "Lydia Languish." He wore evening clothes, with a white flower in his buttonhole, and there were diamond studs in the bosom of his shirt, and a diamond ring on one of his fingers. When papa introduced him, he put his heels together and made us three very low and graceful bows, saying, in a voice just like a girl's, and with a smile that showed his white teeth, "I am _very_ happy to--aw--meet you!" [Illustration: "'AW!'"] After looking at the presents, which, minus the jokes, were ranged on a table, and saying a few words, papa went away. I have an idea that he noticed the difference between this delicate Dresden-china young man and our own fun-loving boys, and rather dreaded leaving the stranger to our devices; for at the door he laid his hand on Phil's shoulder and said, "Remember, no more jokes to-night, Phil." And with a look of injured innocence that almost upset Felix and me, Phil answered, "Why, no, sir, _certainly_ not." We were rather quiet at first after papa went away; then Phil nudged Nannie, with the whisper: "Go talk to him; I don't know what to say to such a dude;" while Felix chimed in, in the same low voice, "Ask him if he puts his hair up in papers, nights,--or get Betty to ask him." But I edged away quickly, and joined Murray and Helen at the other side of the room. I was determined I would get into no more mischief. But they needn't have troubled themselves,--Chad didn't seem one bit embarrassed: he just drew a chair to Nora's side and began talking to her as easily as if he had known her all his life; and in a little while Nannie got the boys over to the piano and singing songs with rousing choruses, which they always enjoy. I think she did it this time, though, to divert their attention from the new-comer, for they were just ready to bubble over at the way he talked; even Hilliard's sleepy eyes were twinkling with sly merriment. When Chad talks he is, as Murray puts it, "too awfully English, you know, for anything," though he was born and has lived most of his life in America; and he pronounces his words in the most affected way. Altogether, he is awfully affected; you should see the air with which he flirts his handkerchief out of his pocket, his mincing steps, and the bored, you-can't-teach-me-anything expression of his face. "I've--aw--really been very busy since my return," he told Nora, in that high-pitched, affected voice of his. "I've--aw--moved into bachelor quarters, and been--aw--having my apartments decorated and furnished. Have my own ideahs, you know, and--aw--'m having 'em carried out--all in blue--effect will be--aw--really very fine. I've--aw--brought back pictures and bric-à-brac and--aw--curios of all descriptions, and now--aw--'ll turn 'em to good account. Awful job, you know--expect to work like a slave--these--aw--so-called decorators over here have such abominable taste! but the effect will be unique--of that--aw--'m sure." "Why, aren't you going to school--I mean college?" Phil turned round in the middle of a chorus to ask bluntly. "I--aw--have no intention of it," answered Chad, lounging off in his chair and stroking his baby moustache. "Oh, I see: your education's finished," said Phil, with that innocent expression on his face that we know means mischief; but before he could say another word, Helen Vassah cried out, "Oh, Phil, here's our favourite duet; you must sing it with me," and Nannie struck up an unusually loud accompaniment. Before the evening was over, we made up our minds that Chad was the silliest, most conceited creature; he did nothing but talk of himself and his possessions, and in the most lordly way imaginable. No matter what subject was introduced, he'd go right back to the one thing that seemed to interest him,--himself. He lounged back in his chair and made not the slightest effort to join in the entertainment. In fact, Nora was the only person he honoured with any notice; and while we all think him very unmannerly, she--would you believe it!--likes him. Coming over later in the evening to the corner of the room where Helen, Fee, Jack and I were, she said to Helen, "Isn't he nice? Did you see the way he offered me his arm to the piano? so polite, and different from the generality of boys,--don't you think so?" "Yes," Helen said, with a smile, "he is quite unlike any of the boys we know; who _does_ he look like, Nora? We all see a likeness, but can't think to whom." "Oh, I know, I've got it, I know," cried Jack, excitedly; "he looks (except that he hasn't got on knee-breeches and lace ruffles) just like that picture Max gave you, Felix,--don't you remember?--with a lace handkerchief in one hand and a snuff-box in the other. Oh, you _know_,--the French Marquis--" "You're right, Jack,--so it is; he does look like 'Monsieur le Marquis,'" Nora said, glancing at Chad. "He _has_ an aristocratic face,--'Monsieur le Marquis.'" [Illustration: "HERE IS THE SKETCH."] "Monsieur le Don_key_ would be a more suitable name," exclaimed Fee, while Helen, Jack, and I laughed. "If you'd seen how absurd he looked when he clicked his heels together and offered you his arm, you would know mine is the title that best suits him. I declare I'll make a sketch of you both from memory; it was too rich to be lost." Catching up a blank book, he began to sketch rapidly. Nora turned away, laughing; but we three remained, looking over Fee's shoulder, criticising and offering suggestions, until it was finished. Here is the sketch: it's pretty good of Nora, but of course it's a caricature of Chad. About a quarter to ten the "party" broke up. Chad was the first to go; as he rose to say good-night, I heard Nannie whisper to Phil: "Phil, you'll have to see him out. Fee can't go all the way downstairs and then up again,--it's too much for him,--and Jack is too young; anyway, it is your place as the eldest." "Little snob!" said Phil, savagely. "I'd like to take him down by way of the banisters,--just give him one shove, and let him fly." "He _is_ a snob," admitted Nannie, "but he is also Max's ward, and that entitles him to some consideration from us; and remember, too, what Max said,--that he has knocked about the world ever since he was a little fellow: that would account for much. You know, Phil, we've had our home and one another and dear mamma; and besides, you wouldn't want to spoil Nonie's birthday. Do treat him civilly! will you?" "Well, I'll try," Phil answered, making a wry face; "but if he begins any of his 'aw--aw,' on the way down, I'll not answer for the consequences." Bending low over Nora's hand, Chad murmured something of which we only heard "Chawming evening--pleasure of meeting you--Max again," then, bowing twice to the rest of the company, he took his departure. "I've enjoyed myself immensely," Hilliard said, as he bade good-night; then he added to me, "I never knew before how interesting a large family could be,--you have such fun among yourselves; and I think it is so kind of you all to let me come over and share your good times." Then Murray and Helen made their adieux, and all went away together. Phil came racing back to the schoolroom after seeing them out. "Well," he said breathlessly, taking a seat on the edge of the big table, "well, everything went off all right; quite a success, wasn't it? barring the great Shad,--he was no addition to our party. I'm awfully sorry he's such a cad; for Max's sake I'd have liked to be nice to him." "You are hard on him, Phil," Nora said. "He may be a little conceited, but I think he's not at all a bad fellow; now see if you don't like him better after you get to know him." "Not at all a bad fellow!" repeated Felix, sharply. "Well, you may think so, but I don't. I agree with Phil,--he _is_ a cad! Did you see the expression of his face as he looked around our shabby old schoolroom, and took in the simple birthday refreshments? he didn't even take the trouble to hide his contempt for our poverty and childishness. You may think that's like a gentleman, but I do not." "He wouldn't touch the cake, and only took a glass of water," I volunteered at this point. "You here?" cried Nora, wheeling round on me, "and Jack? It's high time you two were in bed." Then she went on: "Our appetites are equal to anything; but not everybody dotes on home-made cookies and tough sponge cake. _I_ found Max's ward a very polite young gentleman, a pleasant change from the rough, unmannerly boys one usually has to put up with. Betty and Jack, _are_ you going to bed, or not? Why don't you speak to them, Nannie?" "Don't be cross to them," whispered Nannie to her; "it's your birthday, you know. Come, Betty; come, Jack, let's go off together. I'm tired and sleepy, too." Rather unwillingly we bade good-night and went downstairs with Nannie. As the schoolroom door closed behind us, I heard Felix say, with a sharp insistence unusual to him, and bringing his hand down on the table to emphasise his words, "I _don't_ like that fellow! I _don't_ like him, and I wish he hadn't come here!" X. IN THE SCHOOLROOM. TOLD BY FELIX. "Felix," said the _pater_, "your two elder sisters are to go with me on Thursday afternoon to Mrs. Blackwood's reception, and I should like you to accompany us; Phil went the last time--" He stopped abruptly, with a stifled sigh, and began hastily turning over the leaves of the book which lay open before him on his desk. I knew why he sighed; I remembered well who had been with him the last time he attended a reception at Mrs. Blackwood's; the awful, aching longing that I have so often to fight down has taught me something of what my father must suffer. If I could only have expressed what was in my heart! but all I could manage to get out was, "Very well, sir," and my voice sounded so cold and indifferent that I was ashamed. I'm not afraid of the _pater_,--I can talk easily enough to him on ordinary subjects; but when it comes to anything about which I feel very deeply, Nannie is the only person to whom I can bear to speak, now that _she_ is gone. And even to Nannie I can't say much; I wish I could,--it would be a relief sometimes. I envy the others that they can talk of--mother; it is a comfort to me to listen, but it cuts me to the heart to even say her name. So this afternoon I sat quietly at Nannie's table, and went on sorting the references I had been making for the Fetich, until my father got up from his desk and began pacing up and down the study floor, with his hands clasped behind his back. His head was bent forward, and he had evidently entirely forgotten that I was in the room; for he sighed heavily several times, and then, with a sudden straightening of his whole body, as if in acute physical pain, he threw back his head, and a low, quivering "_A-a-h!_" that was like a groan, broke from his lips. An iron hand seemed clutching my throat, and I could hardly see for the blur across my eyes, as I crept out of the room and closed the door softly. I sat on the steps for a few moments, then--for I had forgotten my cane in the study--went slowly upstairs, and that gave me a chance to recover myself before I reached the schoolroom; though perhaps Nannie noticed something unusual,--my twinnie's eyes are so sharp, and her heart is so tender,--for it seemed to me that her voice was very loving as she said, pushing forward our big old rocker as soon as I entered the room: "You naughty Fee! you've come up without your cane; you must be tired. Sit here and get rested." [Illustration: "ALAN, ON HIS FIERY STEED."] I _was_ tired,--unusually so,--and was glad to get into the chair. It was after school hours, and the clan was in full force. Nora was seated at my easel, humming "A Media Noche," and trying to copy her birthday picture; Betty and Jack were fencing,--at least, Betty was making furious lunges at Jack, which he was mainly occupied in dodging, while every now and then a vehement protest was heard, such as, "Now, Betty, look out! that was my head," or, "That came within an inch of my nose--I _do_ wish you'd be careful!" Kathie and the twins were playing house, holding lively conversations in a high key, while Alan paid them repeated visits, prancing around the room, and to their door, on a broomstick, which was his fiery steed, and to control which required both voice and whip; Nannie was hunting through our pile of violin music for a certain duet to play with Max when he got home; and in the midst of all the noise Phil lay on the sofa, his head nearly level with the seat, and his long legs extended over the arm, reading Virgil aloud. That's his way of studying,--a most annoying one to a nervous person!--and, as the noise around him increases or decreases, so he raises or lowers his voice. As may be easily understood, there are times when he fairly roars. The news of the reception had preceded me, and as I came in Phil reared his head in such a comical way to speak to me that Betty instantly declared that he looked like a turtle. "So you're booked for the Blackwood tea-fight," he said. "Well, old man, my sympathy for you is only equalled by my thankfulness that I am not the victim. Take my advice,--I've been there several times, you know, and you haven't,--fortify the inner man before you go. It's a very mild orgy,--a thimbleful of chocolate and one macaroon are all you'll get,--and coming between luncheon and dinner, I'm afraid you'll feel--as I did--as if you'd like to fall on the table and eat up all that's on it." His head fell back, and he resumed his reading, the book resting upright on his chest. "People are not supposed to gorge themselves at an afternoon reception," remarked Nora, before I could get a word in. "It is--" "'A feast of reason and a flow of soul,'" finished Nannie, smiling, "though I'm sure dear old Mrs. Blackwood would willingly have given you a pound or two of macaroons and a whole pitcher full of chocolate, had she known you were hungry." "Oh, I'm not saying a word against her in particular; she's a first-rate old party," commenced Phil, but he was instantly interrupted. "Phil, you are positively vulgar," cried Nora, in a tone of disgust. "Don't speak of our dear old friend in that way, Phil; it isn't nice," said Nannie. "Well, now, here's a queer thing," remarked Phil, in an argumentative tone. "If I'd said Mrs. Blackwood was 'a host in herself,' it would have been considered a delicate compliment; and yet when I call her a 'party,' which certainly means a host, you two jump on me. There's no accounting for the eccentricities of the feminine character." Then, as his head sank back, "I do believe somebody's been pulling the feathers out of this sofa pillow; there can't be two dozen left in it. I suppose Betty's been making an Indian head-dress for herself. Just poke that history under my head, will you, Jack? or I'll certainly get rush of blood to the brain. There, that's better! Why so silent, most noble Felix?" with a sidelong glance at me after settling himself. "Art filled with fears for Thursday's function?" Usually I enjoy Phil's nonsense, and talk as much of it as he does; but somehow I didn't feel in the mood for it this afternoon. One reason may have been because of the dreadfully tired feeling that had come over me since entering the schoolroom: it was really an effort for me to answer him; I felt as if I wanted only to be let alone, and I realised, without being able to control it, that my voice was very irritable as I said briefly, "One has got to be silent when you begin to gabble." Phil reared his head again, and looked at me. "Whew!" he whistled, "aren't we spicy this afternoon!" Nannie immediately rushed into conversation. "Mrs. Blackwood wrote papa that she and Mr. Blackwood had just received some very rare old books from Europe," she said, "among them a Chaucer,--and beside that, a charming Corot; so, Fee, both you and papa will have something to enjoy, while Nora and I are exchanging small-talk." "Oh, that's why papa was so willing to go to the reception," Nora remarked, with her usual brilliancy. "I might have known there was something like that about it." [Illustration: "'FEE, DEAR,' SHE SAID IN AN UNDERTONE, 'DON'T YOU FEEL WELL? TELL ME.'"] Willing! I thought of what had happened in the study that afternoon--poor old _pater_! I felt like saying something sharp to Miss Nora, but it was actually too much trouble to speak; I was so tired, and the chair was so comfortable, that I did not want even to think of any exertion. By this time Nannie had found her duet, and she came and stood by my chair, looking anxiously at me. "Fee, dear," she said in an undertone, "don't you feel well? Tell me." Her fingers stole up and gently stroked the hair behind my ear. "Tell me, Fee," she pleaded. "I only want--to be let alone," I said, but not unkindly. I didn't mean to be disagreeable to her, and I think she understood,--she is so quick of comprehension! At this moment there was an outcry from one of the fencers. "If you aren't the meanest girl I know!" cried Jack. "You don't seem to care how much you hurt a person. I won't play another minute, now, then!" and his stick rattled on the floor. "She's given me a horrid poke in the ribs," he said, coming over to Nannie, with his hand pressed to his side. "I tell you now, it hurts; and she doesn't care a rap,--rough thing!" Betty was laughing immoderately. "Poor wounded warrior!" she mocked; "he's taken his 'death of danger' ever since we began. What a baby you are, Jack! I'd just like to give you something to make a fuss about. Ho, there! defend thyself, Sir Knight." She bore down on him with upraised stick, but Jack dodged behind Nannie. "Now stop, I tell you, Betty!" he cried sharply. "Go away! I'm not playing; you're too disagreeable." "Oh, come, Miss Elizabeth, do behave yourself," said Nannie. But Betty kept dancing around Jack, and making thrusts at him. "Hie thee hither, my squires," she called to the younger boys. "Come on, Sir Paul, come on, Sir Alan, and we'll capture this recreant knight." "You ought to be sent to boarding-school, where you'd be _made_ to behave yourself!" "Fair play, Elizabeth; don't hurt our Rosebud;" and "I'd just like to see 'em try it," came simultaneously from Nora, Phil, and Jack. But the "squires" had no intention of interfering; they had pressing affairs of their own to look after. One of the dolls having suddenly developed a complication of diseases,--measles, scarlet fever, and whooping cough,--the heads of the household were after the doctor in hot haste. Sir Paul had mounted the "charger," and was urging him on at his highest speed, while Sir Alan came dashing toward us on his broomstick, thrashing his steed without mercy, and shouting, "Gee up, horsie, _g-e-e_ up!" at the top of his voice. At this juncture the door opened, and in stepped nurse. "Lors-a-me! Bedlam let loose!" she exclaimed, putting up her hands and looking as surprised as if this noisy state of things were not of daily occurrence. "Master Felix, your pa'd like to see you 'bout some referumces,--or something like that. Come, children, it's time to get ready for your dinner. Oh, come now,--I ain't got no time to waste; to-morrow you c'n get the doctor--come!" As I sat up and took hold of the arms of the rocker, as a preliminary to rising, Nannie said, coaxingly: "Mayn't I go down and explain to papa about those references? You could tell me, you know, Fee. Then you could go to your room and lie down for a little while before dinner,--you look so tired." "I _am_ tired," I answered slowly, "awfully tired. And I really don't know why I should feel so. I've not done any more or as much as usual to-day. No, Nan, I think I'll go down; but first I'll get ready for dinner, and that will spare another trip up and down the stairs. I'll go to bed early to-night, and that'll make me all right to-morrow." So saying, I stood up and took a step forward; just then Alan, who had escaped from nurse and taken another gallop around the room, came kicking and prancing up on his restive steed. He rushed by with a great flourish, whirling the end of the broomstick as he got near me; nurse made a dive at him, and the next moment I was in a heap on the floor! I wasn't hurt, except for a sharp rap on one elbow, and my first impulse was to call out and reassure the family, for they were frightened; but though I could hear all that went on,--in a far-off way, as if I were in a dream,--to my great surprise I found that I could neither move nor speak, nor even open my eyes! Like a flash, Nannie was beside me on the floor, crying, "Oh, _Fee!_ are you hurt?" and trying to slip her little hands under my shoulder. Nora and Betty immediately began scolding Alan, who protested vehemently, "I _didn't_ hit him; no, I _didn't_, truly I didn't." I heard Jack's nervous demand, "Oh, do, somebody, tell me what to do for him!" and Phil's startled exclamation, "Great Cæsar's ghost!" and the thud with which his Virgil fell on the floor. Then I felt his strong arms under me, and I was lifted and laid on the sofa. "Are you hurt, old fellow? are you, Fee?" Phil asked anxiously, bending over me. "Mebbe he's faint like; open the window, Master Phil! Children, _don't_ crowd round your brother so," said nurse. "There, now, fan him, an' I'll bring some water." As she turned away I heard her say,--nurse never can whisper,--"I don't like his looks; go tell your pa, Master Phil, an' ask him if you can run for the doctor." Nannie's fingers tightened round my hand. "O-o-h, my _dear_!" she whispered. The quiver in her voice told me that she, too, had heard nurse's remark, and that she was frightened,--my little twinnie! I think she would willingly any time suffer pain to spare me. I longed to comfort her, to tell them all that I was not at all hurt, that I had no pain whatever,--even the backache, which is my almost daily companion, having left me since the fall,--yet the terrible languor which controlled me seemed almost too great to be overcome. Then I thought of poor Nannie, and the _pater_, and the doctor, and the beastly fussing and restrictions I'd have to endure, and with a desperate effort--for my tongue really felt heavy--I managed to get out, "I'm--not--hurt. Don't--need--doctor." Nannie gave a little gasp when I spoke, and catching my two hands in hers, kissed them. "You old humbug!" cried Phil, gaily,--I could hear the note of relief in his voice; "I do believe you've been shamming to give us a scare. Open your eyes this minute." And then I found that I could raise my lids and look at the dear faces gathered about me. "Sure you feel all right, Master Felix?" nurse asked, eyeing me closely. "Sure," I answered slowly; "only tired." "Well, if it's only tired you are, the best place is bed, an' we'll not send for the doctor," she said; and I made no objection, though usually I hate to go to bed in the day-time. Not having inherited the good physique of the family, I've spent more days in bed and on the sofa than I'd be willing to count, and I'm not anxious for more. Still I would rather do that now than have the doctor sent for, so without demur I let Phil carry me down to my room, and undress and put me to bed. What wouldn't I give to be as strong as he is! And he's gentle with it; sometimes he provokes me by the way he watches and takes care of me,--as if I were so fragile I'd go to pieces at a knock,--though in a way I like it, too, and he doesn't mean to rub it in. He has an idea that I care less for him than he does for me, because I am so unfortunately constituted that I can't express what I feel; but--if he only knew it--life to me wouldn't be worth the living without him and Nannie,--dear old lion-heart! Sometimes I wonder if he will always be as good to me, and care as much; I mean when he gets older, and goes more among people, and they find out what a fine fellow he is, and what jolly company. He declares now that I'm the good company; but _I_ know that my good spirits are more dependent on his than his on mine. In our studies I'm the quicker,--he doesn't love books as I do,--but he is so kindly and brave and bright and merry, that I'd defy anybody not to like him. But--though he thinks he is awfully sharp--Phil is one of the kind that will be imposed upon; he's so honest and straightforward himself that he thinks everybody else is also, and I'm constantly afraid that some fellow or other that he doesn't see through'll get hold of him and get him into mischief. This was one of the reasons why I was so awfully disappointed at not going to college; Phil and I've been together all our lives, and I hated mortally to have him go off alone and meet people, and make friends there that I would never know. He really needs me--my cooler judgment, I mean--just as much as I ever need his protecting strength. I'm almost sure that _she_ thought so, too, for whenever college was spoken of she would say, "You must go at the same time, Felix, and help him;" and once she added, "help him in _everything_," and I understood what she meant. It won't always be so: I think that by and by, when Phil gets to be a man, he'll have more judgment; and now it's only because he's so true himself, and so simple-hearted. I really believe I love him all the better for these traits, though sometimes, when I get provoked, I tell him that he is gullible, and a second Dr. Primrose. When I found that I couldn't possibly go to college, it was a great relief to know that Murray Unsworth was there, and that they'd be together. Murray's an A 1 fellow! But I must confess that so far Phil hasn't changed at all; he depends on me and seems to like to be with me just as much as ever. And now comes along that snob Chad. I _don't_ like that fellow, and I'll be furious if he gets intimate with Phil. Phil didn't like him at all at first, but I can see--though he won't admit it--that Chad is worming himself into his good graces. He's found out that Phil is first-rate company, and now he is trying to be very friendly. Max was called out of town on the evening of Nora's birthday, and he didn't get back for some time; but that has not prevented Monsieur le Don_key_ from coming here again and again. He had the assurance to send his card up to Nora the second time he called,--for her to go down to the drawing-room and entertain him alone! just like his impudence! But of course Miss Marston would not let Nora go, and instead, the _pater_ walked in, and squelched Mr. "Shad." We don't know what father said, but the next time Chad appeared he found the schoolroom good enough for him; and now, as I said, he is trying to be very friendly with Phil. I don't want him to get intimate with Phil; I dread it, for I have a conviction he's not the sort of fellow that it will do anybody any good to know. From what he has told Nora, it seems that Chad's father was a miner who "struck a bonanza," as he expresses it, and made a great deal of money; then, just as he was ready to enjoy the fortune, he and his wife were killed in a railroad disaster, leaving Chad, who was the only child, to the guardianship of a fellow miner--another "bonanza" man--and Max, whose only acquaintance with Mr. Whitcomb, by the way, had been in successfully conducting a law case for him. The other guardian took the boy all over the United States, and then to Europe, letting him, I fancy, do as he pleased,--study or not as suited his own will,--with the result that Chad is an ignorant, vulgar, conceited cad, with the merest veneering of refinement, who cares for no one but himself, and whose sole standard for everything and every one is that of money. When the other guardian died, of course Max had to assume the charge of Chad,--who'll not be of age for nearly two years,--though I should think he must be a serious trial, for Max is so thoroughly nice himself, so honourable and clever and refined, that this affected, snobbish little Dresden-china-young-man, as Betty calls him, must jar on him in every way, though perhaps Chad is on his best behaviour with his guardian. Chad affects to be quite a man of the world, talks a great deal about his "bachelor quarters" and the theatres; he drinks and smokes, and I've heard him swear; he considers all this the proper thing for young fellows of our age, and more than once he has sneered at Phil and me as "behind the times." He calls Murray "the Innocent," though I've snubbed him for it pretty sharply, and whenever he gets a chance, he makes fun of Hilliard's slow ways, when old Hill is worth a dozen or two of such blowers as he. I almost wish Murray'd give the bediamonded cad a thrashing,--only that the fellow's not worth his touching. Phil and I neither drink nor smoke; we've never spoken about it to each other, but we know that our--mother--would not have liked us to do any of these things, so we let them alone. I think Chad knows that I've no liking for him,--to put it mildly,--and that he returns the compliment. I try not to quarrel with him; in fact,--though it goes awfully against the grain,--I make an effort to be civil, so as to see, hear, and know all that goes on between himself and Phil, and to be able to guard Phil from him without Phil's knowing it. I've said a few things to warn Phil; but I had to be careful, for he's such an old Quixote that, if he thought I was particularly down on Chad, he'd begin to take up the cudgels for him. But he _sha'n't_ get hold of Phil, I declare he sha'n't,--not as long as I am here. I wish to goodness he hadn't ever come near us! Nannie is the only one to whom I've said anything of my fear, and she laughs it away. She says Phil is the last person in the world to fall in with a fellow like Chad; but I'm not so sure of that, for Chad can be entertaining enough when he chooses to be, telling of his life in California and the wild West, and in Europe. I know he has invited Phil to come to his rooms, and twice he has taken him off for a long walk. Phil _loves_ to walk, with long, swinging strides, that, try to keep up as I may, wear me out before we've gone many blocks, even with the support of his arm. So there I can't be with him. _She_ used to say that it was best to recognise one's limitations, and to respect them: I recognise mine only too well,--I've _got_ to; but instead of respecting, I abhor them, and am always striving to get beyond them. With all the strength of soul that is in me I try to be patient and contented--to accept myself; but now that she has gone, only God and I know the miserable failure I make of it day after day. I want to do so much; I want to amount to something in the world, to have advantages for study and improvement, and to fit myself to mix with wise men by and by,--clever men and scholars,--and to hold my own among them. I could do it, I feel I could, if only I had the opportunity for study, and the health to improve it; this isn't conceit,--_she_ knew that,--but a cool, calm gauging of the sort of ability that I know I have. We--she and I--used to plan great things that I was to do when I went to college; when I finished college, and went into the world, I was to become a famous lawyer,--"good, wise, and great, my son Felix," she used to say, with a look in her eyes that always stirred me to more and better efforts. She helped me in every way, and it was a delight to learn, in spite of the drawback of ill-health. But now all is changed: she is gone, there is no prospect whatever of my getting to college, and somehow, lately, this miserable old back of mine seems to be getting to be a wetter and wetter blanket than ever on my ambition. Ah, if I but had a physique like Phil's! She used to say, "Remember always, Felix, that your fine mind is a gift from God, a responsibility given you by Him." Oh, why, then, did He not give me a body to match? All things are possible to Him; He could have done so. When I was a little fellow I used to pray most earnestly that God would let me outgrow this lameness and be strong like other boys; but we had a talk about it,--just before she went away,--and ever since then I have asked only to be patient and contented. But with all the trying, it is _very_ hard to say truthfully that I am thankful for my creation. I have never spoken of this to Nannie, but perhaps, with that quick intuition which makes her such a blessing to us, she guesses it; for only last Sunday, in church, when we came to that part in the General Thanksgiving, she snuggled closer to me as we knelt, and gave my hand a quick, warm little squeeze, as if to tell me that she was glad of my "creation and preservation." Nannie comforts me more than I can ever express to her; she has many a time given me courage when my spirits were at a very low ebb. XI. AN AFTERNOON RECEPTION. TOLD BY FELIX. Though I felt all right the next day, to please nurse I did not get up; but on Wednesday I did. At first my legs were very shaky, even for me: my cane was not enough; I had to hold on to the furniture besides to make my way about the room. But gradually that wore away, and by afternoon I was quite as well as usual; so on Thursday we went to the reception in the order first planned. The Blackwoods live in a large old house, and by the time we got there--we were rather late--the parlours were quite crowded. I think the _pater_ was a little nervous as we went up the palm-lined staircase; he hates an affair of this kind, and only the rare editions and a strong dislike to hurting the feelings of his old friends could have induced him to attend it. He kept Nannie close beside him, Nora and I following behind. Mrs. Blackwood is a fine-looking old lady, with beautiful white hair, which she wears turned straight off her face; she gave us a warm welcome, and after walking father through the rooms, and introducing him to a number of people,--not one of whom he would have recognised five minutes after!--and after showing us the Corot, which is a _beauty!_ she led the way to the library. It was a cosy room, for all it was so large. The walls were lined with books; a desk stood near one of the windows; some tables--on which were books, photos, and several handsome glass and china bowls filled with flowers--and a variety of comfortable chairs were scattered about; in a space between the book-shelves, and thrown into bold relief by the dark portière behind it, was an exquisite marble Laocoön, and in the bay-window the beautiful Venus de Milo. [Illustration: "IN THE BAY-WINDOW."] I should have enjoyed staying there, but we'd only been in a short while when Mrs. Blackwood's daughter came and carried us younger ones off to the drawing-room again. In vain Nannie and I politely protested that we should rather stay in the library; Mrs. Endicott was not to be resisted. "Your father and my mother enjoy looking at books more than anything else," she said pleasantly, as we made our reluctant way back; "but I know that young people like to be where there are life and gaiety,--and you haven't even had a cup of chocolate. Come this way, and I'll introduce you to Miss Devereaux." She piloted us rapidly through the crowd to the upper end of the room, where at a table sat a young lady pouring chocolate, to whom she introduced us. Taking my "thimbleful" of chocolate, I retreated to a corner where I could sit and sip and take observations unobserved. To begin with, I could not but notice the difference in my two sisters. Nannie had found a place on a lounge near the tea-table, and was gazing about her with the deepest interest,--her brown eyes all a-shine, the faintest ripple of a smile stirring her lips; to my eyes she looked very sweet! Nora stood, cup in hand, sipping her chocolate, and chatting as easily to Miss Devereaux and the different ones who came up as if she were in the habit of going to afternoon receptions every day in the week. I saw people look and look again at her, and it didn't surprise me, for Nora is a stunner, and no mistake. As Phil says, she carries herself as if she owned the whole earth, and she is self-possessed to a degree that is a constant surprise to us. If she weren't always so dead sure that she is right and everybody else wrong, we'd all think a great deal more of her; but as she is, one feels it a positive duty to snub her sometimes. We are proud of Nora's beauty, but she's the very last one we'd any of us go to for comfort or in a strait,--why, Betty'd be better, for all she's so fly-away and blunt. Miss Devereaux was handsome, too: she was large and statuesque, with beautifully moulded throat and arms, and hair which rippled like that of my poor old plaster Juno at home,--in fact, she suggested to my mind some Greek goddess dressed up in silk and lace; I quite enjoyed looking at her, and would have liked to make a sketch of her. But she wasn't as nice as she looked; in her way she was as snobbish as is Chad. A tall, very richly dressed woman was brought up and introduced; she wore enormous diamond ear-rings, and her manner was even more condescending than that of the young goddess herself. She pulled forward a chair, completely barring the way to the table, and, seating herself, stirred her chocolate languidly. Miss Devereaux was all attention; she offered almost everything on the table, and listened with the deepest interest while the diamond lady talked loudly and impressively of _her_ last afternoon reception,--the distinguished people who were present, and what the music and refreshments cost. Then, suddenly remembering that she was "due at one of 'Mrs. Judge' Somebody's receptions,--they were always _alagant_ affairs,"--the diamond lady put down her cup, from which she had barely taken a sip or two, and with a bow, and what Phil calls "a galvanised smile," sailed off to parts unknown. "Such a charming woman!" murmured the goddess to Nannie. Before Nannie could answer, there was a new claimant for refreshments,--a slender, rather spare little woman this time, dressed in a severely plain black gown; her hair was parted and pulled tightly away from her face; her bonnet was a good deal plainer and uglier than anything that nurse has ever had,--and she has rather distinguished herself in that line. This little woman was evidently not used to receptions and young goddesses. She seated herself on the extreme edge of the chair the diamond lady had just vacated, and after taking off her gloves, and laying them across her lap, she accepted her chocolate and cake with a deprecating air, as if apologising for the trouble she was causing. "Oh, thank you, _thank_ you," she said gratefully; "you are _very_ kind." The young goddess gave her a haughty stare, and then assumed a bored expression that I could see made the poor little woman nervous. She stirred her chocolate violently, and drank half of the cupful at a draught; then, evidently considering it her duty to make conversation, she remarked, "Didn't we have an interesting address yesterday at the Missions House?" She glanced at Miss Devereaux as she spoke. "Ah--indeed!" answered that young person, with another haughty glare that almost overcame the little woman. She got very red, and in her agitation drained her cup, and sat holding it. She looked thoroughly uncomfortable. I'm not fond of addressing strangers, but I couldn't stand that sort of treatment any longer, and got on my feet with the desperate intention of immediately starting a lively conversation with this particular stranger, without regard to Miss Devereaux. But Nannie was ahead of me; bending forward, she said in her friendliest tone,--and Nancy's friendliest tone is worth hearing, I tell you,--"I read of it in the papers; it must have been _very_ interesting." The little woman's look of gratitude was positively pathetic. [Illustration: "'IT MUST HAVE BEEN _VERY_ INTERESTING.'"] "Yes, it was, _very_ fine!" she said,--bending forward, and jerking her sentences out nervously,--"so many people, and such splendid speakers! I wish Mrs. Blackwood'd been there!" Then, waxing confidential, she went on in a lower key: "She and I used to be girls together,--ages ago. Then her folks took her to Europe to finish her education,--some people set such store by foreign education! We didn't meet again--though I heard of her off and on--till here, lately, when I came to New York to live. Of course--for old times' sake--I looked her up and called,--handsome house, isn't it? Seems like some people have everything,"--with a short sigh that sounded almost like a snort,--"but I must say Tilly isn't a bit stuck up over it,--never was. Say, who's _she_?" A quick sidelong motion of eyes and thumb in Miss Devereaux's direction gave point to this last question. "I think her name--" began Nannie, but she was interrupted by a loud crash which seemed to come from one of the adjoining rooms. In an instant my twin was on her feet: "Oh, _Felix_!" she cried breathlessly, "that came from the library! Papa has knocked over something!" The _pater_ has an absent-minded way of upsetting things, and Nannie's tone carried conviction with it; so, as fast as I could, I followed in her wake as she threaded her way swiftly through the crowded room. Nora raised her eyebrows with an air of mock resignation. "No use our _all_ going," she said in an undertone as I went past her, and resumed her conversation with the gentleman to whom she had been talking. Some people had collected in the doorway of the library by the time I got there, and I was delayed a minute or two in getting into the room; then I saw, at one glance, that our worst fears were realised. There stood my father, minus his spectacles, peering about him with a most anxious, bewildered expression on his face,--I was struck with how ill he looked! and around him on the polished floor lay the fragments of one of the Doulton bowls! The small table on which it had stood was-overturned, flowers were scattered in every direction, and among the ruins shone my father's glasses, broken in several pieces. Nannie went straight to the _pater's_ side and took his hand. "Felix and I are here, papa; what can we do for you?" she said. The colour was in her face; I know she felt embarrassed, but her voice was quite calm. My father screwed up his eyes in a vain attempt to see the extent of the mischief: "I--I think--I think, my dear, that I've broken something," he said. At which very obvious statement there was a sound of smothered laughter at the door. Nannie's colour deepened, and I believe I muttered something about finding Mrs. Blackwood; to tell the truth, I was so rattled--between sympathy for the _pater_ and embarrassment at the accident--that I hardly knew what I was saying, but my father caught at it. "Yes, yes," he said nervously, "I must speak to our hostess; I must apologise for my awkwardness. Ask Mrs. Blackwood if she will be kind enough to step here, Felix--or stay, I will go to her." "I'll find Mrs. Blackwood for you," volunteered one of the bystanders; but at that moment the little crowd at the door parted and in came Mrs. Blackwood, and who should be behind her but _Max_! I was delighted to see him. I felt that we were all right then, for Max always knows what to do; and I think Nannie felt as relieved as I did, for she gave a glad little cry as she held out her hand. Then she turned as red as a rose,--I suppose she suddenly realised how many people were looking at her; but evidently Max didn't mind them in the least, for he held on to Nannie's hand, and smiled, and looked at her just as kindly as if we were at home,--Max likes us all, but Nannie has always been his favourite. In the mean time Mrs. Blackwood was trying, with exquisite tact, to make my father feel less uncomfortable. "It was the most absurd place to put a bowl of flowers," she asserted cheerfully, "on so slight a table, and so near the book-shelves. I've always declared that an accident would occur; now I can say, 'I told you so!' and that's such a satisfaction to a woman, you know." She laughed merrily, but the _pater_ still looked troubled. "It was a great piece of carelessness on my part," he repeated mournfully, for about the fifth time. "I stood looking over a volume I had taken from the shelf,--that, I am thankful to know, has not been injured" (with a hasty glance at the book still tightly clasped in his left hand),--"and becoming interested, I presume I forgot where I was, and--and leaned too heavily against the table. It gave way, and--this ruin is the result! I--I--cannot express to you how I regret the accident." "_Don't_ be troubled over it, dear friend, _please_ don't," Mrs. Blackwood urged. "Nothing is broken but the bowl, and that may have been cracked before,--it seems to me that one of them was; let us rather rejoice that you were not hurt by your fall, for _that_ would indeed have been a serious matter. Now I'm sure you want to resume looking over that 'Abbé Marité;' isn't it quaint? and perhaps among Mr. Blackwood's glasses we may be able to find a pair that would suit your eyes for the nonce. I know how perfectly lost one feels without one's 'second eyes.' Shall we make the selection? Come, Felix and Nannie,--you, too, Max,--and help us get the right focus. Oh, please don't speak of going, Mr. Rose." Chatting pleasantly to divert my father's mind from the accident, Mrs. Blackwood led us into her husband's smoking-room, where from his collection of spectacles and eyeglasses my father made a selection which enabled him to finish the "Abbé," and soon after that to get home with some degree of comfort. There were no more _contretemps_ that afternoon, I am thankful to say; Max went home and dined with us. He was in fine spirits,--so glad to get home again, he said,--and made even the _pater_ smile over a description of what he calls his "adventures in the far West." With the exception of a short visit in the study, he spent the evening with us in the schoolroom, hearing all that has happened to us since he went away, and playing violin and piano duets with Nannie and me. I intended to have had a talk with Max about Chad, but there was no opportunity on this evening; and besides, he looked so pleased when Nora said she thought that Chad was "nice"--and she claims to be so _very_ fastidious! I can't understand it--that I concluded I'd wait until another time to air my opinion. I noticed that Phil didn't say anything for or against Chad: all the same, _I_ shall speak, just as soon as I can get Max alone; for, if he doesn't know it already, he ought to be told the sort of individual his ward is. As far as I'm personally concerned, I'd put up with the fellow rather than trouble Max, but I've got to think of Phil. After Max had taken his departure, and Betty and Jack had been walked off to bed, we four older ones sat talking for a few minutes. Phil, as usual, sat on the edge of the schoolroom table. "Well, you three gay and festive creatures," he said, with a comprehensive wave of his hand toward us, "what's your true and honest opinion of the afternoon's tea-fight, politely termed 'reception'? You needn't all speak at once, you know." "Thanks awfully for the information," laughed Nora, making him a very graceful and sweeping bow. "Well, except for the unhappy _quart d'heure_ that papa gave us, I enjoyed the reception immensely. Oh, I'd _love_ to be out in society," she said, with sparkling eyes, "and meet lots of people, and go to balls and receptions and all those affairs every day of my life. That's what _I_ call living,--not this stupid, humdrum school life; and I 'll have them all, too, some day, see if I don't," she ended, with a toss of her head and a little conscious laugh. Nora knows she's pretty; that's one of the things that spoil her. Phil eyed her severely, wrinkling up his brows. "Eleanor, my love," he remarked, with his most fatherly air, "I beg that you will bear in mind the fable of the unwise canine who lost his piece of meat by trying to catch its larger reflection in the stream, and endeavour to profit thereby. No charge made for that good advice. Now, Nancy, let's hear from you." Nannie hesitated a little. "Why--I think I enjoyed it," she said slowly; "yes, I did." "What! _did_ you?" I exclaimed in surprise. "You mean to say you enjoyed sitting on that lounge and seeing Miss Devereaux snub that unfortunate little woman in the hideous bonnet?" "Well, no, not that part," admitted Nannie. "And did you enjoy the _pater's_ smashing the Doulton bowl?" "Oh, no, of _course_ not," Nannie returned, somewhat indignantly. "Then where did the enjoyment come in?" I persisted. "I can't tell you why, or when, or how, but I enjoyed it," was Nannie's reply; and then, "without rhyme or reason," as nurse says, she blushed a vivid red. "Do look at her!" teased Phil. "Why, Nancy, it isn't against the law to have enjoyed yourself. What're you blushing for?" "I'm sure I don't know," my twinnie answered, with such a look of perplexity in her sweet, honest eyes that we had to laugh. Whereupon she blushed rosier than ever, even to her ears and her pretty throat, and running over to me, hid her flushed face on my shoulder. "Please stop teasing, Fee," she whispered. Now if anybody was teasing just then Phil was in it, and I started to tell her so; but Phil interrupted: "One more county to be heard from," he declared, "and that's you, most noble Felix. Are you, like Nora, hankering after the unattainable in the shape of daily receptions?" "Can't say that I'm devoured with a desire that way," I confessed with a grin. "I wouldn't go over this afternoon's experience for a farm! As they say in the novels, my feelings can be better imagined than described when I walked into the Blackwoods' library and saw the _pater_ standing in the midst of the shattered vase _à la_ Marius in the ruins of Carthage. Had I but owned a genii, we'd have been whisked out of that room and home in about two seconds. No, on calm reflection, I forswear receptions for the future." "Hullo!" exclaimed Phil, suddenly, "I say,--come to think of it,--how d'you suppose the _Blackwoods_ enjoyed the orgy?" We looked at each other. "_I_ said I enjoyed myself," asserted Nora, with a superior and very virtuous air. "It's the least one can do when people go to the trouble and expense of entertaining one." Nannie sat up and looked contrite. "_Poor_ Mrs. Blackwood!" she said; "Doulton is her favourite china, and that bowl _was_ a beauty!" "I guess they got the worst of it," I said to Phil. "I shouldn't wonder if they had," he answered with a nod. "Moral: Don't give afternoon receptions. Let's be off to bed. Good-night, all." XII. IN THE SHADOW. TOLD BY JACK. Felix and I were together in his room; he was helping me with my Latin--that vile Latin, how I despise it!--when we heard some one calling from the hall two flights below. "Why, that sounds like Nannie's voice!" Felix said, starting from his chair. "I wonder what's up?" We heard plainly enough when we got in the hall, for Nannie was calling, in a loud, frightened way, "Felix! Phil, Jack! somebody!--_anybody!_" "All right! here we are! What's the matter?" Felix answered, making for the steps as fast as he could go. "Oh, pshaw! I've left my cane in the room; get it for me, Jack, and catch up to me on the stairs." I dashed into Fee's room, snatched up the cane, and was out again in time to hear Nannie say, excitedly: "Tell nurse to come right down to the study, Felix, and send Jack flying for Dr. Archard; papa is _very_ ill, I am afraid. Oh, be quick, _quick!_" "Great Scott!" exclaimed Fee. I knew by his voice that he was awfully frightened. Then suddenly he slid down in a sitting position on one of the steps. I thought he must have stumbled; but before I could say anything, or even get to him, he called out, "All right, Nan! nurse will be there in a minute," adding impatiently to me: "What are you gaping at? Get on your hat--it's on the hat rack--and rush for Dr. Archard as fast as you can. Tell him father's very ill, and to come at _once_. Step lively, Jack!" "But nurse--" I hesitated. "Shall I tell her first?" "Do as you've been told," Fee said sharply. "I'll see to that; do you suppose I'm _utterly_ useless? _Start!_" He gave me a little push on the shoulder as he spoke, and I tell you I just flew down those steps and out into the street. I ran every step of the way, and caught Dr. Archard just as he was stepping into his carriage to go somewhere. He looked very serious when he heard my message. "I'm not surprised," he said; "I've been expecting a break-down in that quarter for some time." Then he made me jump into the carriage with him, and we drove rapidly round to the house. There we found everybody very much excited. The study door stood open, and from the hall I could see papa lying on the lounge, with his eyes closed, and looking very white. Nurse was rubbing his feet, Nannie his hands, and Miss Marston stood by his head fanning him. [Illustration: "I COULD SEE PAPA LYING ON THE LOUNGE."] Felix and Phil were not around, but I tell you the younger children were; nurse and Miss Marston not being there to keep them upstairs, they had all collected in the hall, and refused flatly to go to the nursery. For fear of the noise they might raise, Nora couldn't very well make them obey; but after the doctor came, she and Betty half coaxed, half drove them into the drawing-room, and tried to keep them there. It was hard work to do this, though, for every now and then Paul or Alan, or even Kathie--_she_ ought to have known better--would sneak out "to see what was going on." Then Betty'd fly out too, and as quietly as possible catch and haul back the runaway. I think both Nora and Betty would like to have had me come in there too,--Nora said as much,--but I pretended I didn't hear; _I_ didn't want to be shut up, and anyway, as I thought, somebody ought to be on hand to run errands in case anything was needed. So I just stayed where I was. "Oh, I am so _thankful_ you have come!" Nannie exclaimed, as the doctor walked in. But, except for a nod, he didn't notice her; he laid his fingers on papa's pulse, then in a minute or so knelt down and put his ear to papa's chest. I was watching him so intently that I didn't know Phil had come in until I heard Nora--she was standing in the hall and holding the drawing-room doors shut--say, in a low tone, "Hush! don't make a noise; papa is ill. Dr. Archard's here--in the study." "What's the matter?" Phil asked, opening his eyes in a startled sort of way, and looking very serious. "Why, he complained to Nannie of feeling queer, and then suddenly fainted away; and since then he has gone from one fainting fit into another. Isn't it strange? I don't think he has ever done such a thing as faint in his life before." "He's been working like a slave over that beastly old Fetich," Phil said irritably, "as if he was _bound_ to get it finished." I knew he was cross because he was scared about papa, and sorry for him; but Nora didn't seem to guess that,--she doesn't see through things like that as Nannie does,--and now she just put up her eyebrows as if surprised, and said, "Why, isn't that what you all wanted,--to have the Fetich finished?" Phil got red in the face, and he made a step nearer the drawing-room door. "That was a mean speech, Nora," he said in a low, angry voice. _I_ think it was mean, too; but perhaps it was because she felt badly about papa that Nora spoke so,--as nurse says, different people have different ways of showing their feelings,--for she put out her hand and commenced, quickly, "I didn't mean to hurt--" But while she was speaking, Nannie came out of the study. "Oh, Phil," she said, as soon as she saw him, "come right in here, won't you? the doctor says we must get papa to bed as quickly as possible, and you can help us." Phil flung his books on the hat-rack table, and followed her into the room at once, and they shut the study door. It opened again, though, in a minute or two, and out came Miss Marston, just in time to catch Alan as he rushed along the hall, away from Betty, who was in hot pursuit. "What are _you_ doing down here?" demanded Miss Marston, severely. "They're all here," Alan paused to explain, rather defiantly, whereupon Betty pounced on him. Miss Marston held a hot-water bottle in her hand; she was on her way to the kitchen, but she stopped to speak to the children,--for at the sound of her voice Nora had opened the drawing-room doors, and Kathie, Paul, and Mädel had tumbled out into the hall in a body. "This will never do," Miss Marston said, "racing about the halls while your father is so ill! Can't you find something for them to do, Nora? Take them to the nursery, or the schoolroom, and give each--" I didn't wait to hear the rest. I was afraid she'd see me, and remember that old Latin, so I scooted up the back stairs as hard as I could go; you see she wouldn't have taken into account that I was waiting down there in case I was wanted for an errand. It was as I got up near Fee's room that I began to wonder where he was, and why he hadn't been downstairs with the rest of us; he must have wanted to know how papa was, I thought. I looked in the schoolroom, but he wasn't there,--the place had a deserted appearance! Then I ran down again and peeped into his room, and just think! there, flat on the floor, with his feet barely inside the doorway, lay Felix! I was so astonished and so scared--it's a serious matter for Fee to fall, you know (he hasn't really been himself, I mean not as strong, since that day in the schoolroom, when Alan upset him)--that when I cried out, "Oh, _Fee!_ did you fall? have you hurt yourself?" and knelt down by him, I hardly knew what I was saying or doing. [Illustration: "'OH, _FEE!_ DID YOU FALL? HAVE YOU HURT YOURSELF?'"] "Shut the door," Felix said; he spoke slowly, as if he were very tired. His face looked badly, too,--pale, and with black rings under his eyes away below his glasses. And there was something in the way he lay there--a limpness and helplessness--that somehow frightened me, and made me feel right away as if I ought to call nurse or somebody. But I know Fee likes to have people do as he tells them, so first I shut the door tight, then I came back and knelt down by him again. "Hadn't I better help you up, Fee?" I asked, "or shall I call"--I was going to say "Nannie or Phil," but remembered they were helping papa, and ended up with "somebody?" But Felix only said, "How's father? Tell me about him." He listened to all I could tell about papa; then, when I had finished, he threw his arms wide apart on the floor with a groan, and rolled his head impatiently from side to side. I just _longed_ to do something for him,--dear old Fee! "Don't you want to get up?" I asked again, in as coaxing a way as I could. "I could help you, you know, Fee; the floor is so hard for your back." Then he told me. "Jack," he said, in a tired, hopeless voice that made a lump fly into my throat, "I'm in a pretty bad fix, I'm afraid; my poor old back and my legs have given out. I got a very queer feeling that time I sat down so suddenly on the steps, and after you'd gone 'twas all I could do to brace up and drag myself to this floor to call nurse. Then I crawled in here, and barely got inside the door when I collapsed. My legs gave way entirely, and down I tumbled just where you see me now." He threw his arms out again, and twisted one of his hands in the fringe of the rug on which he was lying; then presently he went on: "Do you know why I'm still lying here? do you know why, Jack? because"--his voice shook so he had to stop for a minute--"because, from my waist down, I can't move my body at all. Unless somebody helps me, I'll have to lie here all night; _I'm perfectly helpless_!" I'd been swallowing and swallowing while Fee was talking, but now I couldn't stand it any longer; I felt awfully unhappy, and I just _had_ to let the tears come. "It's that fall that's done it," I said, trying to wipe away the tears that came rushing down,--it's so _girlie_ to cry!--"the day Alan upset you in the schoolroom! Oh, Fee, _do_ let me call somebody to help you! Phil's downstairs, you know; oh, and the doctor,--please, _please_ let me ask _him_ to come up! Oh, mayn't I?" Felix put out his hand and patted my knee in a way that reminded me of Nannie; he doesn't usually do those things. "Don't cry, Jackie-boy," he said very gently, "and don't blame Alan,--I don't believe he touched me that day; I believe now that that was an attack similar to this, only not so severe. What'll the _next_ one be!" His voice began shaking again, but he went right on: "Now I want you to help me keep this thing quiet,--I was hoping you'd be the one to find me,--so that Nannie and the others won't have it to add to their anxiety while the _pater_ is ill. I'm afraid he's in a bad way; I don't like the doctor's sounding his heart,--that looks as if he suspected trouble there. He has been working like a slave ever since--oh, what _beasts_ we were to get up that Fetich joke! Poor old _pater_!" Felix folded his arms across his eyes and lay perfectly quiet; I _think_ I saw a tear run down the side of his face to his ear, but I won't be sure. That just brought that horrid lump right back into my throat, but I was determined I wouldn't break down again; so I got up, and taking a pillow from the bed, brought it over to slip under Fee's head,--the floor was _so_ hard you know. This roused him. "You're not very big, Rosebud, but perhaps you can help me to get to bed," he said, trying to speak as if nothing had happened. "I may feel better after I'm there; who knows but this attack may wear off in a day or two, as the other did." He spoke so cheerfully that I began to feel better, too, and I flew around and did just as he told me. First I pulled his bed right close up to where Fee lay,--it's very light,--then I made a rope of his worsted afghan, and passing it round the farthest bedpost, gave the ends to him; then, as he pulled himself up, I pushed him with all my might, and by and by he got on the bed. It was awfully hard to do, though, for the bed was on casters, and would slip away from us; but after a good while we succeeded. "There, I feel a little better already!" he said, after I'd got him undressed. "That floor _was_ hard, and I was there some time; yes, I do feel a little better." He took hold of the railing at the head of the bed and pulled himself a little higher on the pillows. "Perhaps you'll be all right again in a few days, same as the last time," I suggested. Fee's face brightened up. "That's so,--perhaps I shall," he said. "Why, Jack, you're almost as good a comforter as Nannie!" Then he took my hand as if he were going to shake hands, and holding it tight, went on with, "Now, Jack, I want you to promise me that you'll not speak about this attack of mine to _anybody_. As you say, I'll possibly--probably--be all over it in a few days, and there's too much sickness and trouble in the house already, without my adding to it. Promise me, Jack!" He gave my hand a little shake as he spoke. But I hesitated; for, though now he seemed better, I couldn't get out of my mind how _awfully_ he had looked when I first found him,--and Fee isn't strong like the rest of us. But he shook my hand again two or three times, saying impatiently, "Why don't you promise? There's no harm in doing what I ask; think how worried and anxious Phil and Nannie are about papa!" "Yes, presently," we heard Phil's voice say at the door at that very moment. "Promise! _promise!_" repeated Felix, almost fiercely, and I got so nervous--Phil was coming right into the room--that I said, "All right, I promise," almost before I knew what I was saying. I got a frightened sort of feeling the moment the words were out of my mouth, that made me just wish I hadn't said them. "Hullo! in bed? What's up?" asked Phil in surprise, as he walked up to Fee. "I wondered where you were." Then, without waiting for an answer, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and went on, in an excited tone of voice, "Did you hear about the _pater_? I tell you we've had our hands full downstairs; I'm afraid he's"--here Phil stopped and cleared his throat--"he's pretty low down. Dr. Archard as much as admitted it when I asked him to tell me the truth. It's that Fetich! He has been working over it like a galley slave, because--" Phil stopped again. He and Felix looked at each other; then, starting up, Phil walked over to the other side of the room, and stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at Fee's picture of the Good Shepherd which hangs on the wall there, and which he had seen scores of times before. "Who's going to take care of father?" Felix asked presently, and that brought Phil back to his bedside. "The doctor is going to send us a trained nurse this afternoon," he said; "but in the mean while Nannie and nurse are with him. Every time he became conscious he asked for Nannie or spoke her name, and seemed easier when she was near him; once or twice he called her 'Margaret'!" We were quiet for a moment or two,--that was dear mamma's name,--then Phil began again: "The nurse that's coming is a woman, and very efficient, I believe. Of course she'll have to have a certain amount of rest every day, and at those times somebody will have to take her place; so I'm going to try to be home early afternoons,--Nannie can't do everything, you know,--and sit with the _pater_ while the nurse takes her nap. I thought perhaps we could alternate, you and I,--you're so splendid in a sick room; but I suppose I'll be as awkward as the proverbial bull in the china shop. I generally get rattled when I undertake to do anything for father, and am sure to do just what I shouldn't; so I'm not sorry you're going to be there for a change, old man." He threw his arm across Fee's poor helpless legs as he spoke, and gave one of them a little squeeze. Fee hesitated. "I'm afraid I can't begin right away," he said slowly; "I'm not up to the mark just now, and it would be best not to depend on me for anything for at least--a week. Then, if I can, you may be sure I'll willingly take my part of the nursing." "Why, you're not ill, are you?" exclaimed Phil. "You were all right this morning when I went out. It's just to sit in the room, you know; you could read there, I suppose, if you wanted to." Felix coloured up at Phil's tone. "You know very well I'm not one of the sort to shirk,--I would do anything for the _pater_," he said quickly, "and just as soon as I can I'll take my full share in looking after and nursing him; but, as I told you, I don't feel quite up to it just now. I'm going to keep quiet for a few days,--a week, perhaps." Fee was trying to speak in his usual way, but there was something in his voice when he said that "perhaps" that made me just long to tell Phil right out what the trouble was. As it was, maybe Phil noticed something, for he eyed Fee sharply as he asked, rather anxiously: "Look here, Felix, is there anything you're keeping back? Come to notice, you do look rather white about the gills; do you feel ill, old fellow?" I thought everything would come out then, for I knew Fee wouldn't lie about it; and so it would, I'm pretty sure, if Paul and Alan hadn't come bouncing into the room, and Nora behind them. The boys flew to Fee's bedside. "Oh, Fee, _don't_ let her get us!" "Oh, Fee, _do_ let us stay with you!" they cried at the same moment, while Alan added saucily, "she just thinks we b'long to her!" "They're the _rudest_ children I ever knew!" exclaimed Nora, angrily,--just as if she knew all the children in the world! "They don't know what the word, 'obedience' means. Come straight upstairs this minute,--both of you!" She made a dive for them, but the boys were too quick for her. Alan ducked under Fee's bed, and came up on the other side with a triumphant chuckle, while Paul rolled right over Fee's legs and landed on the floor, where Phil grabbed him. "Can't you behave yourselves, you young rascals?" demanded Phil, sternly, giving Paul's arm a shake, and catching Alan by the collar. "Just walk straight upstairs, and do as your sister tells you. Stop your noise this minute,--do you hear me?" But instead they both roared the louder, at the same time pulling and tugging to get away. "She's just _horrid_!" asserted Alan, trying to wriggle out of Phil's grasp. "I just wish she'd go an' live in some other house, and never come back;" while between his sobs Judge drawled out pertly: "She thinks she can treat us like anything 'cause nurse isn't here to take our part. She won't let us do one single thing, an' she's just as cross as an old cat--so _now_!" "I am, eh?" cried Nora, indignantly. "Well, like it or not, you will have to obey me. Go upstairs at once,--both of you! _Make_ them go, Phil!" I felt awfully sorry for them,--you see I know Nora is a nagger, she tries it on me sometimes; but they _were_ making a horrible din. Fee looked very white; he lay with one arm folded over his eyes; and to make matters worse, in walked Betty. "Kathie has started crying, and I can't stop her," she announced, as she got in the doorway. "I'm afraid Mädel will be off in a few minutes, too, if we don't quiet Kathie; hadn't I better call Nannie?" "Who is taking my name in vain?" said a voice that we were all glad to hear, and there was Nannie herself, smiling at us over Betty's shoulder. XIII. THROUGH THE SHADOW. TOLD BY JACK. Well, it was astonishing how things quieted down after that. Phil let go the boys, and with a shout of delight they rushed up to Nannie, and just threw themselves on her; with an arm round each, she went straight to Fee's side: "Why, Felix, are you ill? My dear, is it your back again?" As she spoke she laid her hand on his forehead, and then stroked his hair back. "Yes," Fee said wearily, closing his eyes; "my back--and the _noise_!" "Come, boys, we'll go up to the nursery and get ready for dinner. Nurse has to stay with poor papa, so I'm going to give you your dinner; and of course I want my little knights to be on their best behaviour for the occasion." Nannie drew them, still hanging on to her, toward the door. "Oh, yes, and _do_ stop Kathie, if you can," put in Betty. "Mädel accidentally rocked the charger on Kathie's pet doll's head and smashed it, and she's just _howled_ ever since. Do listen!" Sure enough, we could all hear a long, mournful wail; then another and another; if there's one thing Kathie does well, it's crying. "What! Esmeralda Dorothea? Poor Kathie!" said Nannie; "I don't wonder she feels badly. Come, boys, we'll go up and see if we can comfort her." The boys looked quite jubilant! holding on to Nannie's hand, Alan threw a defiant glance at Nora as he passed her, and Judge quoted in his slow, droll way: "'My _dear_ dolly's dead! She died of a hole in her head!'" "Instead of petting those boys, Nannie, you ought to punish them well, or give them a good scolding!" cried Nora. "They have both been exceedingly rude and disobedient to me." Nannie looked grieved, and the boys immediately began making excuses, which Nannie heard in silence. When they had finished, she said: "We are going upstairs to get ready for dinner, Nonie; but after that, when we are all sweet and clean, these two little men will, I am sure, come to you and ask you to overlook this afternoon's behaviour. I can't think that they really meant to be rude or disobedient to sister Nora." Nora tossed her head, but said nothing until Nannie had gone upstairs; then she remarked: "It's outrageous the way Nannie spoils the children; did you see the impertinent look Alan gave me as he went by? You will see they won't apologise,--I know they won't;" and then she, too, walked out of the room. But they did apologise, all the same, and very soon after, too. "Like oil on troubled waters! What a blessing that Nannie belongs to this family!" Phil said, when we three were alone again. "Ay, thank God for her!" answered Felix, fervently; and I felt like saying so too. Really, I don't know what we'd do without Nannie to keep the peace. It isn't that we don't love one another, for we do, dearly, and we just _love_ to be together, too; but somehow, somebody or other's sure to get into a discussion, or a fuss, or a regular quarrel, if Nannie isn't on hand to smooth things down. I don't know how it is, but she can get us to do things that we wouldn't do for any one else, and it isn't because she coaxes, for she doesn't always; sometimes she speaks right square out, and doesn't mince matters either,--but even then we don't mind. I mean it doesn't hurt as it would from somebody else. Felix says it's because she has tact, and Betty says it's because she loves us an awful lot. _I_ think perhaps it's both. [Illustration: "'THESE TWO LITTLE MEN WILL, I AM SURE, COME TO YOU AND ASK YOU TO OVERLOOK THIS AFTERNOON'S BEHAVIOUR.'"] Well, those next two weeks were just _awful_! Seems now as if they'd been a tremendous long nightmare. There was Fee in bed upstairs he didn't get up or stand on his feet for nearly ten days,--he couldn't, you know, his legs wouldn't hold him up, though I rubbed and rubbed them every night till I was so tired, I felt as if I'd drop. Of course I didn't let Fee know how tired I got over it, 'cause then he wouldn't have let me rub 'em so long, and I did want to do it thoroughly. At first Fee hadn't a bit of feeling in his legs; but gradually it came back, and at last one afternoon he managed to stand on his feet, holding on to me and the furniture,--his cane wasn't any good at all at first,--and I tell you he used to press hard, though he didn't know it. You see he was anxious to be all right as soon as he possibly could, 'cause the others began to think 'twas queer he stayed in bed so long if it was nothing but his back, and he didn't want them to know what the trouble was; and besides, he felt all the time that he should be up and helping take care of papa: there was a good deal to do, though the nurse was there, for the doctor said papa shouldn't be left alone for even a minute. So they were all very busy and anxious, or they would certainly have noticed what a long time I stayed in Fee's room every afternoon, and perhaps have suspected something. Phil was the one Fee said he was most afraid would find out, but he was a good deal in papa's room in the afternoons, and evenings he was studying, 'cause his exams, were coming on, though sometimes he went for long walks with Chad. Chad was very often at the house at this time, but he never went in to see Fee; and after the first or second time I didn't tell Fee, for he doesn't like Chad, and I could see he didn't want Phil and Chad to be together without his being there too. We don't any of us care very much for Chad,--not half or even a quarter as much as we do for Hilliard; even Betty has to admit that, for all she makes such fun of Hill's slow ways. You see Chad puts on such silly airs, pretending he's a grown-up man, when really he's only a boy,--he's only a year older than Phil. And then he talks so much about his money, and wears _diamonds_,--rings and pins and buttons,--fancy! As Betty says, nice men and boys don't wear diamonds like that. Betty is awfully rude to Chad sometimes; she calls him Monsieur le Don_key_, and Dresden-china-young man, and laughs at him almost to his face. I should think he'd get mad, but he just ignores her. In fact, the only one he shows any attention to is Nora; he's all the time bringing her flowers, and talking to her in his affected way, and lately he has begun to be very friendly with Phil, though I'm not sure that Phil cares very much in return,--he's so short with Chad sometimes. But, dear me! all this isn't what I started to say; I was telling you about those awful nightmare weeks. Well, to go back, there was Fee in bed upstairs, just as brave-hearted as he could be, but getting thinner and paler every day; and there was papa in the extension--he's slept down there ever since dear mamma died--in bed too, and desperately ill. The doctor came two and three and four times a day, and the house was kept as still as could be; we just stole through the halls, and scurried up the stairs like so many mice, so's not to make any noise, and because the constant muttering that we could hear from the sick-room made us feel so badly,--at least it did us older ones, the younger children didn't understand. Papa doesn't usually say very much; but now he was out of his head, and he just talked the whole time, and loud, so one couldn't help hearing what he said. 'Twas about the Fetich; he called it "my book," and scolded himself because he couldn't work faster on it, so's to sell it. I tell you what, that just broke Betty and Phil all up! Then he'd seem to forget that, and begin about walking in the country with mamma, through fields full of flowers and trees and "babbling brooks,"--that's what he called 'em, and quoted poetry about them all. He never once spoke of us; it was always "Margaret, Margaret!" sometimes in a glad voice, as if he were very happy, and sometimes in a sad, wailing sort of way, that brought a great lump into our throats. Nannie had to be in papa's room most all of every day,--the nurse said he got very restless when she wasn't around,--and as he kept getting worse and worse, she was in there lots of nights, too. Her lessons, and all the other things, had to just go, and we hardly saw her except for a little while now and then, when she ran up to sit with Felix and tell him about how papa was getting on. After a while she began to look a little pale, and her eyes got real big and bright; but she never once said she was tired, and it never occurred to any of us--you see we were all worked up over papa--until one day Max spoke of it to Felix: he said Nannie was just killing herself, and got so sort of excited over it--Max isn't one of the excitable kind--that Fee started in to worry about Nannie. It was when he had just begun to walk about a little, and he was wild to go right down and take Nannie's place in the sick-room. But he couldn't, you know; why, 'twas as much as he could do to barely stand on his feet and get round holding on to the furniture. Then, when he realised that, he got disheartened, and called himself a "useless hulk," and all sorts of horrid names, and was just as cranky as he could be; but I felt so sorry for him that I didn't mind. Poor old Fee! Well, from day to day papa got more and more ill; the fever kept right on and he was awfully weak, and at last he fell into a stupor. That day Dr. Archard hardly left our house for even an hour, and the other physicians just went in and out all the time. Max was there, too,--he almost lived at our house those weeks, taking all the night watching they'd let him, and doing all he could for papa and us,--and about seven o'clock that evening he came up to the schoolroom, where we older ones were. Dr. Archard had told Phil, and he had told us, that a change would come very soon,--papa would either pass from that stupor into a sleep which might save his life, or he would go away from us, as our dear mother had gone. No one of us was allowed to stay in the sick-room but Nannie, and she had promised to let us know the minute the change came; so we five and Max were waiting in the schoolroom, longing and yet just dreading what Nannie might have to tell us. It was a glorious afternoon: the sun had just gone down, and from where we sat--close together--we could see through the windows the sky, all rose-colour and gold, with long streaks here and there of the most exquisite pale blue and green; and soft, white, fleecy clouds that kept changing their shape every minute. When I was little and heard that anybody we knew was dead, I used to sit in one of our schoolroom windows and watch the sunset, to see the angels taking the soul up to heaven,--- I thought that was the way it went up; I could almost always make out the shape of an angel in the clouds, and I'd watch with all my eyes till every speck of it had melted away, before I'd be willing to leave the window. Of course I really know better than that now, but this afternoon as we all sat there so sad and forlorn, looking at the skies, there came in the clouds the shape of a most beautiful large angel, all soft white, and with rosy, outspread wings, and I couldn't help wondering if God was sending an angel for papa's soul, or if he would let mamma come for it--she loved him so dearly! Betty saw the angel, too, for she nudged my elbow and whispered softly, "Oh, Jack, look!" Just then we heard a step outside, the door flew open, and Nannie came in; her face was pale, but her eyes were wide opened and shining, and when she spoke her voice rang out joyfully: "Oh, my dears, my dears!" she cried, stretching out her arms to us, "God is good to us,--papa is asleep! He will live!" Then, before anybody could say a word, she got very white, and threw out her hand for the back of Fee's chair; Phil sprang to catch her, but like a flash Max was before him. Taking Nannie right up in his arms, as if she'd been a little child, Max went over and laid her on the sofa, then knelt down by her, and began rubbing one of her hands. Phil flew for nurse, Nora for a fan, Betty for water, and I caught up Nannie's other hand and began rubbing it, though I could scarcely reach it from where I stood almost behind Max. I could hear Fee's chair scraping the floor as he hitched himself along toward us. Max stopped rubbing and began smoothing the loose, curly pieces of Nannie's hair off her forehead. "Dear little Nancy Lee!" I heard him say; and then, "My brave little--" I lost that word, for Nannie opened her eyes just then, and looked up at him with a far-off, wondering look; then the lids fell again, and she lay perfectly still, while Max and I rubbed away at her hands. In a minute or two the others came trooping in with nurse and the things they'd gone for, and pretty soon Nannie was much better. She sat up and looked at us with a smile that just lighted up her whole face,--I think Nannie is so pretty! "What a goose I was to faint!" she said, "when we have such _good_ news! Oh, isn't it splendid, _splendid_! that papa will get well!" Then in a minute--before we knew what she was about--she was kneeling by Felix, with her arms round his neck, crying and sobbing as if her heart would break. And what d'you think! in about two minutes more, if we weren't every one of us crying, too! I don't mean out loud, you know,--though Nora and Betty did,--but all the same we all knew we were doing it. Phil laid his arms on the schoolroom table and buried his face in them, Fee put his face down in Nannie's neck, and I was just _busy_ wiping away the tears that would come pouring down; nurse threw her apron over her face and went out in the hall, and Max walked to the window and stood there clearing his throat. And yet we were all _very_, _very_ glad and happy; queer, wasn't it? XIV. A MISSION OF THREE. TOLD BY JACK. That was the turning-point, for after that papa began to get better; but my! so slowly: why, it was days and days, Nannie said, before she could really see any improvement, he was so dreadfully weak. After a while, though, he began to take nourishment, then to notice things and to say a few words to Nannie, and one day he asked the doctor how long 'twould be before he could get at his writing again. The evening that Nannie came upstairs and told us about his asking the doctor this, we held a council. The "kids" were in bed, and Miss Marston was in her own room, so we had the schoolroom to ourselves; and in about five minutes after Nannie got through telling us, we were all quite worked up and all talking at once. You see we didn't want papa to begin working again on the Fetich as he had done, for Dr. Archard had said right out that that was what made him ill; and yet we didn't see, either, how we could prevent it. "Let's steal the Fetich and bury it in the cellar," proposed Betty, after a good deal'd been said; "then he _couldn't_ work at it, for it wouldn't be there, you know." Her eyes sparkled,--I think she'd have liked no better fun than carrying off the Fetich; but Phil immediately snubbed her. "Talk sense, or leave the council," he said so crossly that Nannie put in, "Why, _Phil_!" and Betty made a horrible face at him. Then Fee spoke up: "Say, how would it do for us, we three,--you, Phil, and Betty and I,--to tell the _pater_ how mean we feel about that beastly joke, and then run through the potential mood in the way of beseeching, imploring, exhorting him not to slave over his work in the future as he's been doing in the past months. I have a fancy that Mr. Erveng has really made him an offer for the book when completed--" "I'm pretty sure he has, from something Mrs. Erveng said the other day," broke in Nora, with a slow nod of her head. "Well," went on Felix, in an I-told-you-so tone of voice, "and I suppose the _pater_ thinks we're watching and measuring his progress like so many hungry hawks, just ready to swoop down and devour him--_ach_!" He threw out his hands with a gesture of disgust that somehow made us all feel ashamed, though we weren't all in it, you know. "That isn't a bad plan," said Nora, presently. "In fact, I think it is good; only, instead of three of you going at papa about it, why not let one speak for all? He would be just as likely to listen to one as to three, and it wouldn't tire him so much,--that's _my_ opinion. What do you think, Nannie?" Nannie shook her head dubiously; she was lying on the sofa looking awfully tired. "I'm not sure that it'll do any good," she answered; "I'm afraid papa has made up his mind to do just so much work, and he likes to carry out his intentions, you know. But I'd speak all the same," she added, "for I think he felt dreadfully cut up over that Fetich affair, and this will show him, anyhow, that you all care more for him--his well-being, I mean--than for the money the book might bring in. I fancy he has been doubtful of that sometimes. And I agree with Nora that it would be better for one to speak for the three. He is getting stronger now, and whoever is to be spokesman might, perhaps, go in to see him for a few minutes some afternoon this week. Who is it to be,--Phil?" "Don't ask me to do it!" exclaimed Phil; "_don't_--if you want the affair to be a success. I feel mortally ashamed of my share in that joke, and I agree with Felix that _somebody_ ought to speak to the _pater_ about working so hard, and almost killing himself; but I warn you that the whole thing will be a dead failure if I have the doing of it. In the first place, he looks so wretchedly now that I can't even look at him without feeling like breaking down; and with all that, if I undertook to say to him what I'd have to, why, I'm convinced I'd get rattled,--make an ass of myself, in fact,--and do no good whatever,--for that sort of thing always makes him mad. That's just the truth,--'tisn't that I want to shirk. Why don't you do it, old fellow?" (throwing his arm across Fee's shoulders), "you always know what to say, and can do it better than I." But Fee didn't seem willing either; _I_ think the chief reason was because he was afraid of the steps,--it's as much as he can do to get up the one short flight from his floor to the schoolroom, and he gets awfully nervous and cranky over even that short distance; but of course the others didn't know that, and he didn't want them to know, and I couldn't say anything, so everybody was very much surprised: even Nannie opened her eyes when, after a good deal of urging, he said sharply, "I am _not_ going to do it, and that settles it!" I was afraid there'd be a fuss, so I sung out quickly, "Why don't _you_ do it, Betty? You're always saying you're equal to anything." Well, if you had seen her face, and felt the punch she gave my shoulder! I declare Betty ought surely to've been a boy; she's entirely too strong for a girl, and rough. I will say, though, that she's been better lately; but still she breaks out every now and then, and then she hits out, perfectly regardless of whether she hurts people or not. She just glared at me. "_Me!_ _I!_ _I_ go into papa's room and make a speech to him!" she exclaimed so loudly that Phil reminded her she needn't roar, as none of us were deaf. "Why, I couldn't, I simply _couldn't_! I'm just as bad as Phil in a sick-room,--you all know I am; I'd tumble over the chairs, or knock things off the table, or fall on the bed, or something horrid, and papa'd have me put out. Then I'm sure matters would be worse than they are now. 'Tisn't that I'm _afraid_,"--with a withering glance at me,--"and I _do_ feel awfully sorry about papa; but all the same, I don't want to be the one to speak to him about the Fetich,--I don't think it's my place: how much attention do you suppose he would pay to what _I_'d say?" She fanned herself vigorously, then added, in a milder tone, "Why not let Felix draw up a petition, and we could all sign it; then--eh--" with another withering glance--"_Jack_ could take it in to papa!" "You're a fine set!" mocked Nora; "all _very_ sorry, _very_ penitent, all seeing what should be done, but no one willing to do it. You are as bad as the rats who decided in council that a bell should be placed on the neck of their enemy, the cat, so that they should always have warning of her approach; but when it came to deciding on who was to do the deed, not one was brave enough." "I suppose you think, as Nora does, that we're a pretty mean set?" Felix said to Nannie; he ignored Nora's remark, though Phil made a dash for her with the laughing threat, "Just let me catch you, Miss Nora!" Nannie sat up and pushed her hair off her forehead; she looked pale and languid, and when she spoke, her voice sounded tired. "No," she said, "I don't think you are any of you mean; but I am disappointed: I like people to have the courage of their convictions, and particularly you, Fee." "That's right, give it to us, Nancy,--we deserve it!" shouted Phil, coming back in triumph with Nora; but Felix coloured up, and, leaning over, laid his hand on Nannie's arm. "Perhaps if you--" he began eagerly, but he didn't say the rest, for Max and Hilliard came in just then, and Nannie got up to speak to them. That was on a Tuesday evening, and the next afternoon, as I was going through the hall, Miss Appleton came out of the sick-room and asked if I would sit with papa for a short time, while she went to the basement to make some nourishment or something or other. "There is nothing to do but to sit somewhere about the room, within range of your father's sight," she said, as I hesitated a little,--not that I minded, but you see I was rather nervous for fear I might be asked to do things that I didn't know how to. "I won't be long, and I don't think he will need anything until I return." [Illustration: "MISS APPLETON ... ASKED IF I WOULD SIT WITH PAPA FOR A SHORT TIME."] Nannie was lying down with a headache, and nurse, Miss Marston, and the others were away upstairs; Phil had not yet come home; so I said, "Very well," and walked in. Papa was lying in bed, and he did look awful!--white and thin! He put out his hand as I went up to the bed, and said with a little smile, "Why, it is Jack! how do you do, my dear?" then he drew me down and kissed me. I would _love_ to have told him how very, _very_ glad I was that he was better, but I choked up so I couldn't get out a word. I just stood there hanging on to his hand, until he drew it away and said, "Take a seat until the nurse returns." Miss Appleton had told me to sit where papa could see me, so I took a chair that somebody had left standing near the foot of the bed, and in full view of him. It was very quiet in the room after that; papa lay with his eyes closed, and I could see how badly he looked. He was very pale,--kind of a greyish white,--his eyes were sunk 'way in, and there were quite big hollows in his temples and his cheeks. I wondered if he knew that he had nearly died, and that we had prayed for him in church; then I thought of the figure of the angel that we'd seen in the clouds that afternoon in the schoolroom, and of the Beautiful City--"O mother dear, Jerusalem"--where everything is lovely and everybody so happy, and I wondered again if papa were sorry or glad that he was going to get better. You see he would have had dear mamma there, and been with the King "in His felicity;" but then he wouldn't have had the Fetich or his books! Suddenly papa opened his eyes and looked at me. "Jack," he said, "suppose you take another seat,--over there behind the curtain. I will call you if I need anything." He told Nannie afterward--and she told me, so I shouldn't do it again--that I'd "stared him out of countenance." I was awfully sorry; I wouldn't have done such a rude thing for the world, you know,--I didn't even know I was doing it; but, as I've told you before, when I'm alone with papa, I somehow just _have_ to look and look at him. I'd hardly taken my seat behind the curtain when the door opened and Fee came slowly in. He leaned heavily on his cane and caught on to the different pieces of furniture to help him make his way to papa's bedside. They just clasped hands, and for a minute neither of them said a word; then Felix began: "Oh, sir, I thank God that you are spared,"--his voice shook so he had to stop. Papa said gently: "More reference-making for you, my lad; I am evidently to be allowed to finish my work." And then Fee began again. He didn't say a great deal, and it was in a low tone,--a little slow, too, at first, as if he were holding himself in,--but there was something in his voice that made my heart swell up in me as it did that day I thrashed Henderson. It's a queer feeling; it makes one feel as if one could easily do things that would be quite impossible at any other time. "I hope I'll not tire or agitate you, sir," Fee said, "but I feel I must tell you, for Phil, Betty, and myself, how _utterly_ ashamed we are of that miserable, heartless joke we got off some months ago,--going to Mr. Erveng about your book; no, father, _please_ let me go on,--this ought to have been said long ago! We earnestly ask your forgiveness for that, sir; the remembrance of it has lain very heavy on our hearts in these last anxious weeks--" He stopped; I guess there was a lump in his throat,--_I_ know what that is! And presently papa said, very gently: "That did hurt me, Felix; but I have forgiven it. It may be that the experience was needed. I am afraid that I forgot I owed it to my children to finish and make use of my work." "No, _no_!" exclaimed Felix, vehemently. "_Don't_ feel that way, father; oh, _please_ don't! We hope you won't ever work on it again as you have been working,--to run yourself down, to make yourself ill. We beg, we implore that you will take better care of yourself. Let the book go; _never_ finish it; what do we care for it, compared to having you with us strong and well once more! Oh, sir, if you really do forgive us, if you really do believe in the love of your children, promise us that you will not work as you've been doing lately!" He waited a minute or two; then, as papa said nothing, he cried out sharply: "We are--_her_--children, sir; for _her_ sake do as we ask!" "Why do you want this--why do you want me to live?" papa asked slowly. "_Why?_ Because we love you!" exclaimed Fee, in surprise. And then I heard papa say, "My _son_!" in _such_ a tender voice; and then,--after a while,--"I am under a contract to finish my book, and I must do it; but I will endeavour to work less arduously, and to look more after my health." Here I think Fee must have kissed him,--it sounded so. "I shall have good news for the others," he said. "You know, sir, Phil and Betty feel as keenly about this as I do, but, for fear it would tire you, it was thought best for only one of us to speak to you about the matter. You don't feel any worse for our talk,--do you, father?" He said this anxiously, but papa said no, it hadn't done him any harm; still, he added, Felix had better go, and so he did in a few minutes. I felt so sorry when I thought of all the steps he'd have to climb to the schoolroom; I wondered how he'd ever get up them. Well, after that I think papa had a nap; anyway, he was very quiet. It was pretty stupid for me behind that curtain, and I was just wishing for about the tenth time that Miss Appleton would put in an appearance, when the door opened suddenly, and who should come walking in but Phil! He went straight up to papa, and began rather loud, and in a quick, excited sort of way,--I could tell he was awfully nervous,--"How d'you feel to-day, sir?" Then, before papa had time to answer, he went on: "We were talking things over last evening, and--and we--well, sir, we--that is, Felix, Betty, and I--feel that we're at the bottom of this illness of yours, through our getting up the scheme about the Fet--your book, you know--in going to Mr. Erveng. It was the cheekiest thing on our part! I deserve to be kicked for that, sir,--I know I do. And we're afraid--we think--you're just killing yourself! I'm a blundering idiot at talking, I know, so I might's well cut it short. What I want to say is this: We'd rather have you living, sir, and the--history--_never_ finished, than have it finished, with no end of money, and you dead. Oh, father, if you could know how we felt that night when your life hung in the balance!" He broke right down with a great sob. Then everything was so quiet again that I looked round the portière; Phil knelt by the bedside with his face buried in the bed-clothes, and papa's hand was resting on his head. I let the curtain fall. I felt, perhaps, they'd rather I didn't look at them. Then presently papa said quite cheerfully, "It will be all right, Phil: I think I am going to get well, and I shall try to take better care of myself; so you will, I hope, have no further occasion to be troubled about my health. I appreciate your speaking frankly to me, as you have done. Now, perhaps, you had better go; I am a little tired." Phil shook hands with papa and started to go, but paused half-way to the door. "This is for Felix and Betty, as well as for myself, father," he said pleadingly. "They feel just as badly as I do about you, but we thought 'twas best for one to speak for the three; and I being the eldest,--you understand?" "Yes," papa said gently, "I understand." As the door closed behind Phil, papa called me. "Jack," he said, in a weak voice, "it seems to me that Miss Appleton is gone a good while; perhaps you had better give me something,--I think I am tired." My! didn't I get nervous! There was nothing on the table but bottles and a medicine glass; I didn't know any more than the man in the moon what to give him, and I didn't like to ask him. I was pretty sure he didn't know; and besides, he had shut his eyes. I caught up one of the bottles and uncorked and smelled it without in the least knowing what I intended doing next. How I did wish the nurse would come! Just then some one came into the room, and when I turned quickly, expecting to see Miss Appleton, who was it but _Betty_! Well, I was so surprised, I nearly dropped the bottle. But she didn't even look at me; she just marched up to papa and began talking. She stood a little distance from the bed,--she said afterward she was afraid to go nearer for fear she'd shake the bed, or fall on it,--with her hands behind her back, and she just rattled off what she had to say as if she'd been "primed," as Phil calls it. Without even a "how d'you do?" she plunged into her subject. That's Betty all over; she always goes right to the point. "Papa," she said earnestly, "I'm awfully--that is, _very_, _very_ sorry we went to Mr. Erveng that time about your book, without first speaking to you about it. We're all _very_ sorry,--Phil, Felix, and I,--and just as ashamed as we can be. We've worried dreadfully over it, and about you, and it was simply _awful_ when we thought you were going to die! We didn't acknowledge it to one another, but if you had died, I know we three'd have felt as if we had as much as killed you" (here Betty's voice dropped to almost a whisper; I thought perhaps she was going to cry, but she didn't, she just went on louder); "for we are sure you never would have hurried so with--your book--if we hadn't played that mean joke. You see, papa, we're _so_ afraid you'll--you'll--die, or be ill, or something else dreadful if you don't stop working so hard,--like a galley slave, as Phil says. And I've come to ask you, for Phil, Felix, and myself, to let the hateful old book go, and just get well and strong again; will you?" "But if the history is completed, it can be sold, and thus bring in the money that is so much needed in the family." Betty eyed papa; I think she wasn't sure whether he was in sarcasm or earnest. "Oh," she said, "we did think it would be nice to have enough money to send Fee to college, but we don't want it any more,--at least, not if it's to come by your being ill--or--or--oh, papa, dear, we're all so _very_ glad and thankful that you are going to get well." She took his hand up carefully and kissed it. "I think that now I am glad, too, Betty," said papa; "much more so than I ever expected to be." "And you won't work so hard again, will you?" asked Betty, anxiously. "You see, papa, I'm to get you to promise that; that's what I've come for. We talked the matter over last evening, and Phil would have come to speak to you about it, but he said you looked so wretchedly--and so you do--that just to look at you made him break down, and he was afraid he'd get rattled and make an a--a mess of it. Then Felix, he couldn't come, because, well, because--I guess he felt badly, too, about your being ill. So I thought _I'd_ better come down and have a talk with you, though I must say I was afraid I might do something awkward,--I'm so _stupid_ in a sick-room; but so far all's right, isn't it? The boys don't know I've come,--I thought I'd surprise them; and so I will, with the good news: you'll promise, won't you, papa?" "Yes," papa said, "I promise." Then Betty flew at him and kissed him, and then papa told her she'd better go. It was only just as she got to the door that she spied me. "Hullo! you here?" she exclaimed in astonishment,--adding, in a lower tone, "What're you laughing at?" Then, as I didn't answer, she walked out. "Jack," called papa, "are there anymore of them to come? Do you suppose they are crazy?" Then he added to himself, "I wonder if any one else in the world has such children as I have?" We looked at each other for a minute or two (papa's eyes were bright, and his mouth was kind of smiley, and I was, I know, on a broad grin), and then we both laughed,--papa quietly, as he always does; but I cackled right out, I _couldn't_ help it. At this moment in came Miss Appleton with papa's nourishment, and right behind her Nannie. "Oh, how bright you look!" Nannie exclaimed with delight, as she came up to him; "that last medicine has certainly done you good." "Yes, I think it has," papa said, with a quizzical glance at me. "It was a new and unexpected kind; Nannie, my dear,--I have had a visitation." XV. SOME MINORS. TOLD BY JACK. Instead of going in the country early, as usual, this year we just hung on and hung on until the weather was quite warm, waiting for papa to get strong enough to stand the journey. It seemed to us as if he were an awful while getting well: long after he was able to be dressed, he had to lie on the lounge for the greater part of every day,--the least exertion used him up; and as for his work, Dr. Archard said he wasn't to even _think_ of touching it. But at last--after changing the date several times--a day was set for us to start. We were all delighted; we _love_ to be at the Cottage. You see we have no lessons then, 'cause Miss Marston goes away for her holidays, and we can be out of doors all day long if we choose; papa doesn't mind as long as we're in time for meals and looking clean and decent. There's a lovely cove near our house,--it isn't deep or dangerous,--and there we go boating and swimming; then there's fishing and crabbing, and drives about the country in the big, rattly depot-wagon behind Pegasus,--that's our horse, but he's an awful old slow-poke,--and rides on our donkey, G. W. L. Spry. Oh, I tell you now, it's all just _splendid_! We always hate to go back to the city. Perhaps you think our donkey has a queer name. Most people do until we explain. Well, his real name is George Washington Lafayette Spry,--so the man said from whom papa bought him,--but that was such a mouthful to say that Fee shortened it to G. W. L. Spry, and I do believe the "baste," as cook calls him, knows it just as well as the other name,--any way, he answers to it just as readily. He _is_ pretty spry when he gets started, but the thing is to start him. [Illustration: "G. W. L. SPRY."] Well, to go back, we were delighted at the prospect of getting away, and we all worked like beavers helping to get ready. Miss Marston and the girls and Phil packed,--his college closed ever so long ago,--Fee directed things generally, and addressed and put on tags, and we children ran errands. Almost everything was ready; in fact, some of the furniture had gone,--there're such a lot of us that we have to take a pile of stuff,--when two unexpected things happened that just knocked the whole plan to pieces. For a good while Max had been urging and urging papa to go to his place in the Adirondacks; he said his mother was there, and she was first-rate at taking care of sick people, and that she'd be awfully glad to see Nannie, too, who, Max declared, needed the change as much as ever papa did. But papa refused, and it was settled that we were all to go to the Cottage, when suddenly Dr. Archard turns round and says that mountain, not sea air was what papa should have, and insisted so on it that at last papa gave in and accepted Max's invitation for Nannie and himself. So then it was arranged that papa, Nannie, and Max were to go to the mountains, and we to the Cottage with Miss Marston,--they going one day, and we the next. [Illustration: "WE ALL WORKED LIKE BEAVERS."] That was the first set-back, and the next one was ten times worse. Just as papa was being helped down the steps to the carriage, what should come but a telegram for Miss Marston from her aunt in Canada, asking her to come right on. Well, that just upset _our_ going in the country! Phil and Felix told papa they could manage things, and get us safely to the Cottage,--and I'm sure they'd have done it as well as ever Miss Marston could, for she's awfully fussy and afraid of things happening; but no, papa wouldn't hear of it, though Max declared he thought 'twould be all right. Felix took it quietly, but Phil got kind of huffy, and said papa must think he was about two years old, from the way he treated him. I tell you, for a little while there Nannie had her hands full,--what with trying to smooth him down, and to keep papa from getting nervous and worked up over the matter. Well, after a lot of talking, and papa losing one train, it was arranged that we should remain in the city with nurse until we heard from Miss Marston, and knew how long she'd be likely to stay in Canada. If only a short time,--say ten days,--we were to wait for her return and go under her care to the Cottage; but if she'd be gone several weeks, then Phil, Felix, and nurse would take us to the country. As soon as this was settled, papa, Nannie, and Max went off, and a little later Miss Marston started for her train. Besides being worried about her aunt, Miss Marston felt real sorry at leaving us so hurriedly, and she gave no end of directions to Nora and Betty, to say nothing of nurse. Nora didn't seem to mind this, but nurse sniffed--she always does that when she doesn't like what people are telling her--and Betty got impatient; you see Nannie'd been drilling Betty, too,--telling her to be nice to Nora, and to help with the little ones, and all that,--and I guess she'd got tired of being told things. "I know just how Phil feels about papa's snubbing," she said to me. "Some people never seem to realise that we're growing up. Why, if papa and Miss Marston should live until we were eighty and ninety years old, I do believe, Jack, that they'd still treat us as if we were infants,--like the story Max told us of the man a hundred and ten years old, who whipped his eighty-year-old son and set him in a corner because he'd been 'naughty'! It's too provoking! And as to being '_nice_' to Nora, I feel it in my bones that she and I will have a falling out the very first thing; she'll put on such airs that I'll not be able to stand her!" But as it turned out, there was something else in store for Betty; that same evening over came Mr. Erveng and Hilliard with an invitation from Mrs. Erveng for Betty to go to their country home, near Boston, and spend a month with them. Mr. Erveng had met papa in the railroad station that day, and got his consent for Betty to accept the invitation. So all she had to do was to pack a trunk and be ready to leave with them the next morning,--they would call for her. I felt awfully sorry Betty was going: though there are so many of us, you've no idea what a gap it makes in the family when even one is away; and, with all her roughness and tormenting ways, Betty is real nice, too. I didn't actually know what I'd do with both Nannie and her away. I couldn't help wishing that the Ervengs had asked Nora instead of Betty, and I know Betty wished so, too, for you never saw a madder person than she was when she came upstairs to help nurse pack her trunk: you see she didn't dare make any objections, as long as papa had given his consent, but she didn't want to go one step, and she just let us know it. "I'll have to be on my company manners the whole livelong time, and I simply _loathe_ that," she fumed. "Mrs. Erveng won't let me play with Hilliard, I'm sure she won't, 'that's so unladylike!'"--mimicking Mrs. Erveng's slow, gentle voice,--"and I never know what to talk to _her_ about. I suppose I'll have to sit up and twirl my thumbs, like a regular Miss Prim, from morning to night. Why didn't they ask _you_?" wheeling round on Nora. "You and Mrs. Erveng seem to be such fine friends, and you suit her better than I do. I always feel as if she looked upon me as a clumsy, overgrown hoiden, an uncouth sort of animal." "I couldn't very well be spared from home just now," answered Nora, calmly, with her little superior air; "and any way, I presume Mrs. Erveng asked the one she wanted,--people generally claim that privilege." So far was all right; but she must needs go on, and, as Phil says, "put her foot in it." "I really hope you'll behave yourself nicely, Betty," she continued, "for only the other day I heard Mrs. Erveng say that she thought you had improved wonderfully lately; _do_ keep up to that reputation." Betty was furious! "No, _really_? How _very_ kind of her!" she burst out scornfully. "The idea of her criticising me,--and to you! You ought to be ashamed not to stand up for your own sister to strangers! Indeed, I'll do just as I please; _I'm_ not afraid of Mrs. Erveng! I'll slide down every banister, if I feel like it, and swing on the doors, too, and make the most horrible faces; you see if I don't come home before the month is out!" "Leave their house standing, Elizabeth,--just for decency's sake, you know," advised Phil. We were all laughing, and what does Nora do but pitch into me for it. "Can't you find anything better to do, Jack, than encouraging Betty to be rude and unladylike?" she commenced sharply; but just then Hannah came, asking for something, and, with a great air of importance, Nora went off with her. But if Nora didn't understand how Betty felt, I did. Of course the Ervengs meant it kindly asking her; but _I_ wouldn't have wanted to go off alone visiting people that were almost strangers,--for that's what Mr. and Mrs. Erveng are to us, though we do know Hilliard so well,--and I just said so to her, and gave her my best feather-top. As I told her, she might play it times when she was alone in her own room, to keep up her spirits. I'd have given her something nicer, but all my things were packed up, except my locomotive, and I knew she wouldn't care for _that_,--she's always making fun of it. Betty's one of the kind that just hate to cry where people can see them, so she went away without the least fuss--though I know her heart was full--when the Ervengs called for her the next morning. Hilliard was as merry as a lark. "It's so good of you to come," he said, beaming on Betty when he met her on the steps. "We are going to take the very best care of you, and help you to enjoy yourself immensely; I only wish all the others were coming with us, too,"--with a glance at us (the whole family had crowded out on the stoop to see Betty off). "We don't want to; we'd rather go to the Cottage," sung out Alan. Nora had to hush him up. Hilliard was just as nice as he could be, putting Betty into the carriage, and looking after her things,--I hadn't thought he could be so polite; but Betty was very cool and snippy, and the last sight I got of her, as the carriage turned the corner, she was sitting bolt upright, looking as stiff as a poker. I felt sorry for Betty, and I felt sorry for the Ervengs, too,--at least for Hilliard. I can't think why Betty doesn't like him better. We were awfully lonely and unsettled for a few days,--it seemed so queer to have Nora in Nannie's place, and Phil at the head of the table; to hear Nora giving orders, and for Phil to have to see to shutting up the house nights. Somehow it made us feel grown-up,--it was such a responsibility, you know; and at first we were all very quiet, and so polite to one another that nurse declared she "wouldn't 'a' known we was the same fam'ly." Felix and Phil were as dignified as could be, and the little ones went to bed without a murmur, and obeyed Nora like so many lambs. But it didn't last,--it couldn't, you know, for we weren't really happy, acting that way; and pretty soon we began to be just as we usually were,--only a little more so, as we boys say. You see nobody was really head, though Nora and Phil both pretended they were,--we didn't count nurse,--and each person just wanted to do as he or she pleased, and of course that made lots of fusses. Phil did a lot of talking, and ordered people around a good deal, but nobody minded him very much. Nora had her hands full with the children; they were awfully hard to manage, particularly Kathie,--her feelings get hurt so easily. Nora said that nurse spoiled them, and in a sort of way took their part against her, while nurse said Nora was too fond of "ordering," and that she nagged them; so there were rumpuses there sometimes. I read over all my favourite books that weren't packed up, and worked on my steam engine, and went about to see what the others were doing; but I tried not to be mixed up in any of the rows. Fee got a fit of painting,--he wanted Nora to pose for him for Antigone, but she wouldn't; and he played his violin any time during the day that he liked,--you see there wasn't anybody there to mind the noise. That was in the day; in the evenings we--Nora and we three boys--sat on the stoop, it was _so_ warm indoors. The Unsworths and Vassahs and 'most all the people we knew were out of town, and Chad Whitcombe was the only person that came round to see us. When he found we hadn't gone to the country, he'd make his appearance every evening, and sit with us on the stoop. At first he stayed the whole evening, and was so pleasant and chatty I could hardly believe 'twas Chad; of course he was affected,--he always is,--but still he was real interesting, telling about places he'd been to, and some of the queer people he'd met in his travels. After a while, though, he began to stay for about half the evening, then he'd ask Phil to take a walk with him, and away they would go; and sometimes Phil wouldn't get back very early either. Well, Felix stood it for a few times without saying anything,--he always has precious little to do with Chad; but one evening when Chad stood up and asked, "Take a stroll--aw--will you, Phil?" and Phil rose to go, Fee got quickly on his feet. "Just let me get my cane, and I'll come, too," he said. I was looking at Chad just then, and I could see he didn't like it; but Phil answered at once, "All right, old fellow; come on!" And Fee went. I was alone on the stoop when the boys got back,--Chad wasn't with them. Nora was playing the piano in the drawing-room, and Phil went in to speak to her; but Felix sat down on the step beside me with his back against the railing. As the light from the hall lamp fell on him, I could see how white and tired he looked. I couldn't help saying something about it. "You do look awfully used up, Fee," I said; "I guess you've been walking too far. Whatever made you do it? You know you can't stand that sort of thing." Of course I didn't say this crossly,--Fee isn't at all the sort of person that one would say cross things to,--but you see I knew just how miserable he'd been, and that he wasn't well yet, by any means. He pretended to be quite well, but I noticed that he sat down lots of times, instead of standing, as he used to, and that it was still an effort for him to go up and down stairs. When I said that about his being tired, he pushed his straw hat back off his face, and I could see his hair lying wet and dark on his white forehead. "I _am_ dead tired," he said, wearily. "I tell you, Jack, the ascent to the third floor seems a formidable undertaking to-night." Then he added abruptly, "_Why_ did I do it? Because I'm _determined_"--he brought his clinched hand down on the stoop--"that that scalawag sha'n't get hold of Phil. I suppose my miserable old back'll take its revenge to-morrow; but I don't care,--I'd do it again and again, if I couldn't keep them apart any other way." Just then Phil's voice came to us through the open drawing-room window. "It's a lovely night," he was saying to Nora; "I don't feel a bit like going to bed,--I think I'll go out again for a little while. You needn't wait up for me, Nonie, and I'll see to the shutting up of the house when I come in; don't let Fee bother about it,--he looks tired." With a quick exclamation, Felix caught hold of the railing of the stoop, and dragging himself to his feet, limped into the parlour. "It's an age since we've sung any of our duets, Phil," he called; "let's have some now. Nora, play 'O wert thou in the cauld blast,'--that's one of our favourites." And in a minute or two they were singing away with all their might. But presently Phil came out with his hat on, and behind him Felix. "Still here, Jack? It's getting pretty late!" Fee said. Then to Phil, "I guess it's too late for another tramp to-night, Philippus; come on, let's go upstairs." He was trying to speak off-hand, but I could hear in his voice the eagerness he was trying to keep back. Perhaps Phil heard it, too, and suspected something, for he answered very shortly, "I'm going out; I'm not an infant to be put to bed at eight o'clock." And with that he jammed his hat tighter on his head, ran down the stoop, and was soon out of sight. Felix sat down on one of the hall chairs, and leaned his head on his hand in such a sad, tired way that I felt as if I'd have liked to pitch right into Phil. I darted in from the stoop and put my hand on Fee's shoulder. "Fee," I whispered,--I didn't want Nora to hear,--"can I do anything to help? Shall I run after him and _make_ him come back?" Felix looked up at me; his lips were set tight together, and there was a stern expression on his face that made him look like papa. "'Twould take a bigger man than you are to do that, Jack," he said, with a faint smile, adding slowly, "but I'll tell you what you _can_ do,--you can keep mum about this; and now help me upstairs, like a good boy: I'm almost too tired to put one foot after the other." Then, as he rose and slowly straightened himself up, he said, "After all, Phil's only gone for a walk, you know, Jack; he'll be home pretty soon, you may depend." But I had a feeling that he said this to make himself believe it as well as me. Fee _was_ awfully used up; I could hardly get him up the steps. Nora would certainly have heard the noise we made if she hadn't been so interested in her music. Phil did not come in very early; in fact, I think it was late. I room with him, you know, and it seemed as if I'd been asleep a good while when his shutting of our door woke me up. Of course I turned over and looked at him; I'm sure there wasn't anything in that to make a person mad, though perhaps I did stare a little, for Phil had a queer expression on his face,--jolly, and yet sort of ashamed, too. His face was quite red, and his eyes looked glassy. He leaned against the closed door, with his hat on the back of his head, and just scowled at me. "What're you staring at, I'd like to know?" he said roughly. "Without exception, you're the most inquisitive youngster! you _must_ have your finger in every pie. Just turn yourself right over to the wall and go to sleep this minute; I _won't_ have you spying on me!" Now I usually give in to Phil, and I do hate to get into rows with people, but I couldn't stand that; I just sat straight up in bed and spoke out. "I'm _not_ inquisitive," I said, "and I'm _not_ spying on you, either. I wouldn't do such a mean thing, and you know it." "Oh, hush up, and go to sleep! you talk entirely too much," Phil answered back, and taking off his hat, he threw it at me. The hat didn't touch me,--it barely fell on the edge of the bed,--but it seemed to me as if I couldn't have felt worse if it had struck me; you see my feelings were so hurt. Phil likes to order people, and he's rough, too, sometimes. We know him so well, though, that I don't usually mind; but this evening he was awfully disagreeable,--so bullying that I couldn't help feeling hurt and mad. I felt just like saying something back,--something sharp,--but I knew that would only make more words, and there was Felix in the next room,--I didn't want him to be waked up and hear how Phil was going on; it wouldn't have done any good, you see, and would only have made Fee unhappy. So I just swallowed down what I was going to say, and bouncing over on my pillow, I turned my face to the wall, away from Phil. But I couldn't go to sleep,--you know one can't at a minute's notice,--and I couldn't help hearing what he was doing about the room. I heard a clinking noise, as if he were putting silver money down on the bureau; then, while he was unlacing his boots and dropping them with a thud on the floor, he began to whistle softly, "O wert thou in the cauld blast." I suppose that reminded him of something he wanted to say, for presently he called out, "Say, Rosebud--_Rose_bud!" I just _wouldn't_ answer,--after his treating me that way! What did he do then but lean over the footboard and shake me by the heel. "Turn over," he said; "I want to talk to you,--d'you hear me?" and he shook my heel again. I jerked my foot away. "I wish you wouldn't bother me," I answered; "I'm trying to go to sleep." "Oh, I see,--on your dig." Phil laughed and pulled my toe. "Well, you provoked me, staring at me with those owly eyes of yours; but now I want to speak to you about Felix." I still felt sore over the way he'd acted, but as long as it was Fee he wanted to talk about, I thought I'd better listen; so I turned over again and looked at Phil. "See here, what's the matter with Felix?" As he spoke, Phil went over and threw himself into a chair, where he could see me. "He's never been very much of a walker, but seems to me that he's worse than ever at it lately. Why, last evening--this evening I mean" (he gave me a funny look)--"we hadn't gone three blocks before he began to drag, and took hold of my arm; he hung on it, too, I can tell you. We didn't go very far, not nearly as far as we used to last winter; and I'd have made it still shorter, for I could see he was most awfully used up, but Fee wouldn't give in,--you know he can be obstinate. And when he came into the drawing-room to sing, he looked wretched,--white as a ghost! Since I've been home, I've noticed, in a good many little ways, that he doesn't do as much as he used to,--in the way of moving around; yet, when I speak to him 'bout it, he either--puts me off, or turns--cranky; I can't get a thing--out--of--him." Phil's voice had been getting slower and slower, and almost before he finished the last word he was _asleep_. I thought he was making believe at first,--he's such a tease,--but I soon found out that he wasn't. Well, I _was_ astonished; for a minute I couldn't say a word; I just lay there and looked at him. Then I remembered how late it was, and called him,--not loud, though, for fear of waking Felix. "Phil, _Phil_, aren't you coming to bed? it's awfully late." "Oh, let me _alone_," he muttered sleepily; then presently he roused up and began to talk real crossly, but in the same slow voice, and with his eyes shut: "I'm not a _child_--and I'm not going--to be treated--like one--you needn't--think so--I'm a _man_--all--the fellows--do it--'tisn't--any harm--" His head drooped and he was off again. I had got awfully nervous when he first began, I mean about Felix; you see Fee hadn't given me back my promise not to speak of his attack when papa was so ill, so I couldn't have told Phil, and I shouldn't have known what to say. Oh, that promise! that _miserable_ promise! if only I had _never_ made it! Well, as I said, I was thankful I didn't have to answer Phil; but when he acted so queerly, I didn't like that either, and jumping out of bed, I went at him, and just talked and coaxed and pulled at him, until at last I got him to get up and undress and go to bed. * * * * * Phil was as cross as a bear the next morning; he said he had a headache, and didn't get up until late. He lay in bed with his face to the wall, and just snapped up everybody that spoke to him; when I took him up some tea and toast,--that was all he'd take,--he turned on me. "I suppose you've told them about last night," he said sharply, "and you've all had a grand pow-wow over me!" "Indeed, I _haven't_" I answered; "I haven't said one single word about it to anybody; we've got other things to talk of, I can tell you, besides your being such a sleepy-head." Perhaps this was a little snippy, but I couldn't help it,--just as if I couldn't keep a thing to myself. You see I didn't understand then what it all meant. Phil looked straight at me for a minute, and it seemed to me there was a kind of sorry expression came in his face; then he laughed. "Great head! keep on being mum!" he said, in that teasing way of his, nodding at me. "Now, Mr. Moses Primrose, suppose you set that tray down and vacate the apartment--shut the door." But I could see that he wasn't sorry I hadn't spoken of it; I've wondered sometimes, since, whether things would have been different if I had told Felix the whole business. Well, he was a little pleasanter for a while; but when a telegram came later in the day from Miss Marston, saying she'd be back in ten days to take us to the Cottage, Phil got all off again, and scolded like everything. He said it was a burning shame for us to have to stay in the city and just _stew_, waiting for Miss Marston to "escort" us to the Cottage, when he and Felix could have taken us there long ago; that he wanted to go in the country _right away_; that papa'd made a big mistake in keeping us back, and that he'd find it out when 'twas too late,--and all that sort of talk. Felix and Nora did their best to cool him down, but it was no use,--the nicer they were, the more disagreeable he grew; and at last they got provoked and left him to himself. "I wish Nannie were here," Fee said, as we stood on the landing together, outside Phil's door; "perhaps she could do something with him." "I just wish she were," I agreed dolefully; and if Nora didn't get miffed because we said that! I can tell you it wasn't a bit pleasant at home those days. As Fee said, "everybody seemed to be disgruntled," and there wasn't a thing to do but wander around; I missed Betty awfully, she's such a splendid person for keeping up one's spirits. Toward afternoon, Phil came downstairs, and after dinner we sat on the stoop; he was still rather grumpy, though we pretended not to notice it. Presently Chad came along and took a seat beside us; but at first I don't think anybody, except, perhaps, Nora, paid him much attention. Felix had been very quiet all day, and now he sat with his elbows on his knees, and his hands holding up his face, a far-off look in his eyes, and not saying a word until about half-past eight, when Chad leaned over, and in a low voice asked Phil to go for a walk. Phil's answer sounded like, "Had enough of it;" and before Chad could say anything more, Fee began to talk to him. I was surprised, for Felix doesn't usually talk to Chad; but to-night, all at once, he seemed to have a friendly fit. He started Chad talking of his travels; then he got Phil into the conversation, and then Nora, and he just kept them all going; he was so bright himself, and funny, and entertaining, that the evening fairly flew by. We were all amazed when ten o'clock struck; soon after that Chad bid good-night, and we shut up the house and went to bed. 'Most always Phil stops in Fee's room for a few minutes: he didn't this evening, though; he just called out,--a little gruffly,--"Good-night, old man!" and marched right into his own room. But I went in. Fee was sitting on the edge of his bed; he looked almost as tired as he had the night before, though now his eyes were bright and his cheeks red. He turned quickly to me. "Did you think I was wound up to-night?" he asked. Then, before I could answer, "But I kept them--I kept them both, Jack; they didn't go walking to-night,--at least, Phil didn't, and that's the main point. Why, I could go on talking till morning." He got up and limped restlessly about, then stopped near me. "What'll we do to-morrow evening?" he said, "and the next, and the next?--there are _ten_ more, you know. We'll _have_ to think of something, that's all; it'll not be easy, but we'll have to do it. I'm afraid"--Fee spoke slowly, shaking his head--"I'm afraid the _pater_ _has_ made a mistake, a big mistake. Now if Nannie were only here--what an owl you look, Rosebud! Come, off to bed with you!" He threw his arm across my shoulder and gave me a little squeeze, then pushed me out of the room and shut the door. I have an idea that he didn't sleep very well that night, for the next morning _he_, too, looked like a owl, in the way of eyes. XVI. AND A MAJOR. TOLD BY JACK. The next day Phil was more like himself,--almost as usual, at least during the first part of the day; after that, everybody got into such a state of excitement that we forgot all about his mood,--I guess he forgot it himself. As I've told you, Kathie and the little ones weren't behaving at all nicely. You see the trouble was they wanted their own way, and Nora wanted hers, and nurse wanted hers too; and some days things went all wrong in the nursery. Nora'd declare that _she_ was mistress as long as Nannie wasn't at home, and that the children _should_ obey her; then nurse would get huffy and call the little ones her "pets" and her "poor darlin's," and of course that made them feel as if they were being dreadfully abused. I think Nora did nag some, and perhaps she ordered people a little more than she need have done, but that's her way of doing things; she didn't mean in the least to be disagreeable, and the children were certainly _very_ provoking. It seemed to me as if they were forever in mischief, and my! weren't they pert! and sometimes they wouldn't mind at all. Once or twice I tried to see if I could help things, but I just got into trouble both times, and only made matters worse, so I thought I'd better leave 'em alone. Well, on this particular morning, nurse woke feeling so ill that she couldn't get up at all; so Nora had to see to dressing the children and giving them their breakfast. Mädel was good,--she's a dear little creature!--but the boys were wild for mischief, and just as saucy and self-willed as they could be, and, worst of all, Kathie got into one of her crying moods. She cried all the time she was dressing, and all through breakfast,--a kind of whining cry that just wears on a person. Phil called her Niobe, and declared that if she didn't look out, she'd float away on her tears; Fee threatened to put her in a picture, just as she looked; I coaxed and promised her one or two of my things, and Nora scolded: nothing had any effect, Kathie just wept straight on. She _is_ awfully trying when she gets in these moods, but I guess she can't always help it,--at least Nannie thinks so,--and perhaps if Nora had been patient just a little while longer, the storm would have blown over. But all at once Nora lost her temper, and catching Kathie by the arm, she walked her wailing from the room. Well, in just about one minute more, Paul and Mädel and Alan were off too, roaring like everything. "_O-o-h!_ we _want_ Kathie! we _w-a-n-t_ Kathie! _O-o-o-h!_ bring back _Kath-i-e_!" Well, you'd have thought they never expected to lay eyes on Kathie again! [Illustration: "WHERE WE FOUND KATHIE."] I coaxed and talked and talked till my throat fairly ached, telling 'em funny things to divert their attention,--the way I've heard Nannie and Betty do; Fee began just as loud as he could (to drown their noise and make them listen) about the Trojan horse,--they like that story; and Phil offered them everything that there was on the table if they'd _only_ stop yelling; he declared the neighbours would be coming in to see what we were doing to them. But at last they quieted down, and let me take them upstairs to the nursery, where we found Kathie seated upon a chair, and still weeping. On account of nurse's being ill, there were a good many things for Nora to do,--I could see she had her hands full,--so I stayed in the schoolroom and looked after the children to help her. By and by Kathie stopped crying--I guess there were no more tears left to come--and began to join in the games I started. Usually she's very penitent after one of these fits of temper, but this time she seemed more sulky than anything else; and she was such a sight that I felt sorry for her. Kathie's very fair,--she's a real pretty little girl when she's in a good humour,--and now, from crying so much, and rubbing her eyes, they were all swollen and red; the red marks went 'way down on her cheeks; and her nose was all red and swollen, too: you'd hardly have known her for the same child. After awhile--I'd set them playing house, and things seemed quiet--I got out one of my books, and, fixing myself comfortably on the sofa, began to read. But presently something--a sort of stillness in the room--made me look up; the children were under the schoolroom table with their heads close together, and they were whispering. Kathie was weeping again, but very softly; Mädel had one arm around her, and was wiping Kathie's tears away with her pinafore; Paul was showing them something which I couldn't see,--he had his back to me,--and Alan sat on his heels, grinning, and gazing at Judge with wide-open, admiring eyes. Just at this moment Nora opened the door and called me; you should have seen those four jump! and the way Judge hurried what he had in his hand out of sight! But I didn't suspect anything; I didn't dream of what they were up to. "Jack," said Nora, when I got out in the hall, "Phil has gone out to see to something for me, and I can't send Fee, so I wish you would go round to Dr. Archard's and ask him to call and see nurse as soon as possible. She won't let me do a thing for her, and yet she's groaning, and says she feels _dreadfully_; she may be very ill, for all I know." There was such an anxious look on Nora's face that I tried to cheer her up. "Don't worry, Nonie," I said; "you know nurse gets scared awfully easy. If she has a finger-ache, she thinks she's dreadfully ill, and wants the doctor." "Well, perhaps she'll feel better after she has seen him," Nora said. "Between Kathie and her I've had a pretty hard morning; I'm doing my very best, but nobody seems to think so." She gave her head a proud toss, but I could see there were tears in her eyes. I didn't know what to say, so I just patted her hand, and then got my hat and went for the doctor. It was a lovely day, and I didn't suppose there was any need for me to hurry back, so I took a walk, and didn't get home for a good while after leaving my message at the doctor's. Before I had time to ring the bell, Nora opened the front door; she looked very much excited, and asked breathlessly, "Did you meet them? Have you seen them?" Of course I didn't understand. "Meet whom? What d'you mean?" I asked in surprise. "The children. Then they are _lost!_" answered Nora, and she sat down on a chair in the hall and burst out crying. Then out came Phil and Felix from the drawing-room, where they had been with Nora, and I heard the whole story. It seems that soon after I left for the doctor's, Judge went down stairs and asked cook for some gingerbread,--"enough for the four of us," he said,--and some time later, when Nora went up to the schoolroom to see what the children were doing, not one of them was there, nor could they be found in the house. Nora flew to tell Felix and Phil, and in the hurried search from garret to cellar which everybody made,--except nurse, she wasn't told anything of it,--it was found that the children's every-day hats were gone. Of course, as soon as I heard that, I remembered the whispering under the schoolroom table, and I felt at once that the children had run away. I just wished I had told Nora about it, or that I had come right back from the doctor's; I might have prevented their going. [Illustration: "NORA TORE IT OPEN."] While I was telling Nora and the boys what I thought about the matter, Hannah came flying into the drawing-room,--she was so excited, she forgot to knock. She held a cocked-hat note in her hand,--Kathie is great on cocked-hat notes and paper lamplighters. "Oh, Miss Nora! it's meself that's just found this on the flure mostly under the big Sarytogy thrunk,--the one that's open," she cried, almost out of breath from her rush down the steps. "Nora" was scrawled in Kathie's handwriting on the outside of the note. In an instant Nora tore it open, but she passed it right over to Phil. "Read it,--I can't," she said in a shaky voice. So he did. The note was very short and the spelling was funny, though we didn't think of that until afterward; this is what was in it: "We are not goging to stay here to be treted like this so we have run away we are goging to Nannie becaws she tretes us good. I have token my new parrasole for the sun goodby we have Jugs bank with us Kathie." Poor Nonie! that just broke her all up! She cried and cried! "I _didn't_ ill-treat them; I was trying to do my _very_ best for them. If I _was_ cross, I didn't mean it,--and they _had_ to be made to mind," she kept saying between her sobs. "And now they've gone off in this dreadful way! Oh, _suppose_ some tramp should get hold of them--or they should be run over or hurt--or--we--should--_never_ see them again! Oh--_oh!_ what shall I say to papa and Nannie!" "Oh, shure, Miss Nora, you don't mane to say the darlints is ralely _lost_!" exclaimed Hannah, and with that _she_ began to bawl; Phil had to send her right down stairs, and warn her against letting nurse know. Then we tried to comfort Nora. "You've done your level best, and nobody can do any more than that," Phil said, drawing Nora to him, and pressing her face down hard on his shoulder, while he patted her cheek. "Cheer up, Nonie, old girl, they are no more lost than I am; you see if we don't walk them home in no time,--young rascals! they ought to be well punished for giving us such a scare." "Yes, we'll probably find them in the park, regaling themselves with the good things that 'Jugs bank' has afforded," remarked Fee, trying to speak cheerfully. "We're going right out to look for them. Come, Jack, get on your hat and go along too; I'm ready." As he spoke, he stuck his hat on and stood up. "Shall we go separately?" I asked, dropping Nora's hand,--I'd been patting it. "Indeed we _will_ go separately," answered Phil, emphatically. "Here, Nora, sit down; and we will have a plan, and stick to it, too," he added, "or we'll all three be sure to think of the same scheme, travel over the same ground, and arrive at the same conclusion. There's been rather an epidemic of that sort of thing in this family lately,--the '_three_ souls with but a single thought, three wills that work as one,' business. Yes, sir, we'll have a plan. Fee, you go to the little parks, and some way down the avenue; Jack, you go up the avenue, and through as many of the cross streets as you can get in; and I'll go east and west, across the _tracks_"--as the word slipped out he gave a quick look at Nora; we knew he was thinking of those dreadful cable cars: but fortunately she didn't seem to have heard. So off we started, after making Nora promise she'd stay at home and wait for us to bring her news. We separated at our corner; but I'd only gone a block or two when I thought of something that sent me flying back to the house. I slipped in the basement way, and up the back stairs to the nursery, where I hunted out an old glove of Kathie's; then down I went to the yard and loosed Major, and he and I started out as fast as we could go. Once or twice in the country, when the children had strayed too far on the beach, by showing Major something they'd worn, and telling him to "Find 'em!" he had led Phil and me right to them. I had remembered this, and now as we walked up the avenue I kept showing Kathie's glove to the dear old doggie, and telling him, "Find Kathie, Major, find her! find her, old boy!" And it did seem as if he understood--Major's an awfully bright dog--by the way he wagged his tail and went with his nose to the ground smelling the pavement. He went pretty straight for nearly a block up the avenue, then he got bothered by the people passing up and down so continually, and he began to whine and run aimlessly about; I could hardly make him go on; and when I took him in the cross streets, he wasn't any good at all. I felt real discouraged. But just as soon as we turned into Twenty-third Street, I could see that he'd struck something; for though he did a lot of zigzagging over the pavement, he went ahead all the time: I tell you, I was right at his tail at every turn. When we came opposite to where Madison Avenue begins, if Major didn't cross over and strike off into the park. Presently he gave a short, quick bark, and tore down a path. I fairly _flew_ after him; up one path and down another we went like mad, until we came to the fountain, and there, in the shade of a big tree, just as cool and unconcerned as you please, were the runaways! Kathie was seated off on one end of the bench, with her new parasol open over her head, putting on all sorts of airs, while she gave orders to Paul and Mädel, who were setting out some forlorn-looking fruit on the other end of the bench; Alan was walking backward and forward dragging his express waggon after him. "Why, it's _Major_!" cried Alan, as the old doggie bounced on him and licked his face. "And _Jack_! hullo!" sang out Paul, turning round and seeing me. "Oh, _lawks_!" exclaimed Mädel,--she'd caught that expression from nurse, who always says it when she's frightened or excited,--and with that she scrambled up on the bench and threw her arms round Kathie's neck with such force that she knocked the parasol out of her hand, and it slipped down over their heads and hid their faces. [Illustration: "AND THERE, JUST AS COOL AND UNCONCERNED AS YOU PLEASE, WERE THE RUNAWAYS."] Of course I was thankful to see them, _very_ thankful; but at the same time I must say I was provoked, too, at the cool way in which they were taking things, when we'd been so frightened about them. "You mean little animals!" I said, giving Paul's shoulder a shake. "There's poor Nonie at home crying her eyes out about you, and here're you all _enjoying_ yourselves! What d'you mean by behaving like this?" Instead of being sorry, if they didn't get saucy right away,--at least the boys did. Judge jerked himself away from me. "If anybody's going to punish us, _I'm not_ coming home," he drawled, planting his feet wide apart on the asphalt pavement, and looking me square in the eye. "Nor me!" chimed in Alan, defiantly. The parasol was lifted a little, and Mädel peeped out. "Will Nora make us go to bed right away?" she asked anxiously; "before we get any dinner?" Up went the parasol altogether, and Kathie slipped to the ground. "Oh, Jack, is everybody awfully mad? and what'll they do to us?" she said, and she looked just ready to begin weeping again. "'Cause if they are, we'd rather stay here; we've got things to eat--" "Yes, we've got lots of things," broke in Alan; "see," pointing to the miserable-looking fruit on the end of the bench, "all that! Judge bought it; we couldn't get the bank open, but the fruitman took it,--he said he didn't mind,--an' let us have all these things for it; wasn't he kind? We're going to have a party." Well, for a few minutes I didn't know what to do,--I mean how to get them to go home without a fuss. I could see that Paul and Alan were just ready for mischief; if they started to run in different directions, I couldn't catch both, and there were those dangerous cable cars not very far away. Suppose the boys should rush across Broadway and get run over! I suppose I could have called a policeman, and got him to take us all home, but I knew that'd make a terrible fuss; Kathie and Mädel would howl,--they're awfully afraid of "p'leecemen," as Alan calls them, and I really don't care very much for them myself. At last I got desperate. "See here, children," I said, "I've been sent to find you if I could, and to bring you home, and I've _got_ to do it, you know. If you'd seen how worried everybody was, and how poor Nonie cried for fear some tramp had got hold of you--" "I just guess not!" broke in Judge, defiantly; but all the same he glanced quickly over his shoulder, and drew a little nearer to me. "--or for fear you'd get hurt, or have no place to sleep in, you'd want to go straight home this minute. You know this park's all very well for the day-time; but when night comes, and it gets dark, what'll you do? The policemen may turn you out, and where will you all go _then_? Nannie is miles and _miles_ away from here by the cars, and how're children like you ever going to get to her without money or anything? And even if it were so you could get to her, what do you suppose Nannie'd say when she found you had all _run away from home_?" I said all this very seriously,--I tell you I felt serious,--and the minute I stopped speaking Mädel slipped from the bench and slid her little hand into mine. "_I'm_ going home," she declared. "Perhaps I will, too, if Nora won't punish us," said Kathie, undecidedly. "I don't know if she'll punish you or not," I said; "but even if she should, isn't that better than staying here all the time, and having no dinner,--cook's made a lovely shortcake for dessert,--and no beds to sleep in, and never coming home at all again?" Kathie caught hold of my hand. "I'm ready," she said; "let's go now." "Coming, boys?" I asked carelessly. "Oh, I s'pose we'll _have_ to," answered Paul, sulkily, kicking the leg of the bench; "and there's my money all gone!" I was wild to get them home, but I had to wait as patiently as I could while the boys piled the horrid old fruit into the express wagon--they wouldn't have left it for anything--and harnessed Major to it with pieces of twine they had in their pockets; then we started. We passed the fruitman that had cheated Judge, and Phil said afterwards that I ought to have stopped and made him give up the bank,--there were nearly two dollars in it, besides the value of the bank itself, and he had given the children about ten or fifteen cents' worth of miserable stuff for it,--but I do hate to fight people, and besides, I was in a hurry to get home, so I didn't notice him at all. We went along in pretty good spirits--Major at the head of the procession--until we got near home; then Kathie asked once or twice, rather nervously, "What do you suppose Nora'll do to us, Jack?" and the boys began to lag behind a little. As we turned off the avenue, into our street, two people came down our stoop--we live near the corner--and came toward us. One of them was an old lady, and I knew at once that I'd seen her before, though I couldn't remember where. She was a little old lady, and she stooped a good deal; her nose was long and hooked, and she had a turn-up chin like in the pictures of Punch that we have at home. Kathie saw the likeness, too, for she pulled my elbow and whispered: "Oh, Jack, doesn't she look like Punch? Perhaps she's his wife." The other woman was stout, and she helped the old lady along,--I think she was a maid. As we got near them, the old lady fumbled for her eyeglasses, put them on, and looked sharply at us. "Yes, yes, looks like his father!" we heard her say; then, "Have we time, Sanders? I should like to speak to them." "Indeed, mum, we haven't time to stop," replied Sanders; "we've barely time to catch the boat." Then they got into the hansom that was standing at the curb, and were driven away. Hannah opened the door, and the yell of joy that she gave when she saw the children brought Nora flying to meet us. I couldn't help noticing how bright and happy Nora looked, very different from when we had left her, an hour or so before; and the way she met the children was also a surprise to me. I knew she'd be glad to see them safe, but I thought surely she would have given them a good scolding, too, or punished them in some way; they deserved it, and I know they expected it. But she met them as sweetly and affectionately as even Nannie could have; she gave them something to eat,--it was long past our lunch hour,--and then she walked them into the study and gave them a tremendous talking to. I don't know whether it was the unexpected way in which she treated them, or the talking to, or what, but they came out of the study looking very subdued, and they certainly behaved better for the rest of the time before we went in the country. And Nora was different, too, for that time; she scarcely nagged, and she was more gentle,--so perhaps their running away taught her a lesson as well. In the mean time--while Nora and the children were in the study--Felix came in, all tired out, and a little while later Phil; and weren't they indignant, though, with those youngsters when they found they were safe and sound! All that afternoon Nora seemed very happy; we could hear her singing as she went up and down stairs and about the house, looking after nurse and the children. It was the same all through dinner-time,--she just bubbled over with fun, and it was the pleasantest meal we'd had since the family broke up. Now Nora isn't often like this,--in fact, very seldom; and to-day we supposed it was because she was so glad the children had been found; as Phil said, 'twas almost worth while losing the youngsters--as long's we'd found them again--to have Nora so bright and pleasant. His ill humour had all disappeared, and he and Nora just kept us laughing with their funny sayings. But Fee was rather quiet; his tramp after the children had tired him, and I guess, too, that he was thinking of the evening, and wondering how he could keep Phil from going off with Chad. After dinner I went out to feed Major; I tell you, we all think him the wisest old doggie in New York! and I gave him the biggest dinner any dog could eat. Just as I was coming through the hall to go on the stoop where Phil and Felix were sitting, Nora ran down the steps and stood at the open front door. "Come in the drawing-room, boys; I have something particular to tell you," she said. "Come right away; better close the front door,--it's a long story." Fee got up slowly, but Phil hesitated. "I wonder if Chad will be round?" he said. "Oh, not to-night," answered Nora, quickly. "Why, didn't you hear him say last evening that he was going out of town for two or three days?" Fee's face lighted up, and he opened his big eyes at me,--I know he was delighted; and it seemed to me that Phil's surprised "No! is _that_ so?" did not sound very sorry. "Oh, hurry in, _do_!" Nora said impatiently. "I've kept the secret all the afternoon,--until we had a chance to talk quietly together,--and now it is just burning my lips to get out. Come, Jack, you, too." XVII. NORA'S SECRET. TOLD BY JACK. Of course that brought us into the drawing-room in double-quick time. Fee threw himself full-length on a lounge; Phil sat on a chair with his face to the back, which he hugged with both arms; I took the next chair,--the biggest in the room; and pulling over the piano stool, Nora seated herself on that, and swung from side to side as she spoke to the different ones. For a minute she just sat and smiled at us without a word, until Phil said: "Well, fire away! We're all ears." "Who do you think has been here to-day?" began Nora. Phil rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, and he and Felix both answered very solemnly, and at the same moment:-- "The Tsar!" "The President!" "_Don't_ be silly!" said Nora, with dignity; then, "I suppose I might as well tell you at once, for you never could guess,--_aunt Lindsay!_" "No!" "Jinks!" "We _saw_ her!" exclaimed Felix, Phil, and I. "Yes," said Nora, swinging herself slowly from side to side, and enjoying our surprise. "And what do you suppose she came for?" Then, interrupting herself, "But there! I'll begin at the very beginning; that will be the best. Well, I had just told Dr. Archard good-bye--by the way, he says nurse will be all right by to-morrow--and come in here for a minute, when the bell rang, and Hannah ushered an old lady into the room. Of course I knew at once that it was aunt Lindsay, though I hadn't seen her for a long time; and I welcomed her as warmly as I could, feeling as I did about the children,--I didn't tell her anything about them, though,--and asked her to take off her things. But she said she could only stay a very short time, and asked to see 'Nancy' and Felix. "She sat in the chair you are in, Jack,"--Nora turned to me,--"and as she's very small, she looked about as lost in it as you do. When I said that Felix was out, and Nannie away in the Adirondacks with papa, she looked _so_ disappointed. 'I knew your father was there,' she said, 'but he did not mention that Nancy was with him. And so Felix is out! H'm, sorry for that. Good children, good children, both of them!'" "Doesn't know you, old man, does she?" put in Phil; and then he and Felix grinned. "Well," continued Nora, "she said she couldn't stay for lunch, but I got her to loosen her bonnet strings and take a cup of tea and some crackers. While she sipped her tea she said: 'I am _en route_ for my usual summer resort, and have come a good deal out of my way to see my godchildren. It is a disappointment not to meet them; but if Nancy is with her sick father, she is doing her duty.' Then she asked about you, Fee; your health particularly. After I had told her that you were as well as usual, and as fond of study as ever, then she told me what she had come on from Boston for. Felix, she knows all about your disappointment in not going to college last fall,--who do you suppose could have told her?--and she says--" Nora stopped and looked at us with a teasing smile. Fee was sitting up, and we were all leaning forward, eager for the rest of the story. "Oh, _go_ on!" cried Fee, quickly. "Yes, out with it!" chimed in Phil. "She says," went on Nora, slowly, lingering over each word, "that you are to prepare yourself for examination to enter Columbia in the fall, and she will see you through the college course. These are her very words: 'Tell Felix that his father has consented that I shall have the great pleasure and happiness of putting him through college. I wanted to do it last fall, but Jack would not listen to it then. Tell the boy that I shall enjoy doing this, and that he will hear from me about the last of August.' Oh, Felix, isn't it _splendid_?" [Illustration: "'HE WILL HEAR FROM ME ABOUT THE LAST OF AUGUST.'"] "Perfectly immense--_immense!_" exclaimed Phil, landing on his feet in great excitement. "Why, it's the _jolliest_, the _very_ best, the _finest_ piece of good news that I could hear--simply _huge!_ _Blessed_ old dame! She's given me _the_ wish of my heart! Hurrah, old chappie! after all we'll be at college together! _Oo-h-ie!_" And he threw his arms right round Felix and just hugged him. Fee's eyes were wide open, and so bright! they shone right through his glasses; he leaned forward and looked anxiously from one to the other of us, his hands opening and shutting nervously on his knees as he spoke. "Are you _sure_ about this?" he asked wistfully; "because I've dreamed this sort of thing sometimes, and--and--the awakening always upsets me for a day or two." "Why, _certainly_ we're sure!" cried Nora. "_Dead sure!_" answered Phil, emphatically; and Nora added reproachfully: "Why, Felix! aren't you glad? I thought you'd be delighted." "_Glad?_" echoed Fee, "_glad?_ why, I'm--" His voice failed, and turning hurriedly from us, he buried his face in the sofa cushions. All this time I hadn't said a word; I really couldn't. You see, ever since I've been a choir boy, I've saved all the money that's been paid me for singing, so's to get enough to send Fee to college. Betty didn't think much of my scheme: she said 'twould take such a long while before I could get even half the amount; but still I kept on saving for it,--I haven't spent a penny of my salary,--and you've no idea how full the bank was, and _heavy!_ I've just hugged the little iron box sometimes, when I thought of what that money would do for Fee; and for a few minutes after I heard Nora's story I was so disappointed that I _couldn't_ congratulate him. Then, all at once, it came over me like a rush how mean I was to want Felix to wait such a long time for me to do this for him, when, through aunt Lindsay's kindness, he could go to college right away. I got awfully ashamed, and going quickly over to Fee's side, I knelt down by him and threw my arm over his shoulder. "Fee," I said,--he still had his face in the cushions,--"I'm _very_, _very_, _very_ glad you are to go to college this fall,--_really_ and _truly_ I am, Fee." I didn't see anything funny about this, but Phil and Nora began to laugh, and, sitting up, Felix said, smiling, "Why, I know you are, Jacqueminot; I never doubted it for a moment. And by and by, when Phil and I are staid old seniors, your turn will come,--we'll see to that." Then, looking round at us, he went on, speaking rapidly, excitedly: "_At last_ it has come, and when I least expected it--when I had given up all hope. I can hardly believe it! _Now_ I shall go in for the hardest sort of hard work, for I've great things to accomplish. Don't think I'm conceited, but I'm going to try for _all_ the honours that a fellow can; and I'll get them, too--I'll get them; I _must!_ I promised--_her_--" He broke off abruptly and turned away, then presently added in a lighter tone: "I must write to my twinnie to-night,--how delighted she will be! Oh, I tell you, you don't any of you know what this is to me!--but there, I _can't_ talk of it. Let's have some fun. What shall we do to celebrate the occasion? Play something lively, Nora; we'll have a _musicale_." He stood up, and as Nora ran to the piano and struck up a waltz, Phil caught Fee round the waist and danced off with him. But before they had turned twice round, Fee was in a chair, holding on to his back, and laughing at Phil's grumbling protest. "I never was much on dancing, you know," he said. "Here, take Rosebud; he'll trip the light fantastic toe with you as long as you like." So Phil finished the waltz with me, but I didn't enjoy it; Phil is so tall, and he grips a person so tight, that half the time my feet were clear off the floor and sticking straight out; and he went so fast that I got dizzy. Well, we had a _jolly_ evening. After the dance, Fee didn't move about very much, but he was just as funny and bright as he could be; Nora was nicer, too, than I've ever known her; and as for Phil, he was perfectly wild with good spirits. He danced,--alone when he couldn't get anybody for a partner,--and sang, and talked, and joked, and kept us in a roar of laughter until bedtime. "Well," said Nora, as we stood together by the drawing-room door for a few minutes before going upstairs, "I thought this morning that this was going to be a black day,--one of the days when everything goes wrong,--and yet see how pleasantly it has ended." "It has been a great day for me," said Fee, slowly. "I don't mind telling you people, now, that that disappointment in the fall took the heart and interest all out of my studies; but now"--he straightened himself up, and his voice rang out--"_now_ I have hope again, and courage, and you'll see what I can do. Thanks don't express my feelings; I'm more than thankful to aunt Lindsay!" "So 'm I," I piped up, and I meant that; I was beginning to feel better about it. "Thankful, more thankful, most thankful," Phil said, pointing his finger at Nora, then at me, then at Felix; "and here am I, the 'thankfullest' of all." There was a break in his voice that surprised us; and to cover it up, he began some more of his nonsense. "High time for us--the _pater's_ little infants--to be a-bed," he said, laughing. "Come, Mr. Boffin, make your adieux and prepare to leave "'The gay, the gay and festive scene; The halls, the halls of dazzling light.'" And suddenly, catching Fee in his arms, he ran lightly up the stairs with him, calling back to us: "'Good-night, ladies! good-night, ladies! good-night, ladies! I'm going to leave you now!'" XVIII. EXPERIENCES AT ENDICOTT BEACH. TOLD BY BETTY. Nora insisted that it was "exceedingly kind" of the Ervengs, and "a compliment" to me, and all that sort of thing, to invite me to spend a month with them at their country place. Well, perhaps she was right: Nora is _always_ right,--in her own estimation; all the same, I didn't want to go one step, and I am afraid I was rather disagreeable about it. You see I had been looking forward to going to the Cottage with the others; and having to start off for an entirely different place at only a few hours' notice quite upset me. At the Cottage, Nannie takes charge while Miss Marston is away for her holidays, and she lets us amuse ourselves in our own way, as long as we are punctual at meals,--papa insists on that,--and don't get into mischief. One can wear one's oldest clothes, and just _live_ out of doors; what with driving old Pegasus, and riding G. W. L. Spry, and boating, fishing, crabbing, wading, and playing in the sand, we do have the jolliest times! Now, instead of all this fun and freedom, I was to be packed off to visit people that I didn't know very well, and didn't care a jot about. Of course I knew Hilliard _pretty_ well,--he's been at the house often enough! I didn't mind him much, though he is provokingly slow, and so--well, _queer_, for I could speak my mind right out to him if I felt like it; but it seemed to me that Mr. Erveng must always remember that silly escapade of mine whenever he looked at me, and I was sure that Mrs. Erveng regarded me as a rough, overgrown tomboy. Somehow, when I am with her I feel dreadfully awkward,--all hands, and feet, and voice; though these things don't trouble me in the least with any one else. I did wish that she had invited Nora to visit her instead of me. When I saw my old blue flannel laid with the things to go to the Cottage, and only my best gowns put into the trunk I was to take to the Ervengs', it suddenly rushed over me that I would have to be on my company manners for a whole month! and I got so mad that it would have been a relief to just _roar_,--the way Kathie does. Nannie was away, and the others didn't seem to understand how I felt; in fact, Nora aggravated me by scolding, and saying I ought to feel highly delighted, when I knew that deep down in her heart she was only too thankful that _she_ hadn't been asked. Jack was the only person that sympathised with me,--dear old Jackie-boy! I'm beginning to think that there is a good deal to Jack, for all he's so girlie. [Illustration: "IN THE DRAWING-ROOM CAR."] The Ervengs called for me the morning after papa and Nannie had gone to the mountains,--right after breakfast,--and I can assure you it was dreadfully hard to keep back the tears when I was telling the family good-bye; and when I was seated in the carriage, right under Mr. and Mrs. Erveng's eyes, I got the most insane desire to scream out loud, or burst the door open and jump out: I had to sit up very straight and set my lips tight together, to keep from doing it. That feeling wore off, though, by the time we got settled in the drawing-room car, and I was three seats from Mrs. Erveng,--I managed that,--with Mr. Erveng and Hilliard between us. It was a marvel to me the way those two waited on Mrs. Erveng; in watching them do it I forgot about myself. Her chair must be at just such an angle, her footstool in just such a position, and the cushions at her back just so many, and most carefully arranged; and if she stirred, they were all attention immediately. And they were like that the whole month that I was at Endicott Beach, though it seemed to me sometimes that she was very exacting. Now with us, though we love one another dearly, and, as Phil says, would go through fire and water for one another if need be, particularly if any one were ill, still we're not willing to be imposed on _all_ the time, and we do keep the different ones up to the mark, and stand up for our individual rights,--we've _got_ to where there are so many. But the Ervengs aren't in the least like us; and I think that, in some ways, Hilliard is the very oddest boy I've _ever_ known. To begin with, he is so literal,--away ahead of Nora; he took so many things seriously that I said in joke that at first I didn't know what to make of him. I used to get _so_ provoked! He doesn't understand the sort of "chaffing" that we do so much at home, and he is slow to get an idea; but once it's fixed in his mind, you needn't think he's going to change,--it's there for the rest of his natural life. He could no more change his opinion about things as I do than he could fly. Perhaps he thinks I'm frivolous and "uncouth,"--as Nora sometimes says I am. Well, let him; who cares? _I_ think _he_ is a regular old poke, though he is better than I thought at first; but you'll hear all about it. Of course Hilliard was polite, and all that, when he came to our house, but I didn't always see him; in fact, I used to keep out of the way on purpose, many a time: so I didn't really know what sort of a boy he was until I went to stay at the beach. Well, as soon as Mrs. Erveng was comfortably settled, Hilliard came over to me with a big soft cushion in his hand. "May I put this at your back?" he asked. "It's a tiresome journey to Boston, and we've got quite a ride after that to reach Endicott Beach; so let me make you as comfortable as possible." Now if he had come up and simply put the cushion on the back of my chair, the way Phil, or Felix, or Jack would have done, I wouldn't have minded at all,--I like cushions; but to stand there holding it, waiting for me to give him permission, struck me as being very silly. I knew he expected me to say yes, and instead of that I found myself saying, "No, I thank you,"--I could hear that my tone was snippy,--"I can get on very comfortably without a cushion." Our boys, or Max, or even Murray Unsworth would have said, "Oh, come now, Betty!" and just slipped the cushion behind me, and I'd have enjoyed it, and made no more fuss. But not so this individual. He looked helplessly at me for a minute, then laid the cushion down on his mother's travelling satchel; and there it reclined until we reached Boston. 'Twas the same way with getting me things to eat. With all the excitement that morning, I had very little appetite for breakfast, so by lunch time I was _very_ hungry; and when Mrs. Erveng opened her box of sandwiches, I felt as if I could have eaten every one in it,--but of course I didn't. They were delicious; but, oh, so small and thin! Mr. Erveng did not take any,--he never takes a mid-day meal. Mrs. Erveng ate two, trifling with the second one as if tired of it. I ate three,--when a _dozen_ would not have been too many! Hilliard disposed of four, and then went out to get his mother a cup of tea,--I suspect he had something more to eat in the restaurant. He asked, in a tone as if he meant it, "Mayn't I bring you a cup of tea?" But I despise tea, so I answered, "No, I thank you," for the second time. Mr. and Mrs. Erveng were talking to an acquaintance who had come up, and actually Hilliard hadn't the sense to offer me anything else, and I _couldn't_ ask. Having sisters is certainly a great thing for a boy, as I've told Jack scores of times; why, for all that he is so shy, Jack could have taken twice as good care of a girl as Hilliard did of me, just because he has had me to train him. Presently Mrs. Erveng passed the lunch box over to me. "_Do_ take another sandwich, Betty," she said kindly, "and some cake." But by this time no one else in the car was eating, and I didn't want to be the only person,--I hate to have people stare at me while I'm eating,--so I refused. The open box remained by me for some time,--'twas all I could do to keep from putting out my hand for a sandwich; then the porter came by, and Mr. Erveng handed it to him to take away. Hilliard talked to me as we flew along, in his deliberate, grown-up way, but pleasantly; if I had not been so hungry and homesick, I might have been interested. But by and by the hunger wore off, and by the time we reached Endicott Beach I had a raving headache; but I said nothing about it until after dinner, for Mrs. Erveng was so tired out that she had to be looked after and got to bed the very first thing, and that made a little fuss, though her maid Dillon, who had come on the day before, was there to assist her. The house is very prettily furnished and arranged,--almost as prettily but more simply than Mrs. Erveng's rooms in New York. After dinner Hilliard showed me a little of the place, which is _very_ pretty, and quite unlike anywhere else that I have been. There's a queer scraggly old garden at the back of the house, and in front a splendid view of the beach, with the ocean rolling up great booming waves. Before very long I got to like Endicott Beach very much; but this first afternoon, though the sunset was most gorgeous, I felt so miserable that I could take interest in nothing. Oh, how I longed for home! Presently Hilliard said, "I'm afraid you are dreadfully tired,--you look so pale. I should have waited until to-morrow to show you the place; I have been inconsiderate--" "I have a headache," I broke in shortly; then all at once my lips began to tremble. "I wish I were at home!" I found myself exclaiming; and then the tears came pouring down my face. "Oh, I am so sorry! so _very_ sorry! What can I do for you?" began Hilliard. "Oh! mayn't I--" I was so mortified that I got very mad; I hate to cry, any way, and above all before this stiff wooden boy! I threw my hands over my face, and turning my back on him, started for the house, walking as fast as I could, stumbling sometimes on the uneven beach. But Hilliard followed close behind me. "I'm _so_ sorry!" he repeated. "Why didn't you let me know sooner? May I--" I got so provoked that I wheeled round suddenly on him,--I think I startled him. "Oh, _do_ stop _asking_ people if you 'may' or 'mayn't do things for them,"--I'm afraid that here I mimicked his tone of voice. "_Do_ the things first, and then ask,--if you must. I declare, you don't know the very first thing about taking care of a girl; why, our Paul could do better." Hilliard stood stock still and stared at me; his sleepy eyes were wide open, and there was such a bewildered expression on his face that it just set me off laughing, in spite of the tears on my cheeks, and my headache. "I am exceedingly sorry if I have neglected--" he began stiffly; but before he could say any more I turned and fled. I fancied I heard his footsteps behind me, and I fairly flew along the beach, into the house, and up to my room, where I began undressing as quickly as I could. But before I was ready for bed, Mrs. Erveng's maid brought a message from her mistress. She was so sorry to hear that I was not well; was there nothing that she could do for me? "Please say that I am going to bed; that will cure my headache quicker than anything else," I called through the keyhole, instead of opening the door. I had a feeling that the Ervengs would think me a crank; but I had got to that pitch that afternoon where I didn't care what anybody thought of me. Then Dillon went away, and I got into bed. But I couldn't sleep for ever so long: you see the sun had not yet set, and I'm not used to going to sleep in broad daylight; besides, I was very unhappy. As I lay there looking at the brilliant colours of the sky, I thought over what I had said to Hilliard, and the oftener I went over it, the more uncomfortable I got; for I began to see that I'd been very rude--to insult the people I was visiting! I wondered if Hilliard had told his mother what I said; and what she thought of me? Would she send me home? I had declared to Nora that I would behave so badly as to be sent home before the visit was over, but I had not really meant it. I got all worked up over the horrid affair, and if I had had then enough money to pay my expenses to New York, I really think I should have been tempted to climb out of the window, or make my escape in some way or other,--I dreaded so having to face the Ervengs in the morning. After a long while I fell asleep, and dreamed that Mr. and Mrs. Erveng were holding me fast, while Hilliard stuffed sandwiches down my throat. But by the next morning my headache was gone, and the sunshine and beautiful view from my window made me feel a new person, though I still dreaded meeting the Ervengs. Usually I dress quickly, but this morning I just dawdled, to put off the evil moment as long as possible. It seemed so strange not to have Nannie, or Miss Marston, or Nora, or any one to tell me what to say or do; I really felt lost without dear old Nannie. I would have been delighted to see her that morning,--we have such nice talks at home while we are dressing! Before I left home, Nora said particularly, "Now, Betty, _do_ remember that your ginghams are for the mornings and your thinner gowns for the afternoons. Don't put on the first frock that comes to your hand, regardless of whether it is flannel, gingham, or _organdi_. You know you haven't a great many clothes, so _please_, I beg of you, for the reputation of the family, take care of them, or you will not have a decent thing to wear two weeks after you get to the Ervengs'." I was provoked at her for saying this, but I could not resent it very much, for--though I love pretty things as well as anybody does--somehow accidents _are_ always happening to my clothes. Nurse says it's because I am too heedless to think about what I have on, and perhaps it is: yet, when I remember, and try to be careful, I'm simply _miserable_; and it does seem too silly to make one's self uncomfortable for clothes,--so I generally forget. But this morning I looked carefully over the ginghams that Dillon had unpacked and hung in the closet in my room, and finally, taking down the one I considered the prettiest, I put it on; I wished afterward that I had chosen the plainest and ugliest. As I said, I was taking as much time as possible over my dressing, when I happened to think that breakfast might be ready, and the Ervengs waiting for me,--papa says "to be late at meals, particularly when visiting, is _extremely_ ill-bred;" then I rushed through the rest of my toilet, and raced down the stairs, not thinking of Mrs. Erveng's headache until I reached the foot of the steps. I was relieved to find no one in the parlour, or in the room across the hall, where the table was set for breakfast. But as I stepped out on the broad front piazza, Hilliard rose from the hammock in which he had been lying, and came forward with such a pleasant "Good-morning!" that I felt surprised and ashamed. "How is your head?" he asked, adding, "It must be better, I fancy,--you look so much brighter than you did yesterday." I could feel my face getting warm; I hate to apologise to people, but I knew that I ought to do it here. "That headache made me cross, and I was homesick," I answered, speaking as fast as I could to get it all over with quickly. "I am sorry I spoke so rudely--" But Hilliard broke in quickly,--for him. "Don't say that; please don't ever speak of it again," he said earnestly. "It's for _me_ to apologise; I must have deserved what you said, or I know you would not have said it." [Illustration: "BETTY."] Well, I _was_ taken aback! that was a new view of the case. At first I thought he might be in sarcasm; but no, he was in earnest, saying the words in his slow, deliberate way, with his eyes half shut. I couldn't help wishing that the family had been there to hear; but I decided that I would certainly tell them of it,--you see I don't often get such a compliment. I would like to have made a polite speech to him, but what was there to say?--it still remained that he _hadn't_ taken good care of me. And while this thought was going through my brain, I heard myself say, "Did you tell your mother what I said to you?" Now I had no more idea of asking Hilliard that--though I did want to know--than I had of flying; my mouth opened, and the words just came out without the least volition on my part,--in fact, I was perfectly astonished to hear them. More than once this has happened at home; Phil teases me about it, and Fee calls me Mrs. Malaprop, because--that's the trouble--these speeches are almost always just the things I shouldn't have said. I'm sure I don't know what I am to do to prevent it. My face actually burnt,--it must have been as red as a beet. "I didn't mean to ask you that," I blurted out. While I was speaking, Hilliard was saying, "Why, certainly not; I simply mentioned that you had a headache," in such a surprised voice that I felt more uncomfortable than ever: but wasn't it nice of him not to tell? I just rushed into talk about the scenery as fast as I could go. From where we stood we could see the wild, rugged coast for miles,--the huge, bare brown rocks standing like so many grim sentinels guarding the spaces of shining white sand, which here and there sloped gently to the water's edge; the sea gulls resting, tiny white specks, against the dark rocks, or circling in flocks above them; the dark blue ocean, dotted with steamers and sailing-vessels and sparkling and dancing in the morning light, rolling up great white-crested waves that dashed on the rocks and threw up a cloud of foaming spray, and broke on the beach with a dull booming noise; and over all was the warm, glorious summer sunshine. As I looked and looked, all the disagreeableness slipped away, and it was _splendid_ just to be alive. I thought of Felix, and how much he would enjoy all this beauty. We all think so much of the scenery at the Cottage, and really it is nothing compared with this. There the beach is smooth and nice, but it hasn't a rock on it; and the water--it's the Sound, you know--just creeps up on it with a soft lapping sound very different to the roar and magnificence of the ocean. I was so surprised and delighted that first morning that I spoke out warmly. "Oh!" I cried, "isn't it _beautiful_! oh, it is grand! fascinating!--I could watch those waves all day!" Hilliard's face lighted up. "I thought you would like it," he said. "You should see it in a storm,--it is magnificent! but it is terrible, too,"--he gave a little shudder. "I love the ocean, but I am afraid of it; it is treacherous." "Afraid!" I looked at him in surprise,--the idea of a big strong boy as he is being _afraid_ of the water! I opened my mouth to exclaim, "Well, _I'm_ not afraid!" then remembered my unlucky remark of a few minutes before and said instead, and in a much milder tone, "After breakfast I'm going to explore those rocks, and get as near to the ocean as I can--" "Don't attempt to do any climbing alone," broke in Hilliard, more positively than he usually speaks; "the rocks are very slippery, and you know nothing about the tides. People have been caught on those rocks and cut off--drowned--by the incoming tide, before they could reach the shore, or be rescued. I shall be very glad to go with you whenever--" "Good-morning!" Mr. Erveng said, appearing in the doorway behind us; "will you young people come in and have some breakfast?" Breakfast was served in a room that looked out on the garden; and everything was very nice, though quite different from our breakfasts at home. Mrs. Erveng was not down,--I found afterward that she always took her breakfast in her own room,--and Hilliard sat in his mother's place and poured the tea. I was thankful that Mr. Erveng hadn't asked me to do it; but it did look so _queer_ to see a boy doing such a thing,--so like a "Miss Nancy," as Phil would say. Mr. Erveng and Hilliard talked a good deal about things that were going on in the world, and about books, and places they had been to. I was perfectly surprised at the way Mr. Erveng asked Hilliard's opinion, and listened to his remarks,--I couldn't imagine papa's doing such a thing with any of us, not even with Felix; and when I said anything, they both acted as if it were really worth listening to,--which is another thing that never happens in our family! And yet, on the other hand, Mr. Erveng goes off to Boston in the mornings without even saying good-bye to Mrs. Erveng or Hilliard,--they never know by what train he is coming home; and in the whole month I visited them I never once saw Hilliard and his mother kiss each other. Now at home papa always tells some one of us when he is going out, and about when he will return; and if we children go anywhere, the whole family is sure to know of it; and quite often we kiss one another good-bye, and always at night. Nora often tells us that it isn't "good form" to do this; and sometimes, when she's in an airish mood, she calls us "a pack of kissers,"--as if that were something dreadful. Still, all the same, I'm _glad_ that we're that sort of a family; and I am more than ever glad since I've been staying with the Ervengs. Hilliard and I were just starting for the beach that morning, when Dillon came out on the piazza with a message. "Mr. Hilliard," she said, "your mother would like to speak to you." So off he went with, "Excuse me; I'll be back in a few minutes," to me. But instead, presently back came Dillon with another message: "Mrs. Erveng asks, Will you please to excuse Mr. Hilliard; she would like him to do something for her for a while." So off I went for my walk, alone. I strolled down to the beach and sat in the shade of a big rock and looked at the waves,--watching them coming in and going out, and making up all sorts of thoughts about them. But after a while I got tired of that, and began wondering what they were all doing at home without Nannie, or Miss Marston, or papa; and then I felt so lonely and homesick that I just _had_ to get up and walk about. And then I got into trouble,--I don't know another girl that gets into scrapes as I do! There were lots of little coves about the beach,--the water in them was just as clear as crystal; and as I stepped from rock to rock, bending down to look into the depths, what should I do but slip,--the rocks _are_ slippery,--and land in the middle of a cove, up to my waist in water! There was nothing to do but to scramble out,--the rocks ran too far out into the ocean to think of walking round them,--and I can assure you it was no easy thing to accomplish with my wet skirts clinging to me. I scratched my hands, and scraped my shoes, and got my sleeves and the whole front of my nice gingham stained with the green slimy moss that covered the rocks. But at last I got out; then came the walk up the beach to the house,--there was no other way of getting there,--and you may imagine my feelings when, half-way up, I discovered that Mrs. Erveng was seated on the piazza in her invalid's chair. I saw her put her _lorgnette_ to her eyes; I imagined I heard her say to Hilliard, who was arranging a cushion back of her head, "Who _is_ that extraordinary looking creature coming up the beach?" and I _longed_ to just burrow in the sand and get out of her sight. Hilliard came running to meet me. "You've fallen into the water--you are wet! I hope you're not hurt?" he exclaimed, as he reached me. It was on the tip of my tongue to answer sharply, "I _have_ fallen into the water; did you expect me to be dry?" It was such a _silly_ speech of his! But I was afraid of Mrs. Erveng, so I just said carelessly,--as if I were in the habit of tumbling into the ocean with all my clothes on every day in the week,--"Oh, I just slipped off one of the rocks; I got my feet wet." And there I was, mind you, wet almost to my waist, and such a figure! Any one of our boys--even Jack, and he is pretty dense sometimes--would have seen the joke, and we'd have had a hearty laugh, anyway, out of the situation; but not a smile appeared on Hilliard's face. Either he didn't see the fun at all, or else he was too deadly polite to laugh. If he had even said roughly, "Didn't I _tell_ you not to go there!" I wouldn't have minded it as much as his "How unfortunate!" and his helpless look. I was afraid to say anything for fear I'd be rude again, so we walked up to the piazza in solemn silence. "Good morning!" Mrs. Erveng said pleasantly, as I laboured up the steps. "An accident? I am so glad you are not hurt! Hilliard should have warned you about those slippery rocks--oh, he did--I see. Dillon will help you change your things; ring for her, Hilliard. Too bad, Betty, to spoil that pretty frock." Well, I changed my wet clothes, and for the rest of that day I was as meek as a lamb. I sat down, and got up, and answered, and talked to the Ervengs as nearly in Nora's manner as I could imitate. Perhaps they liked it, but I didn't; I was having the pokiest kind of a time, and I was so homesick that I cried myself to sleep again that night. Mind you, I wouldn't have our boys and Nora know this for a kingdom! The next few days were more agreeable; the people from the other cottages on the beach came to call on Mrs. Erveng, and while she was entertaining them, Hilliard and I went for walks or sat on the sands. As I've told you before, he isn't at all a wonderful sort of boy,--except for queerness,--and he always _will_ be a poke; but sometimes he's rather nice, and he is certainly polite. He knows the beach well,--he ought to, he's been here nearly every summer of his life, and he is eighteen years old,--and he showed me everything there was to see. There were no more accidents under his guidance; and no wonder,--he is caution itself. There was only one part of the beach that he did not take me, and that was where a tall pointed rock stood, that was separated from the others by a rather wide strip of sand. I thought it looked interesting; I could see what looked in the distance like the arched entrance to a cave in the side of the rock. I would like to have gone to look at it, but every time I proposed it, Hilliard turned the conversation. "Some day we'll investigate it," he said at last; "but don't ever go over there alone,--it is a dangerous place." According to him, the whole beach was dangerous; so I made up my mind that I would "investigate" for myself at the first opportunity that offered. While we rested on the sands, Hilliard would read aloud to me,--he likes to read aloud. Neither Phil nor I care as much for books as do the others in the family; but to be polite, I did not tell Hilliard that I am not fond of being read to; to me it always seems so slow. At first I used to look at the ocean and make up thoughts about it, so that I hardly heard any of what he was reading; but after a while I began to listen, and then, really, I got quite interested. We were sitting in the shade of the rocks one very warm afternoon,--Hilliard was reading aloud,--when there came a sudden peal of thunder, and presently a flash of lightning. "Oh, we're going to have a storm!" I exclaimed. "I am so glad! now I can see the ocean in a storm,--you said it was magnificent then. Why, what are you doing?" "We must get in the house as quickly as possible." Hilliard rose to his feet as he spoke, and began hastily gathering up the books and cushions, and the big sun umbrella. "But the rain hasn't come yet, and I _do_ want to watch the water,--see, it's beginning to get white-caps," I said. "We can reach the house in a few minutes." As I spoke there was another flash of lightning and a long roll of thunder, but neither was severe. To my great astonishment Hilliard shrank back against the rock, and shielded his face with the cushion he held in his hand; I could see that he was very pale. "Oh, come, _come_!" he begged; "oh, let us get to the house at once!" "What!" I flashed out scornfully, "are you _afraid_ of a thunder storm?" He didn't answer; he just stood there flattening himself against the rock, his face deadly white, his eyes almost closed, and his lips set tight together. I got _so_ angry! I _despise_ a coward! Had Jack done that, I thought to myself, I'd have been tempted to thrash him to put some spirit and pluck into him; and here was this great big overgrown boy--! "Why don't you run away to the house?" I broke out sharply. "I can take care of myself; _I'm_ not afraid of a little thunder." He put up his hand in a deprecating way, as if asking me to hush. Then, as a nearer peal reverberated among the rocks, and another flash lighted up the now leaden-coloured sky, he sprang forward and caught hold of my arm, with a sharp cry of "_Come! come!_" Wheeling me round suddenly, he ran toward the house, carrying me along with him with such force and swiftness--though I resisted--that in a few minutes we were on the piazza, and then in the hall, with the heavy outer door swung shut. We were barely under cover when the rain pelted down, and the thunder and lightning grew more loud and vivid. Hilliard leaned breathlessly against the hat-rack table,--I could see that he was trembling. I stood and looked at him,--I suppose it was rude, but I couldn't help it; you see I had never met such a kind of boy before. Mrs. Erveng had spent part of the day on the beach, and had come to the house about an hour before to take her afternoon nap. Now we heard her voice from the floor above us. "Hilliard! Hilliard, my son!" she called; there was something in her voice--a sort of tenderness--that I had never noticed before. "Come here to me; come!" And he went, without a glance at me, lifting his feet heavily from step to step, with drooping head and a shamed, miserable expression on his pale face. In about an hour's time the storm was all over, and that afternoon we had a gorgeous sunset; but Mr. Erveng and I were the only ones who sat on the piazza to enjoy it. Neither Mrs. Erveng nor Hilliard appeared again that day. Mr. Erveng took me for a walk along the beach, and did his best to entertain me: but I had a feeling that I was in the way--that he would rather have been upstairs with his wife and son, or that perhaps if I had not been there they would have come down. I thought of them all at home,--Phil and Fee with their fun and merry speeches, and Jack, and the little ones, and Nora; there is always something or other going on, and I would have given almost anything to be back once more among them. I was so unhappy this afternoon that I actually deliberated whether I had the courage to do something desperate,--make faces at Mr. Erveng, or race upstairs and interview Mrs. Erveng, or call Hilliard names out loud,--_anything_, so that they would send me home. But after a while I concluded I wouldn't try any of these desperate remedies; not that I minded what they'd say at home (teasing, I mean), but papa would want to know the whole affair,--he has got to think a good deal of Mr. Erveng,--and besides, somehow, though she's so gentle and refined, Mrs. Erveng isn't at all the sort of person that one could do those things to. So I said nothing, though I thought a great deal; and I went to bed before nine o'clock thoroughly disgusted with the Ervengs. Hilliard was at breakfast the next morning, just as stiff and prim and proper as ever,--it almost seemed as if what had happened in the storm must be a dream. But later on, when we were on the piazza, he spoke of it to me. "I feel that I should explain to you that I have a nervous dread of a thunder storm," he said, in that proper, grown-up way in which he speaks, but getting very red. "It completely upsets me at the time; I am afraid you think me a coward--" He broke off abruptly. "If it is nervousness, why don't you do something for it?--go to a physician and get cured?" I answered shortly; it seemed to me so silly--"so girlie," as Jack says--to try to turn his behaviour off on _nervousness_. "I _am_ under a physician's care," he said eagerly; "and he says if I could only once--" But just then the carriage that had taken Mr. Erveng to the train drove up to the door, and with an exclamation of pleasure Hilliard started forward to meet the lady and young girl who were getting out of it. They were Mrs. Endicott and her daughter Alice, relatives of the Ervengs, and they had come to stay with them while some repairs were being made to their own house, which was farther along the beach. It was _such_ a relief to see a girl again; and she turned out to be just as nice as she could be. She and Hilliard are cousins, but she isn't at all like him in any way. In the first place, she is splendid looking,--tall and strong, and the picture of health, with the most beautiful colour in her cheeks; and she is so jolly and full of fun that we got on famously together. Alice is a little over sixteen,--just one year older than I am,--and she has travelled almost everywhere with her parents (she's the only child, you see), all over America and in Europe. But she doesn't put on any airs about it; in fact, instead of talking of her travels, as I would ask her to do, she'd beg, actually coax me to tell her about my brothers and sisters, and the times we have at home,--it seems Hilliard has written her about us. She said she had never known such a large family, and she wanted me to describe each one, from Phil down to Alan. On warm mornings we would sit on the beach in the shade of the rocks, and when Hilliard wasn't reading to us, somehow the conversation always got round to the family. Hilliard thinks a good deal of our boys, and he talked to Alice about them; he told her of our entertainment on Nora's birthday, and our "performances," and she seemed to enjoy hearing of it all. She asked questions, too, and said she felt as if she really knew us all. Mrs. Endicott was almost as nice as Alice, and so _kind_! Why, almost every day she got up some amusement for us,--driving, or walking, or a picnic, or something. I really began to enjoy myself very much,--only that I didn't hear often enough from home. Nora's notes were very short,--just scraps; she said she was too busy to write more; and Jack never has shone as a letter writer. He'd say, "Nora had a circus with the 'kids' to-day,--will tell you about it when you come home;" or, "Something splendid has happened for Fee,--you shall have full particulars when you get back," and other things like that. Provoking boy! when I was longing to hear everything. After the Endicotts came, I enjoyed myself so well that the time flew by, and almost before I knew it the last day but one of my visit at the beach had come. That afternoon, instead of going with Mrs. Endicott, Alice, and Hilliard, to see how the repairs were getting on at their cottage, I decided to remain at home. Thinking it over afterward, I could not have explained why I did not care to go; I didn't even remember the excuse I made. It could not have been the heat,--though it was extremely warm,--for a little while after they had gone I dressed for dinner, and started for a stroll along the beach. [Illustration: "ON WARM MORNINGS WE WOULD SIT ON THE BEACH."] I walked slowly on and on, enjoying the beauty of the scenery, until I suddenly discovered that I was directly opposite the large rock which Hilliard and I were to have "investigated" some day, but to which he had never taken me. I knew we could not do it the next day, for Mr. Endicott had invited us to spend it on his steam yacht, and the day after that I was to leave for home; so I made up my mind that that afternoon was my opportunity. Carefully gathering up my skirts,--I had on my best white gown,--I picked my way over the rocks and stepped down on the wide strip of sand which divided this rock from the others. I noticed that the beach sloped downward to the rock; but in my heedlessness I did not notice that the sand was slightly damp. On reaching the rock, I found that what had looked at a distance like an arched entrance to a cave was really some irregular steps cut out of its surface, and which led to a narrow shelf, or ledge, a little more than half-way up the tall, solid-looking mass of stone. I knew that the view from that height must be fine, and I _love_ to climb; so I determined to get up to that ledge. It was not very easy,--the steps were slippery and rather far apart, and then, too, my dress bothered me, I was so afraid I would soil or tear it,--so I was a little tired and warm by the time I reached the top. But the view from there was _beautiful!_ One had a clear sweep of the beach, except that smaller portion which lay behind the big rock. The shelf on which I sat, with my feet resting on the step below, was a little rounded, something of a horseshoe shape, and with the rock to lean back against I was quite comfortable. I wondered again and again why Hilliard had avoided showing me this place, and enjoyed every detail of the view to my heart's content,--the grand, rugged outline of the beach, the exquisite colours of the sky and water, and the crafts that went sailing and purring past. I wondered where they were all going, and made up destinations for them. Then I began counting them, so as to tell Alice at dinner; I got up to twenty-eight, and then--I must have fallen asleep. How long I slept I don't know, but I woke with a great start, conscious of some loud, unusual noise, and that something cool had fallen on my face; and for a moment what I saw turned my heart sick with terror. Everything was changed since last I had looked at it. The sky, so blue and clear then, was now covered with heavy black clouds, across which shot vivid flashes of lightning, and there were deep, fierce growls of thunder. The shining sands that I had crossed so easily but a while before had disappeared; the ocean, which had then been so far away, now covered them, and was on a level with the step on which my feet rested. The blueness of the water had gone,--it was lead-coloured, to match the sky,--and great angry, white-crested, curling waves came rolling in, tumbling over and over each other in a mad race to dash themselves against the rock on which I sat, throwing up each time a heavy shower of white, foamy spray. It was the touch of this spray on my face that had wakened me; and to my horror, the water was dancing and gurgling at my very feet! In a flash I realised that I was in great danger,--entirely cut off from the land, and on a rock that was under water at high tide! "Oh, it can't be! it _can't_ be!" I cried aloud, standing up and looking wildly around; and as I did so, a big wave broke over my feet. With a scream I scrambled back on the ledge, and stood there, clinging to the jagged points of the rock, while I called for help at the top of my voice. I shouted, and shrieked, and yelled, until I was hoarse, and the cries were driven back into my throat by the wind; but all that answered me was the roar of the storm and the screams of the sea gulls as they flew by. As the wind lulled for a minute or two, I managed to drag off the skirt of my gown and wave it, hoping to attract the attention of some passing vessel,--a long range of rocks cut off any view of the cottages on the beach,--but the next wild gust tore it out of my grasp. The water kept rising,--it was bubbling and foaming over my ankles; the waves were lashing themselves higher and higher, the rain coming down in sheets, the wind howling and raging,--I was afraid it would blow me off the ledge! and never in all my life have I heard or seen such thunder and lightning! At first I was all confused,--I was so startled that I could think of nothing but that I was going to be drowned; but after a while I quieted down, and then I remembered that I could swim. Many a swimming match had Jack and I had at the Cottage,--I should have said that I was a very good swimmer; but that was in still water, not in this terrible, cruel ocean. I made up my mind to throw myself off the ledge and strike out for the shore,--three times I thought I would, and each time shrank back and clung the closer to the rock. At last I had to admit to myself that I was _afraid!_ I, Betty Rose, who had always boasted that I was not afraid of anything, had to own to myself that I had not the courage to even attempt to struggle with those waves! My courage seemed all gone. I was afraid--_deadly_ afraid--of the waves; I screamed as each one struck me higher and higher, and I hid my face from the lightning. Oh, it was awful! _awful!_ By and by I began to think; I still felt the rain and waves, and shrunk from the lightning, but not as I had at first, for I was thinking thoughts that had never come to me before in all my life. I could see right before me the faces of papa, and my dear brothers and sisters,--oh, how I loved them! and I should never be with them again! How they would miss me! and yet how many, _many_ times had I been disagreeable, and commanding, and unkind! I loved them, but I had spoken sharply, and teased, and grumbled when I had had little services to do for them; now there would be no more opportunities. I wished that I had done differently! Then my thoughts flew off to Mrs. Erveng,--how surly and disagreeable I had behaved to her! Not once had I offered her the slightest attention; instead, I had got out of her way at every chance. I had called this being very sincere, honest, above deceit; but it did not seem like that to me now. And there was Hilliard,--I had laughed at him, been rude to him, despised him for being a coward, I was _so_ sure of my own courage; and what was I _now?_ I was ashamed--_ashamed!_ Oh, how my heart ached! Then I began saying my prayers. The water was up to my waist now; it came with such force that it swayed me from side to side, and beat me against the rock to which I still clung. My fingers were cramped by my tight grip; the next wave, or perhaps the next to that, would sweep me off--away--to death! I prayed from my very heart, with all my strength and soul, and it seemed as if the other things--the waves, the storm, the terrible death--grew fainter; a feeling came to me that I was speaking right into God's ear--that He was very near to me. Somewhere out of the roar and awfulness of the storm came a human voice,--a cry: "_Betty! Betty! hold on! hold on! I can save you--only hold on!_" And when I opened my eyes, there was a boat coming nearer and nearer, dancing on the top of the waves like a cockle shell, and in it was Hilliard! "I can't--come--too--close," he shouted. "Jump--with--the--next--wave." I understood; and with the next receding wave I leaped into the water,--a wild plunge, scarcely seeing where I was going. But Hilliard's hands caught me and hauled me into the boat, where I sank down, and lay huddled up, confused, and trembling so that I couldn't speak. Hilliard threw something over me,--the rain was coming down in torrents,--and then he pulled with all his might for the shore. Presently my senses began to come back; I knew what a terrible strain it must be to row in such a storm,--though fortunately the tide was with us,--and he had come out in it for me. I felt I ought to take my share of the work. "I--can--row. Let--me--take--an--oar," I said slowly, sitting up. "Not an oar,--I need both," Hilliard answered decidedly; then he added persuasively, "Be a good girl, Betty, and just keep in the bottom of the boat." I saw that he was rowing in his shirt sleeves,--his coat was over me,--and his hat was gone; the rain was pouring down on his bare head. His face was very pale and set,--stern looking,--and the veins in his forehead were standing out like cords as he strained every nerve at the oars. "I'm going for one of the coves," he shouted to me presently, "where I can run her aground." Again and again we were tossed back by the receding waves; but at last we shot into the cove, and I heard the keel grating on the rocky beach. In an instant Hilliard was overboard, and had pulled the boat up on the sand, out of reach of the highest wave. As he helped me on to the beach, I looked up in his white face, and such a sense of what he had endured for me rushed over me that I couldn't get the words out fast enough. I threw my hands out and caught hold of his shoulders: "Oh, Hilliard Erveng, you _are_ a brave boy!" I cried out, choking up. "You are no coward; you are brave--_brave!_ and I have been a mean, contemptible, conceited, stuck-up girl." I think I shook him a little; I was in such earnest that I hardly knew what I was doing. The rain had plastered Hilliard's hair flat to his head, and washed it into funny little points on his forehead, and there were raindrops pouring down his face; but his mouth was smiling, and his eyes were wide open and shining. He laid his hands over mine as they rested on his shoulders. "Thank God for to-day, Betty, _thank_ God!" he said, in a glad, excited way. "He has saved your life, and I am no longer a coward; I am no longer afraid--see!" As the lightning flashed over us he lifted his head and faced it, with lips that quivered a little, but also with unflinching eyes. "Doctor Emmons always said that I would be cured of my dread could I but face one thunder storm throughout," he added, still with that joyous ring in his voice. "And now I've done it! I've done it; I am _free!_" "Oh! I am so _glad!_ so _very_ thankful!" I began, and then broke down and burst into a violent fit of crying. I couldn't stop crying, though I _did_ try hard to control my tears; and my knees shook so that I could hardly walk. Hilliard almost carried me along until we met Jim the coachman and Mr. Erveng on the beach. Mr. Erveng had just got home, and heard that Hilliard and I were out in the storm. Then between them they got me to the house, where Mrs. Erveng and Alice and her mother were anxiously waiting for us. How glad they were to see us! and how they all kissed and hugged me! Mrs. Erveng took me right into her arms. Everybody began talking at once. I heard Alice say, "As soon as we missed you, and Dillon said she had seen you walking toward that part of the beach, Hilliard declared you were on the rock,--he seemed to guess it. And he was off for the boat like a flash,--he wouldn't even wait for Jim; he said every minute was precious--" I lost the rest; a horrid rushing noise came in my ears, everything got black before me, and I fainted, for the very first time in my life. * * * * * It is now nearly a week since all this happened, and to-morrow I am going home--to the Cottage. I was so stiff and tired from the beating of the waves that Mrs. Erveng kept me in bed for several days, and telegraphed the family not to expect me until Thursday; otherwise neither Hilliard nor I have suffered from our drenching in that awful storm. Mrs. Endicott and Alice are going as far as New York with me, and there Phil will meet me and take me home. I shall be _very_ glad to be with my own dear ones again,--it seems an age since I saw them; and I long to talk to Nannie, and tell her everything. Still, _now_, I'm not sorry that I came here. I think that I shall never forget my visit to Endicott Beach. XIX. HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER. TOLD BY JACK. Nora was playing a sweet, wild Hungarian melody on the piano, the boys were on the stoop talking to Chad,--every now and then the sound of their voices came in through the open windows,--and I sat under the drawing-room chandelier reading. Presently Chad came in, and, leaning on the piano, began talking to Nora in a low tone; and without stopping her music, she talked back, in the same tone of voice. [Illustration: "WITHOUT STOPPING HER MUSIC, SHE TALKED BACK, IN THE SAME TONE OF VOICE."] The story I was reading was A 1, and I'd got to a _very_ thrilling place, where the boy comes face to face with an infuriated tiger, when I heard something said outside that just took all the interest out of my book. Phil was speaking sharply,--I wondered Nora and Chad didn't hear him. "What's the _matter_ with you?" he flared out. "I declare, you're getting as fussy as an old cat! I won't stand the way you're watching me, and you've just got to drop it. I'm not a _baby_, to be tied to anybody's apron-strings! I'll go and come as I please." I didn't hear what Fee said to this, but Phil's answer to it was quite loud: "Yes, I _am_ going,--to-night, and to-morrow night, and any other night I please. The _idea_ of a fellow of my age not being able to go out for a walk without asking your permission!" [Illustration: "THE STORY I WAS READING WAS A 1."] "When you talk like that you are downright silly!" broke in Felix. I could tell by his voice he was trying hard to control his temper. "'Tisn't the going out that anybody objects to; it's the person you're going with. You know very well, Phil, that he isn't the sort of fellow to do you any good. I sized him up the very first time we saw him, and I still hold to my opinion,--he's a _b-a-d_ lot." "_A-c-h!_ you make me tired!" exclaimed Phil,--that's a favourite expression of his when he's cornered,--and leaning in through the window, he called, "See here, Chad; any time to-night!" "Yes, A'm coming," Chad called back, and bidding Nora good-night, he went out; a minute after I heard their steps as Phil and he ran down the stoop and passed by the drawing-room windows. Laying my book down quietly and very quickly, I ran out on the stoop. Fee sat there with his elbows on his knees, and his chin resting on his clasped hands, staring at nothing. Dropping down beside him, I slipped my hand in his arm and squeezed it to me. "I heard Phil," I said. "I'm awfully sorry he _would_ go." "Yes," Fee answered, but in a way that I knew he wasn't thinking of what he was saying. We sat quiet for a little while, then Felix turned suddenly and laid his hand on my knee. "Jack," he said earnestly, "I've made up my mind about something that's been bothering me since last night. What I'm going to do may turn out right, it may turn out wrong,--God only knows; but it seems right to me, and I'm going to try it. I dread it, though,--just _dread_ it. If I hadn't promised--" He broke off abruptly, and turned his head away. I wanted to say something to him, but I couldn't think of a _thing_. In a minute Felix began again. "Tell me honestly, Jack," he said, "do you think that Phil cares as much for me as he used to,--I mean before that fellow Chad came?" "Why, Fee!" I exclaimed, "_of course_ he loves you just as well; I _know_ he does,--we all love you _dearly_!" Do you know, it just hurt me to have him think Phil could let a person like Chad come between them. Of course, as nurse says, we have our ups and downs; we get mad with one another sometimes, and all that, you know; but still we do love one another dearly, and we'd stand up for the different ones like everything, if need be. We've always been very proud of Fee,--he's so clever, you see; but since that night that I'm going to tell you about, I just think my brother Felix is the noblest, bravest, truest boy in the world! I've always loved Fee very dearly; but now,--well, now I have a feeling that I would be willing to give my life for him. Poor old Fee! When I said that so positively about Phil's caring, I could see Fee was pleased; his face brightened up. "Well, perhaps he does," he said. "He's been very cranky lately, and sharp to me,--in fact to everybody; but I have a feeling that that's because he isn't really satisfied with the way he's acting. I tell you, Jack, Phil's a good fellow,"--Fee pounded his hand down on his knee as he spoke; "it isn't easy for him to do wrong. And he isn't up to Chad's tricks, or the set he's got him into. They've flattered Phil first, and that has turned his head; and then they've laughed at him for not doing the things they do, and that's nettled him,--until they've got him all their way. I know what they are,--I can see through their cunning; but Phil isn't so sharp. There are people in this world, Jack, so contemptible and wicked that they hate to have anybody better than they are themselves, and Chad and his crowd belong to that class. If I'd been able to go about with Phil as I used to, they'd _never_ have had the chance to get hold of him. And as it is, now that I've found out their game, I'm going to stop the whole business, and bring Phil to his senses. He's too fine a fellow for those rascals to spoil. I'll stop it--I'll stop it, no matter _what_ it costs me!" Oh, how often I've thought of those words since that dreadful night! And yet, I have a feeling that even if he had known, he would have gone--I tell you, there isn't another boy in all the world like our Felix! Fee's voice was shaking, and he got on his feet as if he were going to start that very minute; but before I could say anything he began again: "I've got a plan,--not a very good one, I must confess, but it's the best I can think of, and it may work; that is, if Phil has as much of the old feeling for me as you think, Jack: I'm building a good deal on that,--I hope I won't get left. He may turn obstinate,--you know he _can_ be a very donkey sometimes; and I suppose he'll get furiously mad. Well, I'll have to stand that,--if only he doesn't blaze out at me before those cads; _that_ would cut me _awfully_. But that I'll have to risk; he's worth it. Now, Jack, I want you to help me,--to go somewhere with me, I mean. I'm sorry to have to ask this, for it's no place for a youngster like you; but I think you're one of the kind that won't be hurt by such things, Rosebud,"--putting his hand on my arm,--"and I'm so unsteady on my feet that I am afraid I really couldn't get along alone. Get your hat--and my cane." In a minute I had both, and we went down the stoop together. At the foot of the steps Fee stopped, and taking off his hat, began pushing his hair back off his forehead. I could see he was nervous. "Suppose this _shouldn't_ be the right thing that I'm going to do; suppose it should make matters worse," he said undecidedly, almost irritably. "Now, if Nannie were here--I haven't a creature to advise me!" "_I_ think you're doing right, Fee," I began. I didn't remember until afterward that I really didn't know what his plan was; but I don't think he heard what I said, for he went on in a low tone, as if he were talking to himself: "Suppose he gets furiously angry, and pitches into me before those low fellows,--you never know what Phil's going to say when he gets mad,--and _will not_ come home with me, what'll I do _then_? It's a risk. And if this plan fails, I don't know what else to do. Had I better just let things drift along as they are until we get in the country, and then speak to him? I _dread_ a row before that crowd; they'd just set him up against me. And yet--a week more of nights to come home as he did last night, and the night before that--_ought_ I to let that go on? What would _she_ say to do?" He stood with his head bent, thinking,--his hat and cane in one hand, and holding on to the stone newel-post with the other. And as we waited the gay strains of Nora's waltz came to us through the windows; since that night I just hate to hear her play that piece. Presently Felix looked up at me with the faintest little smile. "I came pretty near asking you to write me down a coward, Jack," he said; "but I'm all right again. Now for your part of this affair: If Phil will come back with me, as I hope, you'll have to make your way home alone, without letting him know of your being there. Try and manage it. If he gets ugly, and will _not_ leave that crowd, why, then we--you and I--'ll have to travel back as we went. You must judge for yourself, Rosebud, whether to go, or to stay for me; I'll have enough to do, you know, to manage Phil. Apart from that, have as little to do in the matter as possible; ask no questions, speak to no one, and see and hear no more than you can help. All right?" "Yes," I answered quickly, "and I only wish I could do more for you, Fee." Felix put his hand on my shoulder for a rest, as he usually did when we walked together. "You've been a real comfort to me, Jack, since Nannie went away," he said. I tell you that meant _lots_ from him, and I knew it; I just put up my hand and squeezed Fee's fingers as they rested on my coat; then we started off. On Fee's account we walked very slowly; but after a while we came to a house with a very low stoop,--just a step or two from the ground. There were handsome glass doors to the vestibule, and the rather small hall was brilliantly lighted up. I fancied that the man who opened the door looked at me as if he thought I had no business there; but Felix marched right by him and stepped into the elevator, and of course I followed. "Mr. Whitcombe," said Fee; and then I knew that we were in the apartment house where Chad has his "bachelor quarters." "Turn to your left," said the elevator man, as he let us out. We did so, and just as we got opposite the door with the big silver knob and old bronze knocker that Chad had told us he brought from Europe, it opened, and some one came out. Well, truly, he didn't look any older than fifteen,--two years older than I am, mind you,--but if he didn't have on a long-tailed evening coat, an awfully high stand-up collar, and a tall silk hat! You can't think what a queer figure he was,--like a caricature. Before he could shut the door, Felix lifted his hat, and then put out his hand quickly. "Allow me," he said politely; and the next moment we were in Chad's hall, with his front door closed behind us. At the other end of this hall was a room very brightly lighted; the portière was pushed almost entirely aside, and we could see some young fellows seated round a table. Nearly all had cigars or cigarettes in their mouths,--Phil, too; the room was just thick with smoke, and they were playing cards. "Sit where they can't see you," Fee whispered to me; "and if you find Phil will go home with me, just slide out without letting him know of your being here. Oh, Jack, if I can _only_ succeed!" He gave my hand a little squeeze--though it was a warm evening, his fingers were cold--and then walked up the hall and stood in the doorway of Chad's room. "Hullo! _you!_ Oh--aw--come in--aw--glad to see you! Take a chair," Chad said, in a tone of voice that told he was taken all aback; while Phil was so startled that he dropped his cigarette and called out roughly, "What the mischief are _you_ doing here?" Of course they all looked at Felix; but he answered carelessly, "Oh, I thought I'd accept a long-standing invitation,"--with a little bow toward Chad,--"and drop in for a while." "Oh, certainly, certainly--aw--glad to see you!" exclaimed Chad. "Who's with you?" demanded Phil; but Fee didn't answer him: he just went forward and took the place that one of the fellows made between himself and Phil. And then Chad began introducing Felix to the others. From where I sat on the hat-rack settle,--it was the most shielded place in the hall, and near the door,--I had a full view of the people sitting on one side of the table, and particularly of Felix and Phil, who were almost directly under the glare of the light. Fee's face was as white as marble, except a red spot on each cheek, and there was a delicate look about his eyes and temples, and round his mouth, that I hadn't noticed before. Somehow his fine, regular features and splendid, broad white forehead made me think of the head of the Young Augustus that the Unsworths have. But Phil certainly didn't look like any marble statue; his face was very red and cross, and he was scowling until his eyebrows made a thick black line above his eyes. He was disagreeable, too,--rough and quarrelsome, something like that night when he came home so late, and hurt my feelings. When, in reply to an invitation from Chad, Felix said he would join the game, Phil sung out in a kind of ordering tone, "What's the sense of spoiling the fun for everybody? You know nothing about cards; why don't you look on?" "Because I prefer playing," answered Fee, smiling; "it's the quickest and surest way of learning, I believe,"--with a glance round the company. "What are the stakes?" He drew a handful of money from his pocket, and laid it before him on the table. "Don't make an ass of yourself, Felix!" Phil exclaimed angrily, laying a hand right over the little pile of silver. "We're not fooling here; we're playing in dead earnest, and you will lose every cent of your money." Some of the fellows snickered, and one called out sharply, "Look out what you're saying, Rose." I saw the red spots on Fee's cheeks grow brighter. "I _am going_ to play," he said quietly, but looking Phil steadily in the eyes; "so please don't interfere." "Evidently you've never learned that 'consistency is a jewel'!" Phil retorted with a sneer. I suppose he was thinking of what Fee had said that evening on the stoop. But Felix only answered good-naturedly, "Oh, yes, I have; that used to be one of our copy-book axioms," and then they all began to play. Well, Phil's face was a study,--it grew blacker and blacker as the game went on, and Fee kept losing; and he got very disagreeable,--trying to chaff Felix, almost as if he wanted to make him mad. But Fee just turned it off as pleasantly as he could. Those fellows made it ever so much harder, though; they got off the _silliest_ speeches, and then roared with laughter over them, as if they were jokes. And, in a sly kind of way, they egged Phil on to quarrel with Fee,--laughing at all his speeches, and pretending that they thought Phil was afraid of Felix. And Chad joined in, I could hear his affected laugh and drawl above all the others; I felt how that must cut Fee! There were some decanters and glasses on a side table, and every now and then Chad urged his friends to drink, and he would get up and wait on them. Felix refused every time, and Phil did too at first, until those common fellows began to twit him about it,--as much as saying that he was afraid to take anything 'cause Fee would "go home and tell on him." What did Phil do then--the silly fellow! 'twas just what they wanted--but snatch up a glass and swallow down a lot of that vile stuff! Well, I was so _mad_ with Phil! I'd have liked to go right in and punch him. Felix never said a word ('twouldn't have done the least good,--Phil can be like a mule sometimes); he just sat there with his lips pressed tight together, looking down at the cards he held in his hands. After that Phil's face got awfully red, and how his tongue did run! Real ugly things he said, too, and perfectly regardless who he said them to. And those fellows got _very_ boisterous, and began again trying to tease our boys. I was _so_ afraid there'd be a row; and there surely would have been, if Felix hadn't just worked as he did to prevent it. I tell you now, it was awfully hard to sit out there in that hall and hear those fellows carrying on against my brothers,--you see I was so near I couldn't help it, I just _had_ to hear everything,--and not be able to take their part. Fee kept getting whiter and whiter, the spots on his cheeks redder and redder; and by and by such a tired look came in his face that I got real worked up. I felt as if I _must_ go in and just pitch right into those fellows. Almost before I knew it, I'd got up and gone a step or two in the hall, when suddenly Phil dashed his cards down on the table, and got on his feet. "I'm going home!" he declared. "Are you coming?" turning to Felix. "You sha'n't go!" "Oh, _don't_ go!" "You've _got_ to finish the game," several called out. But Phil just repeated doggedly, "I'm going home! Are you coming or not, Felix?" This was just what Fee wanted,--I knew how glad and thankful he must feel. But all he said was, "Yes, I'll go with you, if our host will excuse us," rising as he spoke and nodding his head toward Chad. Those unmannerly things burst out laughing, as if this were a great joke; and with a smothered exclamation, Phil started for the door, knocking over a chair as he went. Well, if you had seen me scoot down that hall and out of the door! I simply _flew_, and barely got round the corner in the shadow, when Phil and Felix came along. Phil looked like a thundercloud, and instead of leaning on his arm, Fee just had hold of a piece of Phil's sleeve. They marched along in dead silence, and got into the elevator. I hung around a little, until I was sure they were out of the way, then I went down; the elevator man looked harder than ever at me,--I suppose he wondered why I hadn't gone with Fee,--but I pretended I didn't notice. I'd never been out very late alone before, and at first it seemed queer; but I hurried, so that I soon forgot all about that. You see I wanted to get home before the boys did, and yet I had to look out that I didn't run across them. I hadn't thought of the time at Chad's; but we must have been there a good while, for when I got to the house the drawing-room windows were closed, and so was the front door. I don't know what I'd have done if cook hadn't come to close the basement door just as I got to our stoop, and I slipped in that way. "Master _Jack_!" she cried out, holding up her hands in horror; "a little b'y like you out late's this! What'd your pa say to such doin's, an' Miss Marston? An' there's Miss Nora gone to bed, thinkin' it's safe an' aslape ye are." "Oh, hush, cook! it's _all_ right. Don't say anything; please don't," I said softly; then I let her go upstairs ahead of me. The drawing-room was all dark, and the light in the hall was turned down low. The house was very quiet,--everybody had gone to bed; and after thinking it over, I made up my mind I'd wait downstairs and let the boys in before they could ring,--I forgot that Phil had taken possession of papa's latch-key, and was using it. I sat on the steps listening, and what d'you think? I must have fallen asleep, for the first thing I knew there were Phil and Felix in the hall, and Phil was closing the front door. "Oh, I see,--as usual, our gentle Rosebud's to the front," exclaimed Phil, still keeping his hand on the knob of the door; "all right, then he can help you upstairs," and he turned as if to go out. "What!" Fee cried out in a sharp, startled voice, "you are _never_ going back to that crowd!" "That's just what I _am_ going to do," answered Phil; his voice sounded thick and gruff. "Shall I give your love?" Felix caught him by the arm. "_Don't_ go, Phil," he pleaded; "_don't_ go back to-night, _please_ don't. We've had enough of them for one evening. Come, let's go upstairs. Won't you? I have a good reason for what I'm asking, and I'll explain to-morrow." Phil came a step or two forward, shaking Fee's hand off. "Look here!" he said sharply, "this thing might's well be settled right here, and once for all. I'm a man, not a child, I'll have you to understand, and I'm not going to be controlled by you. Just remember that, and don't try any more of your little games on me, as you have to-night, for I _will not_ stand 'em! The idea of your coming up there among those fellows and making such an ass of yourself--" "The asinine part of this evening's performance belongs to you and your friends, not to me," broke in Felix, hotly,--Phil's tone was _so_ insolent. "And there are a few things that _you_ might as well understand, too," he went on more calmly. "If you continue to go to Chad's, I shall go, too; if you make those fellows your boon companions, they shall be mine as well; if you continue to drink and gamble, as you've been doing lately, and to-night, I will drink and gamble, too. I mean every word I am saying, Phil. It may go against the grain at first to associate with such cads as Chad and his crowd; but perhaps that'll wear away in time, and I may come to enjoy what I now abhor. As these low pleasures have fascinated you, so they may fascinate me." "If you _ever_ put your foot in Chad Whitcombe's house again, I'll make him turn you out," cried Phil, in a rage, shaking his finger at Felix. "Why, you donkey! less than three months of that sort of life'd use you up completely. I'll fix you, if you ever undertake to try it; I'll go straight to the _pater_,--I swear I will." "No need to do that, old fellow," Fee said, in _such_ a loving voice! "Just drop that set you've got into, and be your own upright, honourable self again, and you shall never hear another word of such talk out of me. But," he added earnestly, "I _cannot_, I will not stand seeing you, my brother, my chum, our mother's son"--Fee's voice shook--"going all wrong, without lifting a finger to save you. Why, Phil, I'd give my very life, if need be, to keep you from becoming a drunkard and a gambler. _Don't_ go back to those fellows to-night, dear old boy; for--for _her_ sake, _don't_ go!" Felix was pleading with his whole heart in his voice, looking eagerly, entreatingly up at Phil, and holding out his hands to him. My throat was just filling up as Fee spoke,--I could almost have cried; and I'm sure Phil was touched, too, but he tried not to let us see it. He sort of scuffled his feet on the marble tiling of the hall, and cleared his throat in the most indifferent way, looking up at the gas fixture. "Perhaps I will drop them by and by," he said carelessly, "but I can't just yet,--in fact, I don't want to just yet; I have a reason. And that reminds me--I _must_ go back to-night. Now don't get _silly_ over me, Felix; there's no danger whatever of my becoming a drunkard or a gambler,--nice opinion of me you must have!--and I'm quite equal to taking care of myself. As I've told you several times before, I'm a man now, not a child, and I will _not_ have you or anybody running round after me. Just remember that!" As he spoke, he turned deliberately to go out. Then Fee did a foolish thing; he ought to have known Phil better, but he was so awfully disappointed that I guess he forgot. In about one second--I don't know how he _ever_ got there so quickly--he had limped to the door, and planted himself with his back against it. His face was just as _white_! and his lips were set tight together, and he held his head up in the air, looking Phil square in the eye. A horrid nervous feeling came over me,--I just _felt_ there was going to be trouble. I stood up on the steps quickly, and called out, "Oh, boys, _don't_ quarrel! Oh, please, _please_ don't quarrel!" But Phil was talking, and I don't believe they even heard me. "Get away from that door,--I'm going out!" Phil commanded. Not a word answered Fee; he just stood there, his eyes shining steadily up at Phil through his glasses. "Do you hear me?" Phil said savagely. "Get--out--of--the--way. I don't want to hurt you, but I am _determined_ to go out. Come,--move!" He stepped nearer Felix, with a peremptory wave of his hand, and glowered at him. But Fee didn't flinch. "No," he said quietly, but in just as positive a tone as Phil's, "I will _not_ move." Then, suddenly, a sweet, quick smile flashed over his face, and he threw his hands out on Phil's shoulders as he stood before him, saying, in that winning way of his, "I'm not a bit afraid of _your_ ever hurting me, old Lion-heart." I heard every word distinctly, but Phil didn't; in his rage he only caught the first part of what Fee said, and with a sharp, angry exclamation he shoved Felix violently aside, and, hastily opening the door, stepped into the vestibule. Fee was so completely taken by surprise--poor old Fee!--that he lost his balance, swung to one side with the force of Phil's elbow, striking his back against the sharp edge of the hall chair, and fell to the floor. I can't tell you the awful feeling that came over me when I saw Fee lying there; I got _wild_! I dashed down those steps and into the vestibule before Phil had had time to even turn the handle of the outer door, and, locking my hands tight round his arm, I tried to drag him back into the hall. "Come back," I cried out; "come back--oh, come back!" "Hullo! what's happened to you,--crazy?" demanded Phil, giving his arm a shake; but I hung on with all my weight. And then I said something about Felix; I don't remember now what it was,--I hardly knew what I was saying,--but, with a sharp cry, Phil threw me from him and rushed back into the hall. When I got to him, Phil was kneeling by Felix, with his hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. "Fee, _Fee_!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "what's the matter? Are you hurt? Are you, Fee? Oh, _tell_ me!" But Fee didn't answer; he just lay there, his face half resting on the arm he had thrown out in falling; his glasses had tumbled off, and his eyes were closed. In an instant Phil had rolled him over on his back on the hall rug, and I slipped my arm under his head. Fee looked _dreadfully_,--white as death, with big black shadows under his eyes; and such a sad, pitiful expression about his mouth that I burst out crying. "Oh, hush, hush!" Phil cried eagerly; "he's coming to himself. Oh, thank God! Stop your crying, Jack,--you'll frighten him." But he was mistaken; Fee wasn't coming to,--he lay there white and perfectly still. Oh, how we worked over him! We took off his necktie and collar, we poured water on his forehead, and fanned him, and rubbed his hands and feet with hands that were as cold as his own, and trembling. And Phil kept saying, "Oh, Jack, he'll soon be better,--don't you think so? _don't_ you, Jack? Oh, surely, such a _little_ fall couldn't be serious! he _couldn't_ have struck himself on that chair,--see, it's entirely out of his way," with such a piteous pleading in his eyes and voice that I hadn't the heart to contradict him. Nothing that we did had any effect; Fee still lay unconscious, and there was a pinched look about his features, a limp heaviness about his body, that struck terror to our hearts. "Oh, isn't this _awful_!" I sobbed. Then all at once I thought of that day I found Felix lying on the floor,--could this be an attack like that, only worse? His words, "What'll the _next_ one be!" flashed into my mind, and I burst out eagerly, "Oh, Phil, call somebody--go for the doctor--quick, quick, oh, do be _quick_! The doctor will know what to do--he can help him--call nurse--oh, call _somebody_!" But Phil suddenly dropped Felix's hand that he'd been rubbing, and bending down laid his ear on Fee's chest over his heart. I shall never forget the awful horror that was in his white face when he lifted it and looked at me across Fee's body. "Jack," he said in a slow, shrill whisper, that just went through my ears like a knife, "Jack, it's no use; Fee is--" But I screamed out before he could say that dreadful word,--a loud scream that rang through the house and woke the people up. In a confused sort of way--as if I had dreamed it--I remember that Nora came flying down the stairs in her dressing-gown and bare feet, and nurse hurrying behind her, both crying out in a frightened way,--something like, "Oh, _lawkes_! what _have_ them boys been doin'?" and, "Oh, boys, _boys_! what _is_ the matter?" But Phil's answer stands out clear,--I can hear it every time I let myself think of that awful night. He had pushed me aside, and was sitting on the floor with Fee's body gathered in his arms, Fee's face lying against his shoulder. He looked up at Nora; his dry, white lips could hardly utter the words. "Fee is dead," he said; "I have killed Felix!" XX. A SOLEMN PROMISE. TOLD BY JACK. For a little while there was a dreadful commotion down there in the hall. Hannah and cook had come, too, by this time, and everybody was crying, and rushing about, and all talking at once,--telling everybody else what to do. Poor Nonie was awfully frightened; at first she couldn't do a thing but cry, and I was just as bad,--I'd got to that pitch that I didn't care who saw my tears. But nurse kept her head splendidly; generally she gets all worked up over the least little sickness, but this time she kept cool, and told us what to do. "Don't talk so foolish, Master Phil!" she exclaimed sharply, when Phil said that awful thing about Fee. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself,--frightening your sister that way! He ain't no more dead 'n you are." Well, if you'd seen the look of hope that flashed into Phil's face! "Oh, nurse!" he gasped, "do you _honestly_ think so? But he isn't breathing,--I can't feel his heart beat." "That's 'cause he's in a swoond," nurse answered briskly. "Here, lay him down flat. Now rub his feet--_hard_; Hannah, slap his palms,--that'll start up a cirkilation. Here, Miss Nora, fan your brother. Cook, fill them hot-water bottles; if the water in the biler ain't hot 'nough, start your fire _immejiate_. Master Jack, you run for the doctor; an' if he can't come," she added, dropping her voice so that only I heard her, "get another. Don't you come back here without _somebody_. An' be quick's you can." That told me that she wasn't as sure about Fee as she pretended to be, and the hope that had come up in my heart died right out. My eyes got so blinded with tears that I just had to grope for my hat; but as I was opening the outer door, I heard something that brought me in again in double quick time. It was a cry from Phil,--a shout of joy: "He _is_ breathing! Oh, he's _breathing_! His eyes are opening!" Sure enough, they were. Slowly the heavy lids raised, and Fee's near-sighted eyes looked blankly up at Phil. "Don't you know me, old fellow?" Phil asked with a break in his voice, bending eagerly over Felix. A sweet little smile flickered over Fee's lips. "Phil," he said faintly; and then, with what we could all see was a great effort, he raised his hand slowly and let it fall heavily on Phil's hand. Poor Phil! that broke him down completely. Catching Fee's face between his two hands, he kissed him warmly two or three times, and then, dropping his head down on Fee's shoulder, burst into a storm of sobs. "Oh, come, come! this'll _never_ do!" cried nurse, bustling forward. "Come, Master Phil, this ain't any time for sich behaviour,"--mind you, she was wiping the corners of her own eyes! "Now we must get him up to his own room soon's possible; _then_ we can make him comfort'ble. Can you carry him up? Me and Hannah can help." "I can do it alone," Phil said quickly, beginning to gather Fee into his arms. But I tell you it was hard work getting him up, he was such a dead weight! Fee knew Phil was making a desperate effort to lift him, and he tried, poor fellow, to help all he could. When at last Phil stood erect, with him in his arms, nurse raised Fee's hands and joined them back of Phil's neck. "Now clasp your hands tight, Master Felix," she said, "and that'll take some of your weight off your brother." Fee's hands were actually resting one on the other, and I saw his fingers move feebly, trying to take hold of one another. Then he said in a slow, frightened whisper, "I--can't--make--them--hold!" and his arms slipped down, one of them swinging helplessly by his side, until nurse laid it in his lap. "Never mind, don't worry about that, Fee; I can get you up," Phil said cheerfully. "Why, don't you remember I took you almost up to your room the other night?" Nora and I looked at each other. I know we were both thinking of the same thing,--that happy evening when we heard of aunt Lindsay's plan for Fee, and when Phil had picked Felix up and run so gaily up the stairs with him, singing. Was it possible that was only three or four evenings ago! It seemed _years_. "Run for the doctor, Master Jack--_don't_ loiter," nurse said, as she fell in with the procession that was moving so slowly up the stairs; Phil was going one step at a time, and sometimes sliding himself along against the banister to rest the weight he was carrying. I rushed out and up to Dr. Archard's as fast as I could go. The streets through which I went were very lonely,--I scarcely met a creature,--but I didn't mind; in fact, the stillness, and the stars shining so clear and bright in the quiet sky, seemed to do me good. I knew Who was up there above those shining stars; I thought of the poor lame man that He had healed long ago, and as I raced along, I just _prayed_ that He would help our Fee. Dr. Archard was away, out of town, the sleepy boy who answered the bell told me; but Dr. Gordon, his assistant, was in,--would he do? I didn't know him at all,--he'd come since papa's illness; but of course I said yes, and in a few minutes the doctor was ready and we started. He had a nice face,--he was years younger than Dr. Archard,--and as we hurried toward home and began talking of Felix, I suddenly made up my mind that I would tell him about the attack Fee had had when papa was so ill. That promise of mine not to speak of it had always worried me, and now, all at once, a feeling came over me that I just _ought_ to tell Dr. Gordon everything about it,--and I did. He asked a lot of questions, and when I finished he said gravely, "You have done very right in telling me of this; the knowledge of this former attack and his symptoms will help me in treating your brother's case." "Is it the same trouble?" I asked eagerly. "Certain symptoms which you have described point that way," he answered; "but of course I can say nothing until I have seen and examined him." "Could such an accident"--I'd told him that Fee had struck his back against a chair and then fallen--"do anybody--_harm_?" My heart was thumping as I put the question. "Under some circumstances, serious harm," the doctor said. And just then--before I could say anything more--we came to our stoop, and there was Hannah holding the door open for us to go in. * * * * * The doctor turned every one out of Fee's room but Phil and nurse; and he was in there an awful long time. And while Nonie and I sat on the upper stairs waiting for news, what did I do but fall _asleep_! and I didn't wake up until the next morning, when I found myself in my own bed. It seems that Phil had undressed and put me to bed, though I didn't remember a thing about it. I felt dreadfully ashamed to have gone to sleep without hearing how Fee was, but you see I was so dead tired, that I suppose I really _couldn't_ keep awake. Did you ever wake up in the morning with a strange sort of feeling as if there was a weight on your heart, and then remember that something dreadful had happened the night before? Well, then you know just how I felt the morning after Fee got hurt. For a moment or two I tried to make myself believe it was all a bad dream; but there sat Phil on the edge of our bed, and the sight of his wretched white face brought back the whole thing only too plainly. "Oh! how is Fee?" I exclaimed, sitting up in bed. "What does the doctor say about him?" Phil's elbow was resting on his knee, his chin in his palm. "The doctor says," he answered, with, oh! such a look of misery in his tired eyes, "that Felix is not in danger of death, but it looks now as if he _might not be able to walk again_!" [Illustration: "THERE SAT PHIL ON THE EDGE OF OUR BED."] "Oh, Phil, _Phil_!" I cried out; then I sat and stared at him, and wondered if I were really awake, or if this were some dreadful dream. "His back was weak from the start," went on Phil, drearily, "and probably would have been to the end of his life; but at least he would have been able to get around--to go to college--to enter a profession. Now all that is over and done with. Isn't it _awful_!" "Oh, but that can't be true," I broke in eagerly. "Why, Phil, Fee was in a dreadful way that last attack, I told the doctor about it,"--Phil nodded; "he couldn't stand on his feet at all,--and yet he got better. Oh, he may now; he may, Phil, only with a longer time! See?" "I thought of that when Gordon told me what you had told him, and I begged for some hope of that sort,--begged as I wouldn't now for my own life, Jack." Phil's voice got so unsteady that he had to stop for a minute. "After a good deal of talking and pleading," he went on presently, "I got him to admit that there _is_ a bare chance, on account of his being so young, that Fee _may_ get around again, in a sort of a way; but it's too slim to be counted on, and it could only be after a long time,--two or three years or longer. Dr. Archard'll be in town to-morrow, and they will consult; but Gordon says he's had cases of this kind before, and knows the symptoms well. I think he would have given us hope if he could. You see Fee isn't strong; oh, if it had _only_ been _I_!--great, uncouth, ugly brute that I am!" Phil struck his hand so fiercely on the bed that the springs just bounced me up and down. "Fee's feet and legs are utterly useless," he began again; "his spine is so weak he can't sit up. Even his fingers are affected,--he can't close them on anything; he's lost his grip. And he may lie in this condition for years; he may _never_ recover from it. Oh, think of that, Jack!" Phil broke out excitedly; "_think_ of it! Our Fee, with his splendid, clever mind, with all his bright hopes and ambitions, with the certainty of going to college so near at hand,--to have to lie there, day in and day out, a helpless, useless creature! And brought to it by _my_ doing,--his own brother! _Oh_!" He drew his knee up, and folding his arms round it, laid his face down with a moan. I slipped over to his side and threw my arm across his shoulder. "Phil, dear," I said, to comfort him, "try and not think of that part; I'm sure Fee wouldn't want you to. You know he had that other attack--and--perhaps this would have come any way--" But Phil interrupted, looking at me with those miserable, hollow eyes. "Not like this," he said. "Dr. Gordon told me himself that the blow Fee got was what did the mischief this time; with medical care he might have got over those other attacks. Gordon didn't dream that I was the infuriated drunken brute who flung him against that chair. Drunken! I think I must have been possessed by a _devil_! That _I_ should have raised my hand against Fee,--the brother I love so dearly, my chum, my comrade, mother's boy, of whom she was so tender! Oh, _God_! shall I have to carry this awful remorse all the rest of my life!" His voice broke in a kind of a wail, and he threw his clinched hands up over his head. "Oh, Phil, _dear_ Phil! Oh, _please_ don't," I begged. "Oh, Fee _wouldn't_ want you to talk like this." "I know he wouldn't. God bless him!" Phil answered in a quieter tone, dropping his arms by his sides. "Oh, Jack, it cuts me up awfully to see him lying there so cheerful and serene when he knows that what's happened has just spoiled his whole life--" "Oh, _does_ he know?" I exclaimed. "He insisted on knowing, and bore it like a soldier. When I broke down he smiled at me, actually _smiled_, Jack, with, 'Why, old fellow, it isn't so bad--as all that'--_o-oh_!" Phil choked up, and, throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face deep in the pillows, that Fee in the next room might not hear his sobs. * * * * * That was a miserable day. Dr. Archard came quite early, and after the consultation we heard that, in the main, he agreed with Dr. Gordon. "Still," he said to Nora and me, as he was going, "Felix _may_ surprise us all by recovering much faster and more fully than we expect. The thing is to get him out of town _just_ as soon as we can, and in the mean time to follow directions and keep him quiet and cheerful. Phil seems to have taken charge of the boy, and I do believe he's going to develop into a nurse. I'll send you round a _masseur_, and I'll write to your father, so he'll not be alarmed. Keep up your spirits, and your roses, my dear," patting Nora's cheek. Then he got into his carriage and drove away. Because the doctor said that about keeping Fee quiet, no one but Phil or nurse was allowed in his room all day. But late in the afternoon nurse let me take something up to him,--she had to see to the children's dinner, or something or other downstairs; she said if Phil were with him I wasn't to stay. I knocked, but not very hard,--my hands were pretty full; and then, as nobody answered, I opened the door softly, and went in. Fee was lying sort of hunched up among the pillows, which weren't any whiter than his face. Oh! _didn't_ he look delicate! He had on his glasses again, and now his eyes were shining through them, and there was a very sweet expression on his lips. Phil was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking in a low, unsteady voice: "I didn't really care for them," he was saying, "and there were times when I fairly loathed them; but somehow they got round me, and--I began to go there regularly. They drank and gambled; they said all young fellows did it, and they laughed at me when I objected. I held out for a good while,--then one night I gave in. I was a fool; I dreaded their ridicule. There were times, though, when I was _disgusted_ with myself. Then I began to win at cards, and--well--I thought I'd save the money for a purpose; though in my heart I knew full well that--the--the--the person I was saving for wouldn't touch a penny got that way. Well, then something happened that made that money I was saving quite unnecessary, and then I just played to lose. I wanted those fellows to have their money back; after that I thought I'd cut loose from 'em. That was the reason I wanted to go back to Chad's that night,--was it _only_ last night? It seems like _years_ ago!" Phil dropped his face down in his hands for a minute; then he went on: "I started out this morning and gave each of the fellows his money back. They didn't want to take it,--they think me a crazy loon; but I insisted. I've got beyond caring for their opinion. And now, Fee, the rest of my life belongs to you; you've paid an awful price for it, old fellow,--I'm not worth it. Think of your college course--your profession--all the things we planned! I'm not worth it!" Phil's voice failed, but he cleared his throat quickly, and spoke out clearly and solemnly. "Felix," he said, "I will _never_ play cards again as long as I live; and I will _never_ drink another drop of liquor,--so help me God." He raised his hand as he spoke, as if registering the oath. Then he bent over and buried his face in the bed-clothes. Slowly Fee's poor helpless hand went out and fell on Phil's head. "What is all the rest compared with _this_," he said, oh, so tenderly! then, with a little unsteady laugh, "Philippus, I always said there wasn't a mean bone in your body." And then Phil threw his arms round Felix and kissed him. I laid what I had brought down on the table, and went quickly away, shutting the door a little hard that they might know somebody'd gone out. I should have left just as soon as I found they were talking,--I know I should,--but it seemed as if Phil's words just held me there. I've told Phil and Felix all about it since then, and they say they don't mind my having heard; but between what I felt for them both, and for my having done such a mean thing as to listen to what wasn't meant for me to hear, I was a pretty miserable boy that afternoon. I flew upstairs to the schoolroom, and throwing myself down on the old sofa I just had a good cry. It seems as if I were an awful cry-baby those days; but how could a person help it, with such dreadful things happening? Well, I hadn't been there very long when in came Nora and opened the windows to let in the lovely afternoon light, and of course then I got up. I guess I must have been a forlorn-looking object, for Nora smoothed my hair back off my forehead and kissed me,--she doesn't often do those things. "I'm going to write to Nannie," she said, laying some note-paper on the schoolroom table. "It is the first minute I've had in which to do it; perhaps,"--slowly,--"if she had been here, all this trouble might not have happened. Why don't you send Betty a few lines, Jack? You know she will want to hear of Fee; but don't frighten her about him." So I thought I would write Betty,--I owed her a letter. After all, she wasn't having at all a bad time with the Ervengs; in fact, I fancy she was enjoying herself, though she was careful not to say so. Nora and I were sitting at the same table, but far apart, and I'd just called out and asked her if there were two l's in wonderful--I was writing about Fee--when the schoolroom door opened, and in walked Chad Whitcombe! As usual, he looked a regular dandy, and he held a bunch of roses in his hand. He came forward with his hand out and smiling: "I've--aw--just called in for a minute," he said. "I thought--aw--you might care for these flowers--" But Nora rose quickly from her chair, pushing it a little from her, and putting her hands behind her back, she faced him with her head up in the air. My! how handsome she looked,--like a queen, or something grand like that! "I thank you for your polite intention," she said very stiffly and proudly, "but hereafter I prefer to have neither flowers nor visits from you." Well, you should have seen Chad's face! he'd been stroking his moustache, but now, positively, he stood staring at Nora with his mouth open, he was so astonished. "Wha--what's wrong?" he stammered. "What've I done?" Then Nora gave it to him; she didn't mince matters,--truly, she made me think of Betty. "What have you done?" she repeated, opening her grey eyes at him. "Oh! only acted as I have never known any one calling himself a gentleman to act. Mr. Whitcombe,"--with a toss of her head equal to anything Betty could have done,--"I will _not_ have the acquaintance of a man who drinks and gambles." Then _I_ was the one to be astonished; I didn't dream Nora knew anything about that part. Phil must have told her that day. [Illustration: "'HEREAFTER I PREFER TO HAVE NEITHER FLOWERS NOR VISITS FROM YOU.'"] "And who not only does those dreadful things himself," went on Nora, "but inveigles others into doing them, too. The idea of coming here among us as a friend, and then leading Phil off,--trying to ruin his life!" Nonie's cheeks were scarlet; she was getting madder and madder with every word she said. "Why, that isn't gambling; we just play for small amounts," exclaimed Chad, eagerly, forgetting his affectation, and speaking just like anybody. "All the fellows do it; why, I've played cards and drunk liquor since I was twelve years old. It hasn't hurt me." "No?" said Nora, coldly. "We don't agree on that point;" then, curling her lip in a disgusted way: "What an unfortunate, neglected little boy you must have been. If Jack should do either of those low, wicked things, I should consider a sound thrashing entirely too mild treatment for him. And allow me to tell you that _all_ the young fellows we know are _not_ after your kind: they neither drink, nor play cards; and yet, strange to say,--that is, from your point of view,--they are extremely manly." "I'm sorry, you know; but I didn't suppose you'd mind--so much," Chad began, in the meekest sort of tone. "You always seemed to understand lots of things that the others didn't, and--" But Nora interrupted: "I made allowances for you," she said, with her little superior air, "knowing that you had lost your parents as a little boy, and that you had had so little--now I will say _no_--home training. Besides, I thought, perhaps"--she hesitated, then went on--"that perhaps the others were a little hard on you; it seemed rather unjust, simply because you were--well--different from ourselves. But I didn't imagine for one moment that you were this sort of a person. It isn't honourable to do those things,--don't you know that? It is low and wicked." "I only wanted Phil to have a good time; I never thought he was such a baby he'd get any harm," exclaimed Chad, a little sulkily, getting awfully red, even to his ears. "And as to Felix, he came of his own free will. It's he that has told you all this, and set you up against me. Felix doesn't like me, and he hasn't taken any pains to hide it. I don't see why he came up there last night, if he thinks we're so wicked." "I will tell you why," cried Nora; "he came in the hope that seeing _him_ there would shame Phil, and induce him to get out of such a set. And it _has_ gotten him out,--though not in the way that Fee expected. When I think of all that has happened since you and Phil went out together last evening,--of all the trouble you have brought on us,--I really wish you would go away; I prefer to have nothing more to say to you." She made a motion of her hand as if dismissing him, but Chad never moved. He just stood there, holding the roses upside down, and looking very gloomy. "You're _awfully_ down on me," he said presently; then, "and A'm awfully sorry. Ah wish you'd forgive me!" in _such_ a beseeching sort of tone that I could have laughed right out. But Nonie didn't laugh, or even smile; she just answered, a little more kindly than before: "It's not a question of _my_ forgiving you that will set the matter right; the thing is to give up that way of living. Surely there are plenty of other ways of amusing yourself,--nice honourable ways that belong to a gentleman. Then--people--would be able to respect as well as like you. I wonder that Max has let this sort of thing go on." "Oh, he doesn't know," Chad said, with a quick glance over his shoulder at the door, as if he thought Max might be there, ready to walk in on him. "_Tell_ him," advised Nora,--she just loves to advise people,--"and get him to help you. You could study for college, or--go into business, if you preferred that." Chad was looking intently at her; suddenly he threw the roses on the schoolroom table,--with such force that they slid across and fell on the floor on the other side,--and made a step or two toward Nora, with his hands extended, exclaiming eagerly, "Oh, Nora, if I thought that _you_ cared--" But like a flash Nora got behind her chair, putting it between herself and Chad. "Don't say _another_ word!" she broke in imperiously, standing very straight, and looking proudly at him over the back of the chair. "Jack, pick up those flowers and return them to Mr. Whitcombe, and then open the door for him." Chad was so startled that he jumped,--you see he hadn't noticed that I was there,--and didn't he look foolish! and _blush_! why, his face actually got mahogany colour. He snatched the poor roses from me and just bolted through that schoolroom door. Well, I had to laugh; and when I turned back into the room, after seeing him to the head of the stairs, I said, "I'm just _glad_ you gave it to him, Nonie!" "There is nothing for you to laugh at, Jack," Nora said sharply, turning on me. "Remember you are only a little boy, and this is none of your affair." With that she picked up her writing materials and walked off. Aren't girls the _funniest_! XXI. THROUGH THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND. TOLD BY JACK. The man to massage Felix came the next day; but, except for the time he was there, Phil took entire charge of Fee. He had always declared he wasn't of any use in a sick-room, but now he seemed to get on very well; you can't think how kind and gentle he was! For one thing, Fee wasn't hard to suit, and that helped things a great deal. If Phil made a mistake, or did something awkwardly, Fee just turned it off in a joking way. He was very white and languid, but not at all sad; in fact, he kept our spirits up with his funny sayings. We all thought it was amazing; nurse said he was "a born angel," and now and then I saw Phil look wistfully at Fee, as if wondering how he _could_ be so brave. And Felix, when he caught Phil's eye, would give a roguish little smile, and say something so merry that we had to laugh. The only part that troubled me was that Phil stuck so closely to Fee that nobody else got a chance to do anything for him. I just longed to go in and sit with Fee a while, but the doctor didn't want more than one to be with him at a time; and what with Nora, and nurse, and Phil, I didn't get any chance at all until about the third day that Fee'd been ill. A telegram came that morning from Miss Marston, saying she was on the way home, and would arrive early in the afternoon, and that we would start for the Cottage the next day,--she didn't know about Fee; we'd been so upset that nobody had thought of writing her. Well, that threw Nora into what Phil calls "a state of mind," and she and nurse began getting things together and packing 'em. I just hate packing times; you have to keep running up and down stairs carrying things, and all that, and you don't have a minute to yourself for reading. But of course I had to help, and I was busy in the nursery handing things to nurse off a shelf, when Phil came to the door with his hat on. He looked brighter than he had for some time. "Jack," he said, "will you sit with Felix for a while? I have to go out; but I'll be back as soon as I can." Of course I was only too glad, and I went right to Fee's room. He looked tired, and those circles under his eyes were very big and dark; but he smiled at me, and chatted for a few minutes. Then presently, after Phil'd gone, he said: "Would you mind taking a seat over there in the window, Jack? I want to do a little quiet thinking. There's a nice book on the table; take it. Phil said he wouldn't be away long." [Illustration: "PACKING TIMES."] I was disappointed,--I wanted to talk with him; but I took the book and went over to the window. It was a capital story, and I soon got interested in it. I don't know how long I'd read--I was enjoying the story so much--when I heard a queer, smothered sound, and it came from the direction of Felix. In a minute I was by his side, exclaiming, "Why, what's the matter, Fee?" He had slipped down in the bed, and while his poor helpless legs still lay stretched straight out, he'd twisted the upper part of his body so that he was now lying a little on his side, hugging one of the pillows, and with his face buried in it. His shoulders were shaking, and when he raised his head to answer me, I saw the tears were streaming down his cheeks. "Shut the door--_quick_!" he cried, gasping between the words. "Lock it--pile the furniture against it--don't let a creature in--oh, _don't_ let them see me!" I flew to the door and locked it; and by the time I got back to the bed, Fee seemed to have lost all control over himself. He twisted and twitched, rolling his head restlessly from side to side,--one minute throwing his arms out wildly as far as they could reach, the next snatching at the pillows or the bed-clothes, and trying to stuff them into his mouth. And all the time he kept making that horrible sharp gasping noise,--as if he were almost losing his breath. I was _dreadfully_ scared at first,--that _Felix_, of all people, should act this way! I got goose-flesh all over, and just stood there staring at Fee, and that seemed only to make him worse. "Don't stare at me like that. Oh, don't, don't, _don't_!" he cried out. "I can't help this--really--I can't, I _can't_! Oh, if I could only _scream_ without the others hearing me!" He threw his head back and beat the pillows with his outstretched arms. Then, somehow, I began to understand: a great lump came in my throat, and taking hold of one of Fee's cold, clammy hands, I commenced stroking and patting it without a word. His fingers were twitching so I could hardly hold them, and he talked very fast,--almost as if he couldn't stop himself. "Don't tell them of this, Jack," he begged, in that sharp gasping voice, "_don't_ tell them! they wouldn't understand--they'd worry--and poor Phil would be wretched. I know what this is to him,--poor old fellow! I see the misery in his face from day to day, and I've tried--so hard--to keep everything in--and be cheerful--so he shouldn't guess--until I thought I _should_ go _mad_! Oh, think of what this _means_ to me, Jack! College, profession, hopes, ambitions--gone _forever_--nothing left but to lie here--for the rest of my life--a useless hulk--a cumberer of the ground. Only seventeen, Jack, and I may live to be eighty--like _this_! never to go about--never to walk again. Oh, if I might _die_!"--his voice got shrill,--"if God would _only_ let me die! I've always been a poor useless creature,--and now, _now_, of what good am I in the world? Nothing but a burden and a care. Oh, how shall I ever, _ever_ endure it!" I was so nervous that I began shaking inside, and I had to speak very slowly to keep my voice from shaking too. "Don't talk so foolishly, Fee," I said,--but not unkindly, you know. "Why, I don't know what we'd all do without you,--having you to ask things of, and to tell us what to do. I know papa depends on you an awful lot; and Miss Marston said the day she went away that she wouldn't've gone if she hadn't known you would be here to look after us and keep things straight; and what _would_ Nannie do without you? Talk about being of no use,--just think what you've saved Phil from!" "I _am_ thankful for that," broke in Felix, "most _thankful_! I don't regret what I did that night, Jack. I'd do it again if need be, even knowing that it must end like _this_,"--with a despairing motion of his hand toward his helpless legs. Then he added eagerly, breathlessly, "Don't ever tell Phil about this morning, Jack,--that I feel so terribly about the accident. Don't tell him,--'twould break his heart. I hope he'll _never_ know. I pretended to be cheerful, I laughed and talked to cheer him up, but my heart grew heavier and heavier, and my head felt as if it were being wound up; I was afraid I'd go mad and tell the whole thing out. Oh, Jack, it's those dreary days, those endless years of uselessness that terrify me. Oh, help me to be strong! Oh, Jack, help me! _help_ me!" His arms began to fly about again; he had thrown off his glasses, and his big hollow eyes stared at me with a wild, beseeching expression in them. "I'm so afraid--I'll scream out--and then they'll all hear me--and know," he gasped. "Oh, give me something, _quick_--oh, do something for me before I lose entire control of myself." I flew to the table and got him some water; I didn't know what else to do, and he wouldn't let me call anybody,--even just speaking of it made him wild. Then I fanned him, and knelt by the bed stroking one of his hands. But nothing seemed to help him. And then--God must have put the thought into my mind--I said suddenly, "Fee, dear, I'm going to sing to you;" and before he could say no, I began. At first I could hardly keep my voice steady,--on account of that horrid, inward shaking,--but I went right on, and gradually it got better. I sang very softly and went from one hymn to the other, just as they came to my mind: First, "O Mother dear, Jerusalem,"--I love that old hymn!--then, "And now we fight the battle, but then shall win the crown;" and then, "The Son of God goes forth to war." That's one of Fee's favourites, and he sobbed right out when I sang,-- "'Who best can drink his cup of woe, Triumphant over pain; Who patient bears his cross below,-- He follows in His train.'" But I kept on,--really, I felt as if I couldn't stop,--and when I got to the last line of "For all the saints who from their labours rest," Fee whispered, "Sing those verses again, Jack." I knew which he meant; so I sang:-- "'Thou wast their Rock, their Fortress, and their Might; Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well-fought fight; Thou, in the darkness drear, the one true Light. Alleluia! "O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true, and bold, Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old, And win, with them, the victor's crown of gold. Alleluia! * * * * * "And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long, Steals on the ear the distant triumph-song, And hearts are brave again, and arms are strong. Alleluia!'" Fee lay quiet when I finished. He was still twitching, and tears were slipping down his cheeks from under his closed lids; but he no longer made that dreadful gasping sound, and there was a beautiful expression on his mouth,--so sweet and patient. "I've not been a soldier 'faithful, true, and bold,'" he said sadly, "but a miserable coward. Ah! how we must weary God with our grumblings and complainings, our broken resolutions and weaknesses. I prayed with all my heart and strength for Phil, that he might be saved from that crowd. And now that God has granted my prayer, I bewail His way of doing it. I was willing then to say, 'At any cost to myself,' and here I am shrinking from the share He has given me! dreading the pain and loneliness. A faithless soldier, Jack,--not worthy to be called a soldier." "Oh! not faithless," I put in eagerly; "indeed, Fee, you're _not_ faithless. Even if you do shrink from this--this trouble--it's only just here between us; you are going to be brave over it,--you know you are. _Going_ to be! why, Fee, I think you _are_ the _bravest_ boy! the truest, noblest--" I had to stop; that lump was just swelling up in my throat. "No," Fee said mournfully, drawing his breath in as Kathie does hers sometimes when she's been crying for a long while; "no, Jack, I'm not really brave,--not yet! I'm going to bear this only because I must--because I _can't_ escape it. Perhaps, by and by, strength may come to endure the trial more patiently; but now--I _dread_ it. I would _fly_ from it if I could; I would _die_ rather than face those awful years of helplessness! See what a poor creature your 'brave boy' is, Jack." His lips were quivering, and he folded one arm over his eyes. Then all at once there came back to me a talk which mamma and I once had, and I thought perhaps 'twould comfort poor Felix, so I tried to tell him as well as I could. "Fee, dear," I said, holding his hand tight in mine, and snuggling my head close up to his on the pillow, so I could whisper, "once, when mamma and I were talking, she said always to remember that God knows it's awfully hard for people to bear suffering and trouble; and that He always helps them and makes allowances for them, because He's our Father, and for the sake of His own dear Son, who had to go through so much trouble here on earth. "And _He_ knows, too, Fee,--Jesus knows _just_ how you feel about this; don't you remember how He prayed that last night in Gethsemane that--if God would--He might not have to go through the awful trial of the cross? He meant to carry it right through, you know, all the time,--that's what He came on earth for; He meant to do every single thing that God had given Him to do, and just as _bravely_! But, all the same, He felt, too, how _awfully_ hard 'twas going to be, and just for a little while beforehand He _dreaded_ it,--just as you dread the years that'll have to pass before you can be well. See? "And He knows your heart, Fee; He knows that you're going to be just as _brave_ and _patient_ as you can be, and He'll help you every time. Nannie and I'll ask Him for you--and Betty--and poor old Phil--all of us. And dear mamma's up there, too; perhaps she's asking Him to comfort you and make you strong. I feel as if she must be doing it,--she loved you so!" Fee drew his hand out of mine, and raising his arm, touched my cheek softly with his feeble fingers, and for a few minutes we neither of us said a word. Then there came a knock at the door; I scrambled to my feet, and going over, turned the key. Somebody brushed quickly by me with the swish of a girl's dress, and there was Nannie in the middle of the room! She ran toward Felix with her arms out, her brown eyes shining with love. "Oh, my darling!" she cried out, "my _dear_!" I heard Fee's glad, breathless exclamation, "My _twinnie_!" Then Phil's arm went over my shoulders and drew me into the hall, and Phil's voice said softly in my ear, "Come, Rosebud, let's leave them alone for a while." XXII. AUF WIEDERSEHEN. TOLD BY JACK. Miss Marston arrived that afternoon, and the next day we started, bag and baggage, for the Cottage. And here we've been for nearly three months; in a week or two more we'll be thinking of going back to the city. Dr. Gordon came up with us, and he and Phil did all they could to make the journey easier for Felix. But he was dreadfully used up by the time we got him to the house, and for days no one but Phil and Nannie were allowed in his room. Papa came a few days after we did, looking ever so much better than when he went away, and he settled down to work at once. Betty's here, too. From what she lets out now and then, I'm pretty sure she's had a real good time; but, do you know, she _won't_ acknowledge it. Still, I notice she doesn't make such fun of Hilliard as she used to; and I will say Betty's improving. She doesn't romp and tear about so much, nor flare out at people so often, and of course that makes her much more comfortable to live with. I'm ever so glad she's here; if she hadn't been, I'm afraid I'd have had an awfully stupid time this summer. You see Betty and I are in the middle; we come between the big and the little ones in the family, and we 'most always go together on that account. [Illustration: "OUT OF DOORS."] Nannie's had her hands full, what with helping papa with the Fetich, and doing all sorts of things for her twin. Nora's looked after Phil and cheered him up when he got blue about Felix, and Phil has just devoted himself to Fee. He's with him almost the whole time, and you can't think how gentle and considerate Phil is these days. Fee is out of doors a great deal; Phil carries him out on fine days, and lays him on his bamboo lounge under the big maples; and there you're sure to find the whole family gathered, some time or other, every day that he is there. It seems as if we love Fee more and more dearly every day,--he's so bright and merry and sweet, and he tries _so_ hard to be patient and make the best of things. Of course he has times--what he calls his "dark days"--when his courage sinks, and he gets cranky and sarcastic; but they don't come as often as at first. And we all make allowances, for we know there isn't one of us that in his place would be as unselfish and helpful. We go to him with everything,--even papa has got in the way of sitting and talking with Fee; anyway, it seems as if papa were more with us now than he used to be, and he's ever so much nicer,--more like other people's fathers are, you know! Felix has got back the use of his fingers since we've been in the country; he can paint or play his violin for a little while at a time, but his legs are still useless. The doctor, though, declares he can see a slight improvement in them. He says now that perhaps--after several years--Fee may be able to get around on crutches! Betty and I felt awfully disappointed when we heard this,--we've been so sure Fee would get perfectly well; but Fee himself was very happy over it. "Once let me assume the perpendicular, even on crutches," he said, smiling at Phil, who sat sadly beside him, "and you see if, after a while, these old pegs don't come up to their duty bravely. I may yet dance at your wedding, Philippus." Max comes up to the Cottage quite often, and stays from Saturday to Monday. He's just as nice and kind as he can be,--why, he doesn't seem to mind one bit going off on jolly long drives in the old depot-wagon, or on larks, with only Nannie and us children; and he's teaching Mädel how to manage G. W. L. Spry and make him go, without being thrown off. Phil and Felix and Max had a long talk together the first time Max came up, and I have an idea 'twas about Chad, for Max looked very grave. I don't know what he did about it, but the other day I heard him tell Nora that Chad had positively made up his mind to go into business. "He says he has broken loose from a very bad set he was in," Max said, "and seems very much in earnest to make the best of himself,--which is, of course, a great relief to me. I hope his good resolutions will amount to something." "Perhaps they will," Nora answered, rather indifferently, but her cheeks got real red. I shouldn't wonder if she thought Chad'd done it because she advised him to. We have a way this summer, on Sunday afternoons, of all sitting with Felix under the maple-trees, talking, and singing our chants and hymns there instead of in the parlour. We were all there--the whole ten of us--one afternoon, when papa came across the lawn and sat down in the basket-chair that Phil rushed off and got him. We'd just finished singing, "O Mother dear, Jerusalem," Fee accompanying us on his violin, and we didn't begin anything else, for there was a queer--sort of excited--look on papa's face that somehow made us think he had something to tell us. And sure enough he had. "My children," he said presently, and his voice wasn't as quiet and even as it usually is, "I have this to tell you,--that last night I finished my life work; my History is completed!" The Fetich finished! we just looked at each other with wide-open eyes. Then Nannie knelt down by papa's chair and kissed him warmly, and Phil, who was sitting on the edge of Fee's lounge, leaned over and shook hands with papa in a kind of grown-up, manly way. "Allow me to congratulate you, sir," Fee said earnestly, with shining eyes. "It is a great piece of work, and your children are _very_ proud of it and of you." The rest of us didn't know what to say, so we just sat and looked at papa. "I began it years ago," papa said after a minute or two, in a dreamy voice, as if talking more to himself than to us, and looking away at the sunset with a sad, far-off expression in his eyes, "_years_ ago; just after I met--Margaret. But for her encouragement--her loving help--her perfect faith in my ability--it could never have been accomplished. Now it is finished--I am here alone--and she--is far away--at peace!" Papa's lips were working; he put his hand up quickly and shielded his eyes from us. We were all very still; we older ones felt very sad. And then, soft and low--almost like an angel's voice--there came from Fee's violin the sweet strains of Handel's "Largo." The music rose and fell a bar or two, and then Nannie and Nora and Phil sang together very softly:-- "The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God. There shall no sorrow touch them. In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die; but they are in peace, for so He giveth His beloved sleep." 
4296	----	Transcribed from the 1909 Wells Gardner, Darton, & Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org FRIARSWOOD POST-OFFICE BY C. M. YONGE, AUTHOR OF "THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE" WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. G. WALKER SCULPTOR LONDON: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO., LTD. 3 & 4 PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, E.C. AND 44 VICTORIA STREET, WESTMINSTER, S.W. CHAPTER I--THE STRANGE LAD 'Goodness! If ever I did see such a pig!' said Ellen King, as she mounted the stairs. 'I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs!' 'Who?' said a voice from the bedroom. 'Why, that tramper who has just been in to buy a loaf! He is a perfect pig, I declare! I only wonder you did not find of him up here! The police ought to hinder such folk from coming into decent people's shops! There, you may see him now!' 'Is that he upon the bridge--that chap about the size of our Harold?' 'Yes. Did you ever see such a figure? His clothes aren't good enough for a scare-crow--and the dirt, you can't see that from here, but you might sow radishes in it!' 'Oh, he's swinging on the rail, just as I used to do. Put me down, Nelly; I don't want to see any more.' And the eyes filled with tears; there was a working about the thin cheeks and the white lips, and a long sigh came out at last, 'Oh, if I was but like him!' 'Like him! I'd wish something else before I wished that,' said Ellen. 'Don't think about it, Alfred dear; here are Miss Jane's pictures.' 'I don't want the pictures,' said Alfred wearily, as he laid his head down on his white pillow, and shut his eyes because they were hot with tears. Ellen looked at him very sadly, and the feeling in her own mind was, that he was right, and nothing could make up for the health and strength that she knew her mother feared would never return to him. There he lay, the fair hair hanging round the white brow with the furrows of pain in it, the purple-veined lids closed over the great bright blue eyes, the long fingers hanging limp and delicate as a lady's, the limbs stretched helplessly on the couch, whither it cost him so much pain to be daily moved. Who would have thought, that not six months ago that poor cripple was the merriest and most active boy in the parish? The room was not a sad-looking one. There were spotless white dimity curtains round the lattice window; and the little bed, and the walnut of the great chest, and of the doors of the press-bed on which Alfred lay, shone with dark and pale grainings. There was a carpet on the floor, and the chairs had chintz cushions; the walls were as white as snow, and there were pretty china ornaments on the mantel-piece, many little pictures hanging upon the walls, and quite a shelf of books upon the white cloth, laid so carefully on the top of the drawers. A little table beside Alfred held a glass with a few flowers, a cup with some toast and water, a volume of the 'Swiss Family Robinson;' and a large book of prints of animals was on a chair where he could reach it. A larger table was covered with needle-work, shreds of lining, scissors, tapes, and Ellen's red work-box; and she herself sat beside it, a very nice-looking girl of about seventeen, tall and slim, her lilac dress and white collar fitting beautifully, her black apron sitting nicely to her trim waist, and her light hair shining, like the newly-wound silk of the silk-worm, round her pleasant face; where the large, clear, well-opened blue eyes, and the contrast of white and red on the cheek, were a good deal like poor Alfred's, and gave an air of delicacy. Their father had been, as their mother said, 'the handsomest coachman who ever drove to St. James's;' but he had driven thither once too often; he had caught his death of cold one bitter day when Lady Jane Selby was obliged to go to a drawing-room, and had gone off in a deep decline fourteen years ago, when the youngest of his five children was not six weeks old. The Selby family were very kind to Mrs. King, who, besides her husband's claims on them, had been once in service there; and moreover, had nursed Miss Jane, the little heiress, Ellen's foster-sister. By their help she had been able to use her husband's savings in setting up a small shop, where she sold tea, tobacco and snuff, tape, cottons, and such little matters, besides capital bread of her own baking, and various sweet-meats, the best to the taste of her own cooking, the prettiest to the eye brought from Elbury. Oranges too, and apples, shewed their yellow or rosy cheeks at her window in their season; and there was sometimes a side of bacon, displaying under the brown coat the delicate pink stripes bordering the white fat. Of late years one pane of her window had been fitted up with a wooden box, with a slit in it on the outside, and a whole region round it taken up with printed sheets of paper about 'Mails to Gothenburg,--Weekly Post to Vancouver's Island'--and all sorts of places to which the Friarswood people never thought of writing. Altogether, she throve very well; and she was a good woman, whom every one respected for the pains she took to bring up her children well. The eldest, Charles, had died of consumption soon after his father, and there had been much fear for his sister Matilda; but Lady Jane had contrived to have her taken as maid to a lady who usually spent the winter abroad, and the warm climate had strengthened her health. She was not often at Friarswood; but when she came she looked and spoke like a lady--all the more so as she gave herself no airs, but was quite simple and humble, for she was a very good right-minded young woman, and exceedingly fond of her home and her good mother. Ellen would have liked to copy Matilda in everything; and as a first step, she went for a year to a dress-maker; but just as this was over, Alfred's illness had begun; and as he wanted constant care and attendance, it was thought better that she should take in work at home. Indeed Alfred was such a darling of hers, that she could not have endured to go away and leave him so ill. Alfred had been a most lively, joyous boy, with higher spirits than he quite knew what to do with, all fun and good-humour, and yet very troublesome and provoking. He and his brother Harold were the monkeys of the school, and really seemed sometimes as if they _could not_ sit still, nor hinder themselves from making faces, and playing tricks; but that was the worst of them--they never told untruths, never did anything mean or unfair, and could always be made sorry when they had been in fault. Their old school-mistress liked them in spite of all the plague they gave her; and they liked her too, though she had tried upon them every punishment she could devise. Little Miss Jane, the orphan whom the Colonel and Mrs. Selby had left to be brought up by her grandmother, had a great fancy that Alfred should be a page; and as she generally had her own way, he went up to the Grange when he was about thirteen years old, and put on a suit thickly sown with buttons. But ere the gloss of his new jacket had begun to wear off, he had broken four wine-glasses, three cups, and a decanter, all from not knowing where he was going; he had put sugar instead of salt into the salt-cellars at the housekeeper's dining-table, that he might see what she would say; and he had been caught dressing up Miss Jane's Skye terrier in one of the butler's clean cravats; so, though Puck, the aforesaid terrier, liked him better than any other person, Miss Jane not excepted, a regular complaint went up of him to my Lady, and he was sent home. He was abashed, and sorry to have vexed mother and disappointed Miss Jane; but somehow he could not be unhappy when he had Harold to play with him again, and he could halloo as loud as they pleased, and stamp about in the garden, instead of being always in mind to walk softly. There was the pony too! A new arrangement had just been made, that the Friarswood letters should be fetched from Elbury every morning, and then left at the various houses of the large straggling district that depended on that post-office. All letters from thence must be in the post before five o'clock, at which time they were to be sent in to Elbury. The post- master at Elbury asked if Mrs. King's sons could undertake this; and accordingly she made a great effort, and bought a small shaggy forest pony, whom the boys called 'Peggy,' and loved not much less than their sisters. It was all very well in the summer to take those two rides in the cool of the morning and evening; but when winter came on, and Alfred had to start for Elbury in the tardy dawn of a frosty morning, or still worse, in the gloom of a wet one, he did not like it at all. He used to ride in looking blue and purple with the chill; and though he went as close to the fire as possible, and steamed like the tea-kettle while he ate his breakfast and his mother sorted the letters, he had not time to warm himself thoroughly before he had to ride off to leave them--two miles further altogether; for besides the bag for the Grange, and all the letters for the Rectory, and for the farmers, there was a young gentlemen's school at a great old lonely house, called Ragglesford, at the end of a very long dreary lane; and many a day Alfred would have given something if those boys' relations would only have been so good as, with one consent, to leave them without letters. It would not have mattered if Alfred had been a stouter boy; but his mother had always thought he had his poor father's constitution, and therefore wished him to be more in the house; but his idleness had prevented his keeping any such place. It might have been the cold and wet, or, as Alfred thought, it might have been the strain he gave himself one day when he was sliding on the ice and had a fall; but one morning he came in from Elbury very pale, and hobbling, as he said his hip hurt him so much, that Harold must take the letters round for him. Harold took them that morning, and for many another morning and evening besides; while poor Alfred came from sitting by the fire to being a prisoner up-stairs, only moved now and then from his own bed to lie outside that of his mother, when he could bear it. The doctor came, and did his best; but the disease had thrown itself into the hip joint, and it was but too plain that Alfred must be a great sufferer for a long time, and perhaps a cripple for life. But how long might this life be? His mother dared not think. Alfred himself, poor boy, was always trying with his whole might to believe himself getting better; and Ellen and Harold always fancied him so, when he was not very bad indeed; but for the last fortnight he had been decidedly worse, and his heart and hopes were sinking, though he would not own it to himself, and that and the pain made his spirits fail so, that he had been more inclined to be fretful than any time since his illness had begun. His view from the window was a pleasant one; and when he was pretty well, afforded him much amusement. The house stood in a neat garden, with green railings between it and the road, over which Alfred could see every one who came and went towards Elbury, and all who had business at the post-office, or at Farmer Shepherd's. Opposite was the farm-yard; and if nothing else was going on, there were always cocks and hens, ducks and turkeys, pigs, cows, or horses, to be seen there; and the cow-milking, or the taking the horses down to the water, the pig-feeding, and the like, were a daily amusement. Sloping down from the farm-yard, the ground led to the river, a smooth clear stream, where the white ducks looked very pretty, swimming, diving, and 'standing tail upwards;' and there was a high-arched bridge over it, where Alfred could get a good view of the carriages that chanced to come by, and had lately seen all the young gentlemen of Ragglesford going home for the summer holidays, making such a whooping and hurrahing, that the place rang again; and beyond, there were beautiful green meadows, with a straight path through them, leading to a stile; and beyond that, woods rose up, and there was a little glimpse of a stately white house peeping through them. Hay-making was going on merrily in the field, under the bright summer sun, and the air was full of the sweet smell of the grass, but there was something sultry and oppressive to the poor boy's feelings; and when he remembered how Farmer Shepherd had called him to lend a hand last year, and how happy he had been tossing the hay, and loading the waggon, a sad sick feeling crept over him; and so it was that the tears rose in his eyes, and he made his sister lay him back on the pillow, for he did not wish to see any more. Ellen worked and thought, and wanted to entertain him, but could not think how. Presently she burst out, however, 'Oh, Alfred! there's Harold coming running back! There he is, jumping over that hay-cock--not touched the ground once--another--oh! there's Farmer Shepherd coming after him!' 'Hold your tongue,' muttered Alfred moodily, as if each of her words gave him unbearable pain; and he hid his face in the pillow. Ellen kept silence for ten minutes, and then broke forth again, 'Now then, Alfred, you _will_ be glad! There's Miss Jane getting over the stile.' 'I don't want Miss Jane,' grumbled Alfred; and as Ellen sprang up and began smoothing his coverings, collecting her scraps, and tidying the room, already so neat, he growled again, 'What a racket you keep!' 'There, won't you be raised up to see her? She does look so pretty in her new pink muslin, with a double skirt, and her little hat and feather, that came from London; and there's Puck poking in the hay--he's looking for a mouse! And she's showering the hay over him with her parasol! Oh, look, Alfred!' and she was going to lift him up, but he only murmured a cross 'Can't you be quiet?' and she let him alone, but went on talking: 'Ah, there's Puck's little tail wriggling out--hinder-end foremost--here he comes--they are touching their hats to her now, the farmer and all, and she nods just like a little queen! She's got her basket, Alfred. I wonder what she has for you in it! Oh dear, there's that strange boy on the bridge! She won't like that.' 'Why, what would he do to her? He won't bite her,' said Alfred. 'Oh, if he spoke to her, or begged of her, she'd be so frightened! There, he looked at her, and she gave such a start. You little vagabond! I'd like to--' 'Stuff! what could he do to her, with all the hay-field and Farmer Shepherd there to take care of her? What a fuss you do make!' said poor Alfred, who was far too miserable just then to agree with any one, though at almost any other time he would have longed to knock down any strange boy who did but dare to pass Miss Selby without touching his cap; and her visits were in general the very light of his life. They were considered a great favour; for though old Lady Jane Selby was a good, kind-hearted person, still she had her fancies, and she kept her young grand-daughter like some small jewel, as a thing to be folded up in a case, and never trusted in common. She was afraid to allow her to go about the village, or into the school and cottages, always fancying she might be made ill, or meet with some harm; but Mrs. King being an old servant, whom she knew so well, and the way lying across only two meadows beyond Friarswood Park, the little pet was allowed to go so far to visit her foster-mother, and bring whatever she could devise to cheer the poor sick boy. Miss Jane, though of the same age as Ellen, and of course with a great deal more learning and accomplishment, had been so little used to help herself, or to manage anything, that she was like one much younger. The sight of the rough stranger on the bridge was really startling to her, and she came across the road and garden as fast as she could without a run; and the first thing the brother and sister heard, was her voice saying rather out of breath and fluttered, 'Oh, what a horrid-looking boy!' Seeing that Mrs. King was serving some one in the shop, she only nodded to her, and came straight up-stairs. Alfred raised up his head, and beheld the little fairy through the open door, first the head, and the smiling little face and slight figure in the fresh summer dress. Miss Jane was not thought very pretty by strangers; but that dainty little person, and sweet sunny eyes and merry smile, and shy, kind, gracious ways, were perfect in the eyes of her grandmamma and of Mrs. King and her children, if of nobody else. Alfred, in his present dismal state, only felt vexed at a fresh person coming up to worry him, and make a talking; especially one whose presence was a restraint, so that he could not turn about and make cross answers at his will. 'Well, Alfred, how are you to-day?' said the sweet gay voice, a little subdued. 'Better, Ma'am, thank you,' said Alfred, who always called himself better, whatever he felt; but his voice told the truth better than his words. 'He's had a very bad night, Miss Jane,' said his sister; 'no sleep at all since two o'clock, and he is so low to-day, that I don't know what to do with him.' Alfred hated nothing so much as to hear that he was low, for it meant that he was cross. 'Poor Alfred!' said the young lady kindly. 'Was it pain that kept you awake?' 'No, Ma'am--not so much--' said the boy. Miss Jane saw he looked very sad, and hoped to cheer him by opening her basket. 'I've brought you a new book, Alfred. It is "The Cherry-stones." Have you finished the last?' 'No, Ma'am.' 'Did you like it?' 'Yes, Ma'am.' But it was a very matter-of-course sort of Yes, and disappointed Miss Jane, who thought he would have been charmed with the 'Swiss Family Robinson.' Ellen spoke: 'Oh yes, Alfred, you know you did like it. I heard you laughing to yourself at Ernest and the shell of soup. And Harold reads that; and 'tis so seldom he will look at a book.' Jane did not like this quite as well as if Alfred had spoken up more; but she dived into her basket again, and brought out a neat little packet of green leaves, with some strawberries done up in it, and giving a little smile, she made sure that it would be acceptable. Ellen thanked vehemently, and Alfred gave feeble thanks; but, unluckily, he had so set his mind upon raspberries, that he could not enjoy the thought of anything else. It was a sickly distaste for everything, and Miss Selby saw that he was not as much pleased as she meant him to be; she looked at him wistfully, and, half grieved, half impatient, she longed to know what he would really like, or if he were positively ungrateful. She was very young, and did not know whether it was by his fault or her mistake that she had failed to satisfy him. Puck had raced up after her, and had come poking and snuffling round Alfred. She would have called him away lest he should be too much for one so weak, but she saw Alfred really did enjoy this: his hand was in the long rough coat, and he was whispering, 'Poor Puck,' and 'Good little doggie;' and the little hairy rummaging creature, with the bright black beads of eyes gleaming out from under his shaggy hair, was doing him more good than her sense and kindness, or Ellen's either. She turned to the window, and said to Ellen, 'What a wild-looking lad that is on the bridge!' 'Yes, Miss Jane,' said Ellen; 'I was quite afraid he would frighten you.' 'Well, I was surprised,' said Jane; 'I was afraid he might speak to me; but then I knew I was too near friends for harm to come to me;' and she laughed at her own fears. 'How ragged and wretched he looks! Has he been begging?' 'No, Miss Jane; he came into the shop, and bought some bread. He paid for it honestly; but I never did see any one so dirty. And there's Alfred wishing to be like him. I knew you would tell him it is quite wicked, Miss Jane.' It is not right, I suppose, to wish to be anything but what we are,' said Jane, rather puzzled by the appeal; 'and perhaps that poor beggar-boy would only like to have a nice room, and kind mother and sister, like you, Alfred.' 'I don't say anything against them!' cried the boy vehemently; 'but--but--I'd give anything--anything in the world--to be able to run about again in the hay-field! No, don't talk to me, Ellen, I say--I hate them all when I see them there, and I forced to lie here! I wish the sun would never shine!' He hid his eyes and ears in the pillow, as if he never wished to see the light again, and would hear nothing. The two girls both stood trembling. Ellen looked at Miss Selby, and she felt that she must say something. But what could she say? With tears in her eyes she laid hold of Alfred's thin hand and tried to speak, choked by tears. 'Dear Alfred, don't say such dreadful things. You know we are all so sorry for you; but God sent it.' Alfred gave a groan of utter distress, as if it were no consolation. 'And--and things come to do us good,' continued Miss Jane, the tears starting to her cheeks. 'I don't know what good it can do me to lie here!' cried Alfred. 'Oh, but, Alfred, it must.' 'I tell you,' exclaimed the poor boy, forgetting his manners, so that Ellen stood dismayed, 'it does not do me good! I didn't use to hate Harold, nor to hate everybody.' 'To hate Harold!' said Jane faintly. 'Ay,' said Alfred, 'when I hear him whooping about like mad, and jumping and leaping, and going on like I used to do, and never shall again.' The tears came thick and fast, and perhaps they did him good. 'But, Alfred,' said Jane, trying to puzzle into the right thing, 'sometimes things are sent to punish us, and then we ought to submit quietly.' 'I don't know what I've done, then,' he cried angrily. 'There have been many worse than I any day, that are well enough now.' 'Oh, Alfred, it is not who is worse, but what one is oneself,' said Jane. Alfred grunted. 'I wish I knew how to help you,' she said earnestly; 'it is so very sad and hard; and I dare say I should be just as bad myself if I were as ill; but do, pray, Alfred, try to think that nobody sent it but God, and that He must know best.' Alfred did not seem to take in much comfort, and Jane did not believe she was putting it rightly; but it was time for her to go home, so she said anxiously, 'Good-bye, Alfred; I hope you'll be better next time--and--and--' She bent down and spoke in a very frightened whisper, 'You know when we go to church, we pray you may have patience under your sufferings.' Then she sprang away, as if ashamed of the sound of her own words; but as she was taking up her basket and wishing Ellen good-bye, she saw that the strange lad had moved nearer the house, and timid little thing as she was, she took out a sixpence, and said, 'Do give him that, and ask him to go away.' Ellen had no very great fancy for facing the enemy herself, but she made no objection; and looking down-stairs, she saw her brother Harold waiting while his mother stamped the letters, and she called to him, and sent him out to the boy. He came back in a few moments so much amazed, that she could see the whites all round his eyes. 'He won't have it! He's a rum one that! He says he's no beggar, and that if the young lady would give him work, he'd thank her; but he wants none of her money, and he'll stand where he chooses!' 'Why didn't you lick him?' hallooed out Alfred's voice from his bed. 'Oh! if I--' 'Nonsense, Alfred!' cried Miss Jane, frightened into spirit; 'stand still, Harold! I don't mind him.' And she put up her parasol, and walked straight out at the house door as bold as a little lioness, going on without looking to the right or left. '_If_--' began Harold, clenching his fists--and Alfred raised himself upon his bed with flashing eyes to watch, as the boy had moved nearer, and looked for a moment as if he were going to grin, or say something impudent; but the quiet childish form stepping on so simply and steadily seemed to disarm him, and he shrunk back, left her to trip across the road unmolested, and stood leaning over the rail of the bridge, gazing after her as she crossed the hay-field. Harold rode off with the letters; and Alfred lay gazing, and wondering what that stranger could be, counting the holes in his garments, and trying to guess at his history. One good thing was, that Alfred was so much carried out of himself, that he was cheerful all the evening. CHAPTER II--HAY-MAKING There was again a sultry night, which brought on so much discomfort and restlessness, that poor Alfred could not sleep. He tried to bear in mind how much he had disturbed his mother the night before, and he checked himself several times when he felt as if he could not bear it any longer without waking her, and to remember his old experience, that do what she would for him, it would be no real relief, and he should only be sorry the next day when he saw her going about her work with a worn face and a head-ache. Then every now and then Miss Selby's words about being patient came back to him. Sometimes he thought them hard, coming from a being who had never known sickness or sorrow, and wondered how she would feel if laid low as he was; but they would not be put away in that manner, for he knew they were true, and were said by others than Miss Jane, though he had begun to think no phrase so tiresome, hopeless, or provoking. People always told him to be patient when they had no comfort to give him, and did not know what he was suffering. He would not have minded it so much if only he could have got it out of his head. Somehow it would not let him call to his mother, if it was only because very likely all he should get by so doing would be to be again told to be patient. And then came Miss Jane's telling him his illness might be good for him, as if she thought he deserved to be punished. Really that was hard! Who could think he deserved this wearing pain and helplessness, only because he had played tricks on the butler and housekeeper, and now and then laughed at church? 'It is just like Job and his friends,' thought Alfred. 'I don't want her to come and see me any more!' Poor Alfred! There was a little twinge here. His conscience could not give quite such an account as did that of Job! But he did not like recollecting his own errors better than any of us do, and liked much more to feel himself very hardly used, and greatly to be pitied. Thereupon he opened his lips to call to his mother, but that old thought about patience returned on him; he had mercy on her regular breathing, though it made him quite envious to hear it, and he said to himself that he would let her alone, at least till the next time the clock struck. It would be three o'clock next time. Oh dear, would the night never be over? How often such a round of weary thoughts came again and again can hardly be counted; but, at any rate, poor Alfred was exercising one act of forbearance, and that was so much gain. At last he found, by the increasing light shewing him the shapes of all the pictures, that he must have had a short sleep which had made him miss the clock, and he felt a good deal injured thereby. However, Mrs. King was too good a nurse not to be awakened by his first movement, and she came to him, gave him some cold tea, and settled his pillow so as to make him more comfortable; and when he begged her to let in a little more air, she went to open the window wider, and relieve the closeness of the little room. She had learnt while living with Lady Jane that night air is not so dangerous as some people fancy; and it was an infinite relief to Alfred when the lattice was thrown back, and the cool breeze came softly in, with the freshness of the dew, and the delicious scent of the hay-field. Mrs. King stood a moment to look out at the beautiful stillness of early dawn, the trees and meads so gravely calmly quiet, and the silver dew lying white over everything; the tanned hay-cocks rising up all over the field, the morning star and waning moon glowing pale as light of morning spread over the sky. Then a cock crew somewhere at a distance, and Mrs. Shepherd's cock answered him more shrilly close by, and the swallows began to twitter under the eaves. 'It _will_ be a fine day, to be sure!' she said. 'The farmer will get in his hay!' and then she stood looking as if something had caught her attention. 'What do you see, Mother?' asked Alfred. 'I was looking what that was under yon hay-cock,' said Mrs. King; 'and I do believe it is some one sleeping there.' 'Ha!' cried Alfred. 'I dare say it is the boy that would not have Miss Jane's sixpence.' 'I'm sure I hope he's after no harm,' said Mrs. King; 'I don't like to have tramps about so near. I hope he means no mischief by the farmer's poultry.' 'He can't be one of that sort, or he wouldn't have refused the money,' said Alfred. 'How nice and cool it must be sleeping in the hay! I'll warrant he doesn't lie awake. I wish I was there!' 'You'll know what to be thankful for one of these days, my poor lad,' said his mother, sighing; then yawning, she said, 'I must go back to bed. Mind you call out, Alfred, if you hear anything like a noise in the farm- yard.' This notion rather interested Alfred; he began to build up a fine scheme of shouting out and sending Harold to the rescue of the cocks and hens, and how well he would have done it himself a year ago, and pinned the thief, and fastened the door on him. Not that he thought this individual lad at all likely to be a thief, nor did he care much for Farmer Shepherd, who was a hard man and no favourite; but to catch a thief would be a grand feat. And while settling his clever plan, and making some compliments for the magistrate to pay him, Alfred, fanned by the cool breeze, fell into a sound sleep, and did not wake till the sun was high, and all the rest of the house were up and dressed. That good sleep made him much more able to bear the burden of the day. First, his mother came with the towel and basin, and washed his face and hands; and then he had his little book, and said his prayers; and somehow to-day he felt so much less fractious than usual, that he asked to be taught patience, and not _only_ to be made well, as he had hitherto done. That over, he lay smiling as he waited for his breakfast, and when Ellen brought it to him, he had not one complaint to make, but ate it almost with a relish. 'Is that boy gone?' he asked Ellen, as she tidied the room while he was eating. 'What, the dirty boy? No, there he is, speaking to the farmer. Will he beg of him?' 'Asking for work, more likely.' 'I'd sooner give work to a pig at once,' said Ellen; 'but I do believe he's getting it. I fancy they are short of hands for the hay. Yes, he's pointing into the field. Ay, and he's sending him into the yard.' 'I hope he'll give him some breakfast,' said Alfred. 'Do you know he slept all night on a hay-cock?' 'Yes, so Mother said, just like a dog; and he got up like a dog this morning,--never so much as washed himself at the river. Why, he's coming here! Whatever does he want?' 'The lad?' 'No, the farmer.' Mr. Shepherd's heavy tread was heard below, and, as Alfred said, Ellen had only to hold her tongue for them be able to hear his loud tones telling Mrs. King that the glass was falling, and his hay in capital order, and his hands short, and asking whether her boy Harold would come and help in the hay-field between the post times. Mrs. King gave a ready answer that the boy would be well pleased, and the farmer promised him his victuals and sixpence for the day. 'Your lass wouldn't like to come too, I suppose, eh?' Ellen flushed with indignation. She go a hay-making! Her mother was civilly making answer that her daughter was engaged with her sick brother, and besides--had her work for Mrs. Price, which must be finished off. The farmer, saying he had not much expected her, but thought she might like a change from moping over her needle, went off. Ellen did not feel ready to forgive him for wanting to set her to field- work. There is some difference between being fine and being refined, and in Ellen's station of life it is very difficult to hit the right point. To be refined is to be free from all that is rough, coarse, or ungentle; to be fine, is to affect to be above such things. Now Ellen was really refined in her quietness and maidenly modesty, and there was no need for her to undertake any of those kinds of tasks which, by removing young girls from home shelter, do sometimes help to make them rude and indecorous; but she was _fine_, when she gave herself a little mincing air of contempt, as if she despised the work and those who did it. Lydia Grant, who worked so steadily and kept to herself so modestly, that no one ventured a bold word to her as she tossed her hay, was just as refined as Ellen King behind her white blinds, ay, or as Jane Selby herself in her terraced garden. Refinement is in the mind that loves whatsoever is pure, lovely, and of good report; finery is in disdaining what is homely or humble. Boys of all degrees are usually, when they are good for anything, the greatest enemies of the finery tending to affectation; and Alfred at once began to make a little fun of his sister, and tell her it would be a famous thing for her, he believed she had quite forgotten how to run, and did not know a rake from a fork when she saw it. He knew she was longing for a ride in the waggon, if she would but own it. Ellen used to be teased by this kind of joking; but she was too glad to see Alfred well enough so to entertain himself, to think of anything but pleasing him, so she answered good-humouredly that Harold must make hay for them all three to-day, no doubt but he would be pleased enough. He was heard trotting home at this moment, and whistling as he hitched up the pony at the gate, and ran in with the letter-bag, to snap up his breakfast while the letters were sorted. 'Here, let me have them,' called Alfred, and they were glad he should do it, for he was the quickest of the family at reading handwriting; but he was often too ill to attend to it, and more often the weary fretfulness and languor of his state made him dislike to exert himself, so it was apt to depend on his will or caprice. 'Look sharp, Alf!' hallooed out Harold, rushing up-stairs with the bags in one hand, and his bread-and-butter in the other. 'If you find a letter for that there Ragglesford, I don't know what I shall do to you! I must be back in no time for the hay!' And he had bounced down-stairs again before Ellen had time to scold him for making riot enough to shake Alfred to pieces. He was a fine tall stout boy, with the same large fully open blue eyes, high colour, white teeth, and light curly hair, as his brother and sister, but he was much more sunburnt. If you saw him with his coat off, he looked as if he had red gloves and a red mask on, so much whiter was his skin where it was covered; and he was very strong for his age, and never had known what illness was. The brothers were very fond of each other, but since Alfred had been laid up, they had often been a great trial to each other--the one seemed as little able to live without making a noise, as the other to endure the noise he made; and the sight of Harold's activity and the sound of his feet and voice, vexed the poor helpless sufferer more than they ought to have done, or than they would had the healthy brother been less thoughtless in the joy of his strength. To-day, however, all was smooth. Alfred did not feel every tread of those bounding limbs like a shock to his poor diseased frame; and he only laughed as he unlocked the leathern bag, and dealt out the letters, putting all those for the Lady Jane Selby, Miss Selby, and the servants, into their own neat little leathern case with the padlock, and sorting out the rest, with some hope there might be one from Matilda, who was a very good one to write home. There was none from her, but then there was none for Ragglesford, and that was unexpected good luck. If the old housekeeper left in charge had been wicked enough to get her newspaper that day, Alfred felt that in Harold's place he should be sorely tempted to chuck it over the hedge. Ellen looked as if he had talked of murdering her, and truly such a breach of trust would have been a very grievous fault. 'The Reverend--what's his name? the Reverend Marcus Cope, Friarswood, near Elbury,' read Alfred; 'one, two, three letters, and a newspaper. Yes, and this long printed-looking thing. Who is he, Ellen?' 'What did you say?' said Ellen, who was busy shaking her mother's bed, and had not heard at the first moment, but now turned eagerly; 'what did you say his name was?' 'The Reverend Marcus Cope,' repeated Alfred. 'Is that another new parson?' 'Why, did not we tell you what a real beautiful sermon the new clergyman preached on Sunday? Mr. Cope, so that's his name. I wonder if he is come to stay.--Mother,' she ran to the head of the stairs, 'the new clergyman's name is the Reverend Mr. Marcus Cope.' 'He don't live at Ragglesford, I hope!' cried Harold, who regarded any one at the end of that long lane as his natural enemy. 'No, it only says Friarswood,' said Ellen. 'You'll have to find out where he lives, Harold.' 'Pish! it will take me an hour going asking about!' said Harold impatiently. 'He must have his letters left here till he chooses to come for them, if he doesn't know where he lives.' 'No, no, Harold, that won't do,' said Mrs. King. 'You must take the gentleman his letters, and they'll be sure to know at the Park, or at the Rectory, or at the Tankard, where he lodges. Well, it will be a real comfort if he is come to stop.' So Harold went off with the letters and the pony, and Ellen and her mother exchanged a few words about the gentleman and his last Sunday's sermon, and then Ellen went to dust the shop, and put out the bread, while her mother attended to Alfred's wound, the most painful part of the day to both of them. It was over, however, and Alfred was resting afterwards when Harold cantered home as hard as the pony could or would go, and came racing up to say, 'I've seen him! He's famous! He stood out in the road and met me, and asked for his letters, and he's to be at the Parsonage, and he asked my name, and then he laughed and said, "Oh! I perceive it is the royal mail!" I didn't know what he was at, but he looked as good-humoured as anything. Halloo! give me my old hat, Nell--that's it! Hurrah! for the hay-waggon! I saw the horses coming out!' And off he went again full drive; and Alfred did nothing worse than give a little groan. Ellen had enough to do in wondering about Mr. Cope. News seemed to belong of right to the post-office, and it was odd that he should have preached on Sunday, and now it should be Tuesday, without anything having been heard of him, not even from Miss Jane; but then the young lady had been fluttered by the strange boy, and Alfred had been so fretful, that it might have put everything out of her head. Friarswood was used to uncertainty about the clergyman. The Rector had fallen into such bad health, that he had long been unable to do anything, and always hoping to get better, he had sent different gentlemen to take the services, first one and then another, or had asked the masters at Ragglesford to help him; but it was all very irregular, and no one had settled down long enough to know the people or do much good in visiting them. My Lady, as they all called Lady Jane, was as sorry as any one could be, and she tried what she could do by paying a very good school- master and mistress, and giving plenty of rewards; but nothing could be like the constant care of a real good clergyman, and the people were all the worse for the want. They had the church to go to, but it was not brought home to them. The Rector had been obliged at last to go abroad, one of the Ragglesford gentlemen had performed the service for the ensuing Sundays, until now there seemed to be a chance that this new clergyman was coming to stay. This interested Alfred less than his sister. His curiosity was chiefly about the strange lad; and when he was moved to his place by the window he turned his eyes anxiously to make him out in the line of hay-makers, two fields off, as they shook out the grass to give it the day's sunshine. He knew them all, the ten women, with their old straw bonnets poked down over their faces, and deep curtains sewn on behind to guard their necks; the farm men come in from their other work to lend a hand, three or four boys, among whom he could see Harold's white shirt sleeves, and sometimes hear his merry laugh, and he was working next to the figure in brown faded-looking tattered array, which Alfred suspected to belong to the strange boy. So did Ellen. 'Ah!' she said, 'Harold ye scraped acquaintance with that vagabond-looking boy; I wish I had warned him against it, but I suppose he would only have done it all the more.' 'You want to make friends with him yourself, Ellen! We shall have you nodding to him next! You are as curious about him as can be!' said Alfred slyly. 'Me! I never was curious about nothing so insignificant,' said Ellen. 'All I wish is, that that boy may not be running into bad company.' The hay-fields were like an entertainment on purpose for Alfred all day; he watched the shaking of the brown grass all over the meadows in the morning, and the farmer walking over it, and smelling it, and spying up to guess what would come of the great rolling towers of grey clouds edged with pearly white, soft but dazzling, which varied the intense blue of the sky. Then he watched all the company sit or lie down on the shady side of the hedge, under the pollard-willows, and Tom Boldre the shuffler and one or two more go into the farm-house, and come out with great yellow-ware with pies in them, and the little sturdy-looking kegs of beer, and two mugs to go round among them all. There was Harold lying down, quite at his ease, close to the strange boy; Alfred knew how much better that dinner would taste to him than the best with the table-cloth neatly spread in his mother's kitchen; and well did Alfred remember how much more enjoyment there was in such a meal as that, than in any one of the dainties that my Lady sent down to tempt his sickly appetite. And what must pies and beer be to the wanderer who had eaten the crust so greedily the day before! Then, after the hour's rest, the hay-makers rose up to rake the hay into beds ready for the waggons. Harold and the stranger were raking opposite to each other, and Alfred could see them talking; and when they came into the nearer hay-field, he saw Harold put up his hand, and point to the open window, as if he were telling the other lad about the sick boy who was lying there. He was so much absorbed in thus watching, that he did not pay much heed to what interested his mother and sister--the reports which came by every customer about the new clergyman, who, it appeared, had been staying in the next parish till yesterday, when he had moved into the Rectory; and Mrs. Bonham, the butcher's wife, reported that the Rectory servants said he was come to stay till their master came back. All this and much more Mrs. King heard and rehearsed to Ellen, while Alfred lay, sometimes reading the 'Swiss Robinson,' sometimes watching the loading of the wains, as they creaked slowly through the fields, the horses seeming to enjoy the work, among their fragrant provender, as much as the human kind. When five o'clock struck, Harold gave no signs of quitting the scene of action; and Mrs. King, in much anxiety lest the letters should be late, sent Helen to get the pony ready, while she herself went into the field to call the boy. Very unwilling he was to come--he shook his shoulders, and growled and grumbled, and said he should be in plenty of time, and he wished the post was at the bottom of the sea. Nothing but his mother's orders and the necessity of the case could have made him go at all. At last he walked off, as if he had lead in his feet, muttering that he wished he had not some one to be always after him. Mrs. King looked at the grimy face of his disreputable-looking companion, and wondered whether he had put such things into his head. Very cross was Harold as he twitched the bridle out of Ellen's hand, threw the strap of the letter-bag round his neck, and gave such a re-echoing switch to the poor pony, that Alfred heard it up-stairs, and started up to call out, 'For shame, Harold!' Harold was ashamed: he settled himself in the saddle and rode off, but Alfred had not the comfort of knowing that his ill-humour was not being vented upon the poor beast all the way to Elbury. Alfred had given a great deal of his heart to that pony, and it made him feel helpless and indignant to think that it was ill-used. Those tears of which he was ashamed came welling up into his eyes as he lay back on his pillow; but they were better tears than yesterday's--they were not selfish. 'Never mind, Alfy,' said Ellen, 'Harold's not a cruel lad; he'll not go on, if he was cross for a bit. It is all that he's mad after that boy there! I wish mother had never let him go into the hay-field to meet bad company! Depend upon it, that boy has run away out of a Reformatory! Sleeping out at night! I can't think how Farmer Shepherd could encourage him among honest folk!' 'Well, now I think of it, I should not wonder if he had,' said Mrs. King. 'He is the dirtiest boy that ever I did see! Most likely; I wish he may do no mischief to-night!' Harold came home in better humour, but a fresh vexation awaited him. Mrs. King would not let him go to the hay-home supper in the barn. The men were apt to drink too much and grow riotous; and with her suspicions about his new friend, she thought it better to keep him apart. She was a spirited woman, who would be minded, and Harold knew he must submit, and that he had behaved very ill. Ellen told him too how much Alfred had been distressed about the pony, and though he would not shew her that he cared, it made him go straight up-stairs, and with a somewhat sheepish face, say, 'I say, Alf, the pony's all right. I only gave him one cut to get him off. He'd never go at all if he didn't know his master.' 'He'd go fast enough for my voice,' said Alfred. 'You know I'd never go for to beat him,' continued Harold; 'but it was enough to vex a chap--wasn't it?--to have Mother coming and lugging one off from the carrying, and away from the supper and all. Women always grudge one a bit of fun!' 'Mother never grudged us cricket, nor nothing in reason,' said Alfred. 'Lucky you that could make hay at all! And what made you so taken up with that new boy that Ellen runs on against, and will have it he's a convict?' 'A convict! if Ellen says that again!' cried Harold; 'no more a convict than she is.' 'What is he, then? Where does he come from?' 'His name is Paul Blackthorn,' said Harold; 'and he's the queerest chap I ever came across. Why, he knew no more what to do with a prong than the farmer's old sow till I shewed him.' 'But where did he come from?' repeated Alfred. 'He walked all the way from Piggot's turnpike yesterday,' said Harold. 'He's looking for work.' 'And before that?' 'He'd been in the Union out--oh! somewhere, I forgot where, but it's a name in the Postal Guide.' 'Well, but you've not said who he is,' said Ellen. 'Who? why, I tell you, he's Paul Blackthorn.' 'But I suppose he had a father and mother,' said Ellen. 'No,' said Harold. 'No!' Ellen and Alfred cried out together. 'Not as ever he heard tell of,' said Harold composedly, as if this were quite natural and common. 'And you could go and be raking with him like born brothers there!' said Ellen, in horror. 'D'ye think I'd care for stuff like that?' said Harold. 'Why, he sings--he sings better than Jack Lyte! He's learnt to sing, you know. And he's such a comical fellow! he said Mr. Shepherd was like a big pig on his hind legs; and when Mrs. Shepherd came out to count the scraps after we had done, what does he do but whisper to me to know how long our withered cyder apples had come to life!' Such talents for amusing others evidently far out-weighed in Harold's consideration such trifling points as fathers, mothers, and respectability. Alfred laughed; but Ellen thought it no laughing matter, and reproved Harold for being wicked enough to hear his betters made game of. 'My betters!' said Harold--'an old skinflint like Farmer Shepherd's old woman?' 'Hush, Harold! I'll tell Mother of you, that I will!' cried Ellen. 'Do then,' said Harold, who knew his sister would do no such thing. She had made the threat too often, and then not kept her word. She contented herself with saying, 'Well, all I know is, that I'm sure now he has run away out of prison, and is no better than a thief; and if our place isn't broken into before to-morrow morning, and Mother's silver sugar-tongs gone, it will be a mercy. I'm sure I shan't sleep a wink all night.' Both boys laughed, and Alfred asked why he had not done it last night. 'How should I know?' said Ellen. 'Most likely he wanted to see the way about the place, before he calls the rest of the gang.' 'Take care, Harold! it's a gang coming now,' said Alfred, laughing again. 'All coming on purpose to steal the sugar-tongs!' 'No, I'll tell you what they are come to steal,' said Harold mischievously; 'it's all for Ellen's fine green ivy-leaf brooch that Matilda sent her!' 'I dare say Harold has been and told him everything valuable in the house!' said Ellen. 'I think,' said Alfred gravely, 'it would be a very odd sort of thief to come here, when the farmer's ploughing cup is just by.' 'Yes,' said Harold, 'I'd better have told him of that when I was about it; don't you think so, Nelly?' 'If you go on at this rate,' said Ellen, teased into anger, 'you'll be robbing the post-office yourself some day.' 'Ay! and I'll get Paul Blackthorn to help me,' said the boy. 'Come, Ellen, don't be so foolish; I tell you he's every bit as honest as I am, I'd go bail for him.' 'And I _know_ he'll lead you to ruin!' cried Ellen, half crying: 'a boy that comes from nowhere and nobody knows, and sleeps on a hay-cock all night, no better than a mere tramp!' 'What, quarrelling here? 'said Mrs. King, coming up-stairs. 'The lad, I wish him no ill, I'm sure, but he'll be gone by to-morrow, so you may hold your tongues about him, and we'll read our chapter and go to bed.' Harold's confidence and Ellen's distrust were not much wiser the one than the other. Which was nearest being right? CHAPTER III--A NEW FRIEND The post-office was not robbed that night, neither did the silver sugar- tongs disappear, though Paul Blackthorn was no farther off than the hay- loft at Farmer Shepherd's, where he had obtained leave to sleep. But he did not go away with morning, though the hay-making was over. Ellen saw him sitting perched on the empty waggon, munching his breakfast, and to her great vexation, exchanging nods and grins when Harold rode by for the morning's letters; and afterwards, there was a talk between him and the farmer, which ended in his having a hoe put into his hand, and being next seen in the turnip-field behind the farm. To make up for the good day, this one was a very bad one with poor Alfred. There was thunder in the air, and if the sultry heat weighed heavily even on the healthy, no wonder it made him faint and exhausted, disposed to self-pity, and terribly impatient and fretful. He was provoked by Ellen's moving about the room, and more provoked by Harold's whistling as he cleaned out the stable; and on the other hand, Harold was petulant at being checked, and vowed there was no living in the house with Alfred making such a work. Moreover, Alfred was restless, and wanted something done for him every moment, interrupting Ellen's work, and calling his mother up from her baking so often for trifles, that she hardly knew how to get through it. The doctor, Mr. Blunt, came, and he too felt the heat, having spent hours in going his rounds in the closeness and dust. He was a rough man, and his temper did not always hold out; he told Alfred sharply that he would have no whining, and when the boy moaned and winced more than he would have done on a good day, he punished him by not trying to be tender-handed. When Mrs. King said, perhaps a little lengthily, how much the boy had suffered that morning, the doctor, wearied out, no doubt, with people's complaints, cut her short rather rudely, 'Ay, ay, my good woman, I know all that.' 'And can nothing be done, Sir, when he feels so sinking and weak?' 'Sinking--he must feel sinking--nothing to do but to bear it,' said Mr. Blunt gruffly, as he prepared to go. 'Don't keep me now;' and as Alfred held up his hand, and made some complaint of the tightness of the bandage, he answered impatiently, 'I've no time for that, my lad; keep still, and be glad you've nothing worse to complain of.' 'Then you don't think he is getting any better, Sir?' said Mrs. King, keeping close to him. 'I thought he was yesterday, and I wanted to speak to you. My oldest daughter thought if we could get him away to the sea, and--' 'That's all nonsense,' said the hurried doctor; 'don't you spend your money in that way; I tell you nothing ever will do him any good.' This was at the bottom of the stairs; and Mr. Blunt was off. He was the cleverest doctor for a good way round, and it was not easy to Mrs. King to secure his attendance. Her savings and Matilda's were likely to melt away sadly in paying him, since she was just too well off to be doctored at the parish expense, and he was really a good and upright man, though wanting in softness of manner when he was hurried and teased. If Mrs. King had known that he was in haste to get to a child with a bad burn, she might have thought him less unkind in the short ungentle way in which he dashed her hopes. Alas! there had never been much hope; but she feared that Alfred might have heard, and have been shocked. Ellen heard plainly enough, and her heart sank. She tried to look at her brother's face, but he had put it out of sight, and spoke not a word; and she only could sit wondering what was the real drift of the cruel words, and whether the doctor meant to give no hope of recovery, or only to dissuade her mother from vainly trying change of air. Her once bright brother always thus! It was a sad thought, and yet she would have been glad to know he would be no worse; and Ellen's heart was praying with all her might that he might have his health and happiness restored to him, and that her mother might be spared this bitter sorrow. Alfred said nothing about the doctor's visit, but he could eat no dinner, and did not think this so much the fault of his sickly taste, as of his mother's potato-pie; he could not think why she should be so cross as to make that thing, when she knew he hated it; and as to poor Harold, Alfred would hardly let him speak or stir, without ordering Ellen down to tell him not to make such a row. Ellen was thankful when Harold was fairly hunted out of the house and garden, even though he betook himself to the meadow, where Paul Blackthorn was lying on the grass with his feet kicking in the air, and shewing the skin through his torn shoes. The two lads squatted down on the grass with their heads together. Who could tell what mischief that runaway might be putting into Harold's head, and all because Alfred could not bear with him enough for him to be happy at home? They were so much engrossed, that it needed a rough call from the farmer to send Paul back to his work when the dinner-hour was over; whereupon Harold came slowly to his digging again. Hotter and hotter did it grow, and the grey dull clouds began to gain a yellow lurid light in the distance; there were low growlings of thunder far away, and Ellen left her work unfinished, and forgot how hot she was herself in toiling to fan Alfred, so as to keep him in some little degree cooler, while the more he strove with the heat, the more oppressed and miserable he grew. Poor fellow! his wretchedness was not so much the heat, as the dim perception of Mr. Blunt's hasty words; he had not heard them fully--he dared not inquire what they had been, and he could not endure to face them--yet the echo of 'nothing will ever do him good,' seemed to ring like a knell in his ears every time he turned his weary head. Nothing do him good! Nothing! Always these four walls, that little bed, this wasting weary lassitude, this gnawing, throbbing pain, no pony, no running, no shouting, no sense of vigour and health ever again, and perhaps--that terrible perhaps, which made Alfred's very flesh quail, he would not think of; and to drive it away, he found some fresh toil to require of the sister who could not content him, toil as she would. Slowly the afternoon hours rolled on, one after the other, and Alfred had just been in a pet with the clock for striking four when he wanted it to be five, when the sky grew darker, and one or two heavy drops of rain came plashing down on the thirsty earth. 'The storm is coming at last, and now it will be cooler,' said Ellen, looking out from the window. 'Dear me!' she added, there stopping short. 'What?' asked Alfred. 'What are you gaping at?' 'I declare!' cried Ellen, 'it's the new clergyman! It is Mr. Cope, and he is coming up to the wicket!' Alfred turned his head with a peevish sound; he was in the dreary mood to resent whatever took off attention from him for a moment. 'A very pleasant-looking gentleman,' commented Ellen, 'and so young! He does not look older than Charles Lawrence! I wonder whether he is coming in, or if it is only to post a letter. Oh! there he is, talking to Mother! There!' A vivid flash of lightning came over the room at that moment and made them all pause till it was followed up by the deep rumble of the thunder, and then down rushed the rain, plashing and leaping up again, bringing out the delicious scent from the earth, and seeming in one moment to breathe refreshment and relief on the sick boy. His brow was already clearing, as he listened to his mother's tones of welcome, as she was evidently asking the stranger to sit down and wait for the storm to be over, and the cheerful voice that replied to her. He did not scold Ellen for, as usual, making things neat; and whereas, five minutes sooner, he would have hated the notion of any one coming near him, he now only hoped that his mother would bring Mr. Cope up; and presently he heard the well- known creak of the stairs under a manly foot, and his mother's voice saying something about 'a great sufferer, Sir.' Then came in sight his mother's white cap, and behind her one of the most cheerful lively faces that Alfred had ever beheld. The new Curate looked very little more than a boy, with a nice round fresh rosy face, and curly brown hair, and a quick joyous eye, and regular white teeth when he smiled that merry good-humoured smile. Indeed, he was as young as a deacon could be, and he looked younger. He knocked his tall head against the top of the low doorway as he came into the room, and answered Mrs. King's apologies with a pleasant laugh. Ellen knew her mother would like him the better for his height, for no one since the handsome coachman himself had had to bend his head to get into the room. Alfred liked the looks of him the first moment, and by way of salutation put up one of his weary, white, blue-veined hands to pull his damp forelock; but Mr. Cope, nodding in answer to Ellen's curtsey, took hold of his hand at once, and softening the cheery voice that was so pleasant to hear, said, 'Well, my boy, I hope we shall be good friends. And what's your name?' 'Alfred King, Sir,' was the answer. It really was quite a pleasure not to begin with the old weary subject of being pitied for his illness. 'King Alfred!' said Mr. Cope. 'I met King Harold yesterday. I've got into royal company, it seems!' Alfred smiled, it was said so drolly; but his mother, who felt a little as if she were being laughed at, said, 'Why, Sir, my brother's name was Alfred; and as to Harold, it was to please Miss Jane's little sister that died--she was quite a little girl then, Sir, but so clever, and she would have him named out of her History of England.' 'Did Miss Selby give you those flowers?' said Mr. Cope, admiring the rose and geranium in the cup on the table. 'Yes, Sir;' and Mrs. King launched out in the praises of Miss Jane and of my Lady, an inexhaustible subject which did not leave Alfred much time to speak, till Mrs. King, seeing the groom from the Park coming with the letter-bag through the rain, asked Mr. Cope to excuse her, and went down- stairs. 'Well, Alfred, I think you are a lucky boy,' he said. 'I was comparing you with a lad I once knew of, who got his spine injured, and is laid up in a little narrow garret, in a back street, with no one to speak to all day. I don't know what he would not give for a sister, and a window like this, and a Miss Jane.' Alfred smiled, and said, 'Please, Sir, how old is he?' 'About sixteen; a nice stout lad he was, as ever I knew, till his accident; I often used to meet him going about with his master, and thought it was a pleasure to meet such a good-humoured face.' Alfred ventured to ask his trade, and was told he was being brought up to wait on his father, who was a bricklayer, but that a ladder had fallen with him as he was going up with a heavy load, and he had been taken at once to the hospital. The house on which he was employed belonged to a friend of Mr. Cope, and all in the power of this gentleman had been done for him, but that was not much, for it was one of the families that no one can serve; the father drank, and the mother was forced to be out charing all day, and was so rough a woman, that she could hardly be much comfort to poor Jem when she was at home. Alfred was quite taken up with the history by this time, and kept looking at Mr. Cope, as if he would eat it up with his eager eyes. Ellen asked compassionately who did for the poor boy all day. 'His mother runs in at dinner-time, if she is not at work too far off, and he has a jug of water and a bit of bread where he can reach them; the door is open generally, so that he can call to some of the other lodgers, but though the house is as full as a bee-hive, often nobody hears him. I believe his great friend is a little school-girl, who comes and sits by him, and reads to him if she can; but she is generally at school, or else minding the children.' 'It must be very lonely,' said Alfred, perceiving for the first time that there could be people worse off than himself; 'but has he no books to read?' 'He was so irregularly sent to school, that he could not read to himself, even if his corner were not so dark, and the window so dingy. My friend gave him a Bible, but he could not get on with it; and his mother, I am sorry to say, pawned it.' Ellen and Alfred both cried out as if they had never heard of anything so shocking. 'It was grievous,' said Mr. Cope; 'but the poor things did not know the value, and when there was scarcely a morsel of bread in the house, there was cause enough for not judging them hardly, but I don't think Jem would allow it now. He got some of his little friend's easy Scripture lessons and the like, in large print, which he croons over as he lies there alone, till one feels sure that they are working into his heart. The people in the house say that though he has been ill these three years, he has never spoken an ill-tempered word; and if any one pities him, he answers, "It is the Lord," and seems to wish for no change. He lies there between dozing and dreaming and praying, and always seems content.' 'Does he think he shall get well?' said Alfred, who had been listening earnestly. 'Oh no; there is no chance of that; it is an injury past cure. But I suppose that while he bears the Will of God so patiently here, his Heavenly Father makes it up to him in peacefulness of heart now, and the hope of what is to come hereafter.' Alfred made no answer, but his eyes shewed that he was thinking; and Mr. Cope rose, and looked out of window, as a gleam of sunshine, while the dark cloud lifted up from the north-west, made the trees and fields glow with intense green against the deep grey of the sky, darker than ever from the contrast. Ellen stood up, and Alfred exclaimed, 'Oh Sir, please come again soon!' 'Very soon,' said Mr. Cope good-humouredly; 'but you've not got rid of me yet, the rain is pretty hard still, and I see the beggarmen dancing all down the garden-walk.' Alfred and Ellen smiled to hear their mother's old word for the drops splashing up again; and Mr. Cope went on: 'The garden looks very much refreshed by this beautiful shower. It is in fine order. Is it the other monarch's charge?' 'Harold's, Sir,' said Ellen. 'Yes, he takes a great pride in it, and so did Alfred when he was well.' 'Ah, I dare say; and it must be pleasant to you to see your brother working in it now. I see him under that shed, and who is that lad with him? They seem to have some good joke together.' 'Oh,' said Ellen, 'Harold likes company, you see, Sir, and will take up with anybody. I wish you could be so good as to speak to him, Sir, for lads of that age don't mind women folk, you see, Sir.' 'What? I hope his majesty does not like bad company?' said Mr. Cope, not at all that he thought lightly of such an evil, but it was his way to speak in that droll manner, especially as Ellen's voice was a little bit peevish. 'Nobody knows no harm of the chap,' said Alfred, provoked at Ellen for what he thought unkindness in setting the clergyman at once on his brother; but Ellen was the more displeased, and exclaimed: 'Nor nobody knows no good. He's a young tramper that hired with Farmer Shepherd yesterday, a regular runaway and reprobate, just out of prison, most likely.' 'Well, I hope not so bad as that,' said Mr. Cope, 'he's not a bad-looking boy; but I dare say you are anxious about your brother. It must be dull for him, to have his companion laid up;--and by the looks of him, I dare say his spirits are sometimes too much for you,' he added, turning to Alfred. 'He does make a terrible racket sometimes,' said Alfred. 'Ay, and I dare say you will try to bear with it, and not drive him out to seek dangerous company,' said Mr. Cope; at which Alfred blushed a little, as he remembered the morning, and that he had never thought of this danger. Mr. Cope added, 'I think I shall go and talk to those two merry fellows; I must not tire you, my lad, but I will soon come here again;' and he took leave. Heartily did Ellen exclaim, 'Well, that is a nice gentleman!' and as heartily did Alfred reply. He felt as if a new light had come in on his life, and Mr. Cope had not said one word about patience. Ellen expected Mr. Cope to come back and warn her mother against Paul Blackthorn, but she only saw him stand talking to the two lads till he made them both grin again, and then as the rain was over, he walked away; Paul went back to his turnips, and Harold came thundering up-stairs in his great shoes. Alfred was cheerful, and did not mind him now; but Ellen did, and scolded him for the quantity of dirt he was bringing up with him from the moist garden, which was all one steam of sweet smells, as the sun drew up the vapour after the rain. 'If you were coming in, you'd better have come out of the rain, not stood idling there with that good-for-nothing lad. The new minister said he would be after you if you were taking up with bad company.' 'Who told you I was with bad company?' said Harold. 'Why, I could see it! I hope he rebuked you both.' 'He asked us if we could play at cricket--and he asked the pony's name,' said Harold, 'if that's what you call rebuking us!' 'And what did he say to that boy?' 'Oh! he told him he heard he was a stranger here, like himself, and asked how long he'd been here, and where he came from.' 'And what did he say?' 'He said he was from Upperscote Union--come out because he was big enough to keep himself, and come to look for work,' said Harold. 'He's a right good chap, I'll tell you, and I'll bring him up to see Alfy one of these days!' 'Bring up that dirty boy! I should like to see you!' cried Ellen, making _such_ a face. 'I don't believe a word of his coming out of the Union. I'm sure he's run away out of gaol, by the look of him!' 'Ellen--Harold--come down to your tea!' called Mrs. King. So they went down; and presently, while Mrs. King was gone up to give Alfred his tea, there came Mrs. Shepherd bustling across, with her black silk apron thrown over her cap with the crimson gauze ribbons. She wanted a bit of tape, and if there were none in the shop, Harold must match it in Elbury when he took the letters. Ellen was rather familiar with Mrs. Shepherd, because she made her gowns, and they had some talk about the new clergyman. Mrs. Shepherd did not care for clergymen much; if she had done so, she might not have been so hard with her labourers. She was always afraid of their asking her to subscribe to something or other, so she gave it as her opinion, that she should never think it worth while to listen to such a very young man as that, and she hoped he would not stay; and then she said, 'So your brother was taking up with that come-by-chance lad, I saw. Did he make anything out of him?' 'He fancies him more than I like, or Mother either,' said Ellen. 'He says he's out of Upperscote Union; but he's a thorough impudent one, and owns he's no father nor mother, nor nothing belonging to him. I think it is a deal more likely that he is run away from some reformatory, or prison.' 'That's just what I said to the farmer!' said Mrs. Shepherd. 'I said he was out of some place of that sort. I'm sure it's a sin for the gentlemen to be setting up such places, raising the county rates, and pampering up a set of young rogues to let loose on us. Ay! ay! I'll warrant he's a runaway thief! I told the farmer he'd take him to his sorrow, but you see he is short of hands just now, and the men are so set up and grabbing, I don't know how farmers is to live.' So Mrs. Shepherd went away grumbling, instead of being thankful for the beautiful crop of hay, safely housed, before the thunder shower which had saved the turnips from the fly. Ellen might have doubted whether she had done right in helping to give the boy a bad name, but just then in came the ostler from the Tankard with some letters. 'Here!' he said, 'here's one from one of the gentlemen lodging here fishing, to Cayenne. You'll please to see how much there is to pay.' Ellen looked at her Postal Guide, but she was quite at a fault, and she called up-stairs to Alfred to ask if he knew where she should look for Cayenne. He was rather fond of maps, and knew a good deal of geography for a boy of his age, but he knew nothing about this place, and she was just thinking of sending back the letter, to ask the gentleman where it was, when a voice said: 'Try Guiana, or else South America.' She looked up, and there were Paul's dirty face and dirtier elbows, leaning over the half-door of the shop. 'Why, how do you know?' she said, starting back. 'I learnt at school, Cayenne, capital of French Guiana.' Sure enough Cayenne had Guiana to it in her list, and the price was found out. But when this learned geographer advanced into the shop, and asked for a loaf, what a hand and what a sleeve did he stretch out! Ellen scarcely liked to touch his money, and felt all her disgust revive. But, for all that, and for all her fear of Harold's running into mischief, what business had she to set it about that the stranger was an escaped convict? Meanwhile, Alfred had plenty of food for dreaming over his fellow sufferer. It really seemed to quiet him to think of another in the same case, and how many questions he longed to have asked Mr. Cope! He wanted to know whether it came easier to Jem to be patient than to himself; whether he suffered as much wearing pain; whether he grieved over the last hope of using his limbs; and above all, the question he knew he never could bear to ask, whether Jem had the dread of death to scare his thoughts, though never confessed to himself. He longed for Mr. Cope's next visit, and felt strongly drawn towards that thought of Jem, yet ashamed to think of himself as so much less patient and submissive; so little able to take comfort in what seemed to soothe Jem, that it was the Lord's doing. Could Jem think he had been a wicked boy, and take it as punishment? CHAPTER IV--PAUL BLACKTHORN 'I say,' cried Harold, running up into his brother's room, as soon as he had put away the pony, 'do you know whether Paul is gone?' 'It is always Paul, Paul!' exclaimed Ellen; 'I'm sure I hope he is.' 'But why do you think he would be?' asked Alfred. 'Oh, didn't you hear? He knows no more than a baby about anything, and so he turned the cows into Darnel meadow, and never put the hurdle to stop the gap--never thinking they could get down the bank; so the farmer found them in the barley, and if he did not run out against him downright shameful--though Paul up and told him the truth, that 'twas nobody else that did it.' 'What, and turned him off?' 'Well, that's what I want to know,' said Harold, going on with his tea. 'Paul said to me he didn't know how he could stand the like of that--and yet he didn't like to be off--he'd taken a fancy to the place, you see, and there's me, and there's old Caesar--and so he said he wouldn't go unless the farmer sent him off when he came to be paid this evening--and old Skinflint has got him so cheap, I don't think he will.' 'For shame, Harold; don't call names!' 'Well, there he is,' said Alfred, pointing into the farm-yard, towards the hay-loft door. This was over the cow-house in the gable end; and in the dark opening sat Paul, his feet on the top step of the ladder, and Caesar, the yard-dog, lying by his side, his white paws hanging down over the edge, his sharp white muzzle and grey prick ears turned towards his friend, and his eyes casting such appealing looks, that he was getting more of the hunch of bread than probably Paul could well spare. 'How has he ever got the dog up the ladder?' cried Harold. 'Well!' said Mrs. King, 'I declare he looks like a picture I have seen--' 'Well, to be sure! who would go for to draw a picture of the like of that!' exclaimed Ellen, pausing as she put on her things to carry home some work. 'It was a picture of a Spanish beggar-boy,' said Mrs. King; 'and the housekeeper at Castlefort used to say that the old lord--that's Lady Jane's brother--had given six hundred pounds for it.' Ellen set out on her walk with a sound of wonder quite beyond words. Six hundred pounds for a picture like Paul Blackthorn! She did not know that so poor and feeble are man's attempts to imitate the daily forms and colourings fresh from the Divine Hand, that a likeness of the very commonest sight, if represented with something of its true spirit and life, wins a strange value, especially if the work of the great master- artists of many years ago. And even the painter Murillo himself, though he might pleasantly recall on his canvas the notion of the bright-eyed, olive-tinted lad, resting after the toil of the day, could never have rendered the free lazy smile on his face, nor the gleam of the dog's wistful eyes and quiver of its eager ears, far less the glow of setting sunlight that shed over all that warm, clear, ruddy light, so full of rest and cheerfulness, beautifying, as it hid, so many common things: the thatched roof of the barn, the crested hayrick close beside it; the waggons, all red and blue, that had brought it home, and were led to rest, the horses drooping their meek heads as they cooled their feet among the weed in the dark pond;--the ducks moving, with low contented quacks and quickly-wagging tails, in one long single file to their evening foraging in the dewy meadows; the spruce younger poultry pecking over the yard, staying up a little later than their elders to enjoy a few leavings in peace, free from the persecutions of the cross old king of the dung-hill;--all this left in shade, while the ruddy light had mounted to the roofs, gave brilliance to every round tuft of moss, and gleamed on the sober foliage of the old spreading walnut tree. 'Poor lad,' said Mrs. King, 'it seems a pity he should come to such a rough life, when he seems to have got such an education! I hope he is not run away from anywhere.' 'You're as bad as Ellen, mother,' cried Harold, 'who will have it that he's out of prison.' 'No, not that,' said Mrs. King; 'but it did cross me whether he could have run away from school, and if his friends were in trouble for him.' 'He never had any friends,' said Harold, 'nor he never ran away. He's nothing but a foundling. They picked him up under a blackthorn bush when he was a baby, with nothing but a bit of an old plaid shawl round him.' 'Did they ever know who he belonged to?' asked Alfred. 'Never; nor he doesn't care if they don't, for sure they could be no credit to him; but they that found him put him into the Union, and there an old woman, that they called Granny Moll, took to him. She had but one eye, he says; but, Mother, I do believe he never had another friend like her, for he got to pulling up the bits of grass, and was near crying when he said she was dead and gone, and then he didn't care for nothing.' 'But who taught him about Cayenne?' asked Alfred. 'Oh, that was the Union School. All the children went to school, and they had a terrible sharp master, who used to cut them over the head quite cruel, and was sent away at last for being such a savage; but Paul being always there, and having nothing else to do, you see, got on ever so far, and can work sums in his head downright wonderful. There came an inspector once who praised him up, and said he'd recommend him to a place where he'd be taught to be a school-master, if any one would pay the cost; but the guardians wouldn't hear of it at no price, and were quite spiteful to find he was a good scholar, for fear, I suppose, that he'd know more than they.' 'Hush, hush, Harold,' said his mother; 'wait till you have to pay the rates before you run out against the guardians.' 'What do you mean, Mother?' 'Why, don't you see, the guardians have their duties to those who pay the rates, as well as those that have parish pay. What they have to do, is to mind that nobody starves, or the like; and their means comes out of the rates, out of my pocket, and the like of me, as well as my Lady's and all the rich. Well, whatever they might like to do, it would not be serving us fairly to take more than was a bare necessity from us, to send your Master Paul and the like of him to a fine school. 'Tis for them to be just, and other folk to be generous with what's their own.' 'Mother talks as if she was a guardian herself!' said Alfred in his funny way. 'Ah, the collector's going his rounds,' responded Harold; and Mrs. King laughed good-humouredly, always glad to see her sick boy able to enjoy himself; but she sighed, saying, 'Ay, and ill can I spare it, though thanks be to God that I've been as yet of them that pay, and not of them that receive.' 'Go on the parish! Mother, what are you thinking of?' cried both sons indignantly. Poor Mrs. King was thinking of the long winter, and the heavy doctor's bill, and feeling that, after all, suffering and humbling might not be so very far off; but she was too cheerful and full of trust to dwell on the thought, so she smiled and said, 'I only said I was thankful, boys, for the mercy that has kept us up. Go on now, Harold; what about the boy?' 'Why, I don't know that he'd have gone if they had paid his expenses ever so much,' said Harold, 'for he's got a great spirit of his own, and wouldn't be beholden to any one, he said, now he could keep himself--he'd had quite enough of the parish and its keep; so he said he'd go on the tramp till he got work; and they let him out of the Union with just the clothes to his back, and a shilling in his pocket. 'Twas the first time he had ever been let out of bounds since he was picked up under the tree; and he said no one ever would guess the pleasure it was to have nobody to order him here and there, and no bounds round him; and he quite hated the notion of getting inside walls again, as if it was a prison.' 'Oh, I know! I can fancy that!' cried Alfred, raising himself and panting; 'and where did he go first?' 'First, he only wanted to get as far from Upperscote as ever he could, so he walked on; I can't say how he lived, but he didn't beg; he got a job here and a job there; but there are not so many things he knows the knack of, having been at school all his life. Once he took up with a man that sold salt, to draw his cart for him, but the man swore at him so awfully he could not bear it, and beat him too, so he left him, and he had lived terrible hard for about a month before he came here! So you see, Mother, there's not one bit of harm in him; he's a right good scholar, and never says a bad word, nor has no love for drink; so you won't be like Ellen, and be always at me for going near him?' 'You're getting a big boy, Harold, and it is lonely for you,' said Mrs. King reluctantly; 'and if the lad is a good lad I'd not cast up his misfortune against him; but I must say, I should think better of him if he would keep himself a little bit cleaner and more decent, so as he could go to church.' Harold made a very queer face, and said, 'How is he to do it up in the hay-loft, Mother? and he ha'n't got enough to pay for lodgings, nor for washing, nor to change.' 'The river is cheap enough,' said Alfred. 'Do you remember when we used to bathe together, Harold, and go after the minnows?' 'Ay, but he don't know how; and then they did plague him so in the Union, that he's got to hate the very name of washing--scrubbing them over and cutting their hair as if they were in gaol.' 'Poor boy! he is terribly forsaken,' said Mrs. King compassionately. 'You may say that!' returned Harold; 'why, he's never so much as seen how folks live at home, and wanted to know if you were most like old Moll or the master of the Union!' Alfred went into such a fit of laughter as almost hurt him; but Mrs. King felt the more pitiful and tender towards the poor deserted orphan, who could not even understand what a mother was like, and the tears came into her eyes, as she said, 'Well, I'm glad he's not a bad boy. I hope he thinks of the Father and the Home that he has above. I say, Harold, against next Sunday I'll look out Alfred's oldest shirt for him to put on, and you might bring me his to wash, only mind you soak it well in the river first.' Harold quite flushed with gratitude for his mother's kindness, for he knew it was no small effort in one so scrupulously and delicately clean, and with so much work on her hands; but Mrs. King was one who did her alms by her trouble when she had nothing else to give. Alfred smiled and said he wondered what Ellen would say; and almost at the same moment Harold shot down-stairs, and was presently seen standing upon Paul's ladder talking to him; then Paul rose up as though to come down, and there was much fun going on, as to how Caesar was to be got down; for, as every one knows, a dog can mount a ladder far better than he can descend; and poor Caesar stretched out his white paw, looked down, seemed to turn giddy, whined, and looked earnestly at his friends till they took pity on him and lifted him down between them, stretching out his legs to their full length, like a live hand-barrow. A few seconds more, and there was a great trampling of feet, and then in walked Harold, exclaiming, 'Here he is!' And there he stood, shy and sheepish, with rusty black shag by way of hair, keen dark beads of eyes, and very white teeth; but all the rest, face, hands, jacket, trousers, shoes, and all, of darker or lighter shades of olive-brown; and as to the rents, one would be sorry to have to count them; mending them would have been a thing impossible. What a difference from the pure whiteness of everything around Alfred! the soft pink of the flush of surprise on his delicate cheek, and the wavy shine on his light hair. A few months ago, Alfred would have been as ready as his brother to take that sturdy hand, marbled as it was with dirt, and would have heeded all drawbacks quite as little; but sickness had changed him much, and Paul was hardly beside his couch before the colour fleeted away from his cheek, and his eye turned to his mother in such distress, that she was obliged to make a sign to Harold in such haste that it looked like anger, and to mutter something about his being taken worse. And while she was holding the smelling salts to him, and sprinkling vinegar over his couch, they heard the two boys' voices loud under the window, Paul saying he should never come there again, and Harold something about people being squeamish and fine. It hurt Alfred, and he burst out, almost crying, 'Mother! Mother, now isn't that too bad!' 'It is very thoughtless,' said Mrs. King sorrowfully; 'but you know everybody has their feelings, Alfred, and I am sorry it happened so.' 'I'm sure I couldn't help it,' said Alfred, as if his mother were turning against him. 'Harold had better have brought up the farmer's whole stable at once!' 'When you were well, you did not think of such things any more than he does.' Alfred grunted. He could not believe that; and he did not feel gently when his brother shewed any want of consideration; but his mother thought he would only grow crosser by dwelling on the unlucky subject, so she advised him to lie still and rest before his being moved to bed, and went down herself to finish some ironing. Presently Alfred saw the Curate coming over the bridge with quick long steps, and this brought to his mind that he had been wishing to hear more of the poor crippled boy. He watched eagerly, and was pleased to see Mr. Cope turn in at the wicket, and presently the tread upon the stairs was heard, and the high head was lowered at the door. 'Good evening, Alfred; your mother told me it would not disturb you if I came up alone;' and he began to inquire into his amusements and occupations, till Alfred became quite at home with him, and at ease, and ventured to ask, 'If you please, Sir, do you ever hear about Jem now?' and as Mr. Cope looked puzzled, 'the boy you told me of, Sir, that fell off the scaffold.' 'Oh, the boy at Liverpool! No, I only saw him once when I was staying with my cousin; but I will ask after him if you wish to hear.' 'Thank you, Sir. I wanted to know if he had been a bad boy.' 'That I cannot tell. Why do you wish to know? Was it because he had such an affliction?' 'Yes, Sir.' 'I don't think that is quite the way to look at troubles,' said Mr. Cope. 'I should think his accident had been a great blessing to him, if it took him out of temptation, and led him to think more of God.' 'But isn't it punishment?' said Alfred, not able to get any farther; but Mr. Cope felt that he was thinking of himself more than of Jem. 'All our sufferings in this life come as punishment of sin,' he said. 'If there had been no sin, there would have been no pain; and whatever we have to bear in this life is no more than is our due, whatever it may be.' 'Every one is sinful,' said Alfred slowly; 'but why have some more to bear than others that may be much worse?' 'Did you never think it hard to be kept strictly, and punished by your good mother?' Alfred answered rather fretfully, 'But if it is good to be punished, why ain't all alike?' 'God in His infinite wisdom sees the treatment that each particular nature needs. Some can be better trained by joy, and some by grief; some may be more likely to come right by being left in active health; others, by being laid low, and having their faults brought to mind.' Alfred did not quite choose to take this in, and his answer was half sulky: 'Bad boys are quite well!' 'And a reckoning will be asked of them. Do not think of other boys. Think over your past life, of which I know nothing, and see whether you can believe, after real looking into it, that you have done nothing to deserve God's displeasure. There are other more comforting ways of bringing joy out of pain; but of this I am sure, that none will come home to us till we own from the bottom of our heart, that whatever we suffer in this life, we suffer most justly for the punishment of our sins. God bless and help you, my poor boy. Good night.' With these words he went down-stairs, for well he knew that while Alfred went on to justify himself, no peace nor joy could come to him, and he thought it best to leave the words to work in, praying in his heart that they might do so, and help the boy to humility and submission. Finding Mrs. King in her kitchen, he paused and said, 'We shall have a Confirmation in the spring, Mrs. King; shall not you have some candidates for me?' 'My daughter will be very glad, thank you, Sir; she is near to seventeen, and a very good girl to me. And Harold, he is but fourteen--would he be old enough, Sir?' 'I believe the Bishop accepts boys as young; and he might be started in life before another opportunity.' 'Well, Sir, he shall come to you, and I hope you won't think him too idle and thoughtless. He's a good-hearted boy, Sir; but it is a charge when a lad has no father to check him.' 'Indeed it is, Mrs. King; but I think you must have done your best.' 'I hope I have, Sir,' she said sadly; 'I've tried, but my ability is not much, and he is a lively lad, and I'm sometimes afraid to be too strict with him.' 'If you have taught him to keep himself in order, that's the great thing, Mrs. King; if he has sound principles, and honours you, I would hope much for him.' 'And, Sir, that boy he has taken a fancy to; he is a poor lost lad who never had a home, but Harold says he has been well taught, and he might take heed to you.' 'Thank you, Mrs. King; I will certainly try to speak to him. You said nothing of Alfred; do you think he will not be well enough?' 'Ah! Sir,' she said in her low subdued voice, 'my mind misgives me that it is not for Confirmation that you will be preparing him.' Mr. Cope started. He had seen little of illness, and had not thought of this. 'Indeed! does the doctor think so ill of him? Do not these cases often partially recover?' 'I don't know, Sir; Mr. Blunt does not give much account of him,' and her voice grew lower and lower; 'I've seen that look in his father's and his brother's face.' She hid her face in her handkerchief as if overpowered, but looked up with the meek look of resignation, as Mr. Cope said in a broken voice, 'I had not expected--you had been much tried.' 'Yes, Sir. The Will of the Lord be done,' she said, as if willing to turn aside from the dark side of the sorrow that lay in wait for her; 'but I'm thankful you are come to help my poor boy now--he frets over his trouble, as is natural, and I'm afraid he should offend, and I'm no scholar to know how to help him.' 'You can help him by what is better than scholarship,' said Mr. Cope; and he shook her hand warmly, and went away, feeling what a difference there was in the ways of meeting affliction. CHAPTER V--AN UNWELCOME VISITOR 'The axe is laid to the root of the tree,' was said by the Great Messenger, when the new and better Covenant was coming to pierce, try, and search into, the hearts of men. Something like this always happens, in some measure, whenever closer, clearer, and more stringent views of faith and of practice are brought home to Christians. They do not always take well the finding that more is required of them than they have hitherto fancied needful; and there are many who wince and murmur at the sharp piercing of the weapon which tries their very hearts; they try to escape from it, and to forget the disease that it has touched, and at first, often grow worse rather than better. Well is it for them if they return while yet there is time, before blindness have come over their eyes, and hardness over their heart. Perhaps this was the true history of much that grieved poor Mrs. King, and distressed Ellen, during the remainder of the summer. Anxious as Mrs. King had been to bring her sons up in the right way, there was something in Mr. Cope's manner of talking to them that brought things closer home to them, partly from their being put in a new light, and partly from his being a man, and speaking with a different kind of authority. Alfred did not like his last conversation--it was little more than his mother and Miss Selby had said--but then he had managed to throw it off, and he wanted to do so again. It was pleasanter to him to think himself hardly treated, than to look right in the face at all his faults; he knew it was of no use to say he had none, so he lumped them all up by calling himself a sinful creature, like every one else; and thus never felt the weight of them at all, because he never thought what they were. And yet, because Mr. Cope's words had made him uneasy, he could not rest in this state; he was out of temper whenever the Curate's name was spoken, and accused Ellen of bothering about him as much as Harold did about Paul Blackthorn; and if he came to see him, he made himself sullen, and would not talk, sometimes seeming oppressed and tired, and unable to bear any one's presence, sometimes leaving Ellen to do all the answering, dreading nothing so much as being left alone with the clergyman. Mr. Cope had offered to read prayers with him, and he could not refuse; but he was more apt to be thinking that it was tiresome, than trying to enter into what, poor foolish boy, would have been his best comfort. To say he was cross when Mr. Cope was there, would be saying much too little; there was scarcely any time when he was not cross; he was hardly civil even to Miss Jane, so that she began to think it was unpleasant to him to have her there; and if she were a week without calling, he grumbled hard thoughts about fine people; he was fretful and impatient with the doctor; and as to those of whom he had no fears, he would have been quite intolerable, had they loved him less, or had less pity on his suffering. He never was pleased with anything; teased his mother half the night, and drove Ellen about all day. She, good girl, never said one word of impatience, but bore it all with the sweetest good humour; but her mother now and then spoke severely for Alfred's own good, and then he made himself more miserable than ever, and thought she was unkind and harsh, and that he was very much to be pitied for having a mother who could not bear with her poor sick boy. He was treating his mother as he was treating his Father in Heaven. How Harold fared with him may easily be guessed--how the poor boy could hardly speak or step without being moaned at, till he was almost turned out of his own house; and his mother did not know what to do, for Alfred was really very ill, and fretting made him worse, and nothing could be so bad for his brother as being driven out from home, to spend the long summer evenings as he could. Ellen would have been thankful now, had Paul Blackthorn been the worst company into which Harold fell. Not that Paul was a bit cleaner; on the contrary, each day could not fail to make him worse, till, as Ellen had once said, you might almost grow a crop of radishes upon his shoulders. Mrs. King's kind offer of washing his shirt had come to nothing. She asked Harold about it, and had for answer, 'Do you think he would, after the way you served him?' Either he was affronted, or he was ashamed of her seeing his rags, or, what was not quite impossible, there was no shirt at all in the case; and he had a sturdy sort of independence about him, that made him always turn surly at any notion of anything being done for him for charity. How or why he stayed on with the farmer was hard to guess, for he had very scanty pay, and rough usage; the farmer did not like him; the farmer's wife scolded him constantly, and laid on his shoulders all the mischief that was done about the place; and the shuffler gave him half his own work to do, and hunted him about from dawn till past sunset. He was always going at the end of every week, but never gone; perhaps he had undergone too much in his wanderings, to be ready to begin them again; or perhaps either Caesar or Harold, one or both, kept him at Friarswood. And there might be another reason, too, for no one had ever spoken to him like Mr. Cope. Very few had ever thrown him a kindly word, or seemed to treat him like a thing with feelings, and those few had been rough and unmannerly; but Mr. Cope's good-natured smile and pleasant manner had been a very different thing; and perhaps Paul promised to come to the Confirmation class, chiefly because of the friendly tone in which he was invited. When there, he really liked it. He had always liked what he was taught, apart from the manner of teaching; and now both manner and lessons were delightful to him. His answers were admirable, and it was not all head knowledge, for very little more than a really kind way of putting it was needed, to make him turn in his loneliness to rest in the thought of the ever-present Father. Hard as the discipline of his workhouse home had been, it had kept him from much outward harm; the little he had seen in his wanderings had shocked him, and he was more untaught in evil than many lads who thought themselves more respectable, so there was no habit of wickedness to harden and blunt him; and the application of all he had learnt before, found his heart ready. He had not gone to church since he left the workhouse: he did not think it belonged to vagabonds like him; besides, he always felt walls like a prison; and he had not profited much by the workhouse prayers, which were read on week-days by the master, and on Sundays by a chaplain, who always had more to do than he could manage, and only went to the paupers when they were very ill. But when Mr. Cope talked to him of the duty of going to church, he said, 'I will, Sir;' and he sat in the gallery with the young lads, who were not quite as delicate as Alfred. The service seemed to rest him, and to be like being brought near a friend; and he had been told that church might always be his home. He took a pleasure in going thither--the more, perhaps, that he rather liked to shew how little he cared for remarks upon his appearance. There was a great deal of independence about him; and, having escaped from the unloving maintenance of the parish, while he had as yet been untaught what affection or gratitude meant, he _would_ not be beholden to any one. Scanty as were his wages, he would accept nothing from anybody; he daily bought his portion of bread from Mrs. King, but it was of no use for her to add a bit of cheese or bacon to it; he never would see the relish, and left it behind; and so he never would accept Mr. Cope's kind offers of giving him a bit of supper in his kitchen, perhaps because he was afraid of being said to go to the Rectory for the sake of what he could get. He did not object to the farmer's beer, which was sometimes given him when any unusual extra work had been put on him. That was his right, for in truth the farmer did not pay him the value of his labour, and perhaps disliked him the more, because of knowing in his conscience that this was shameful extortion. However, just at harvest time, when Paul's shoes had become very like what may be sometimes picked up by the roadside, Mr. Shepherd did actually bestow on him a pair that did not fit himself! Harold came home quite proud of them. However, on the third day they were gone, and the farmer's voice was heard on the bridge, rating Paul violently for having changed them away for drink. Mrs. King felt sorrowful; but, as Ellen said, 'What could you expect of him?' In spite of the affront, there was a sort of acquaintance now over the counter between Mrs. King and young Blackthorn; and when he came for his bread, she could not help saying, 'I'm sorry to see you in those again.' 'Why, the others hurt me so, I could hardly get about,' said Paul. 'Ah! poor lad, I suppose your feet has got spread with wearing those old ones; but you should try to use yourself to decent ones, or you'll soon be barefoot; and I do think it was a pity to drink them up.' 'That's all the farmer, Ma'am. He thinks one can't do anything but drink.' 'Well, what is become of them?' 'Why, you see, Ma'am, they just suited Dick Royston, and he wanted a pair of shoes, and I wanted a Bible and Prayer-book, so we changed 'em.' When Ellen heard this, she could not help owning that Paul was a good boy after all, though it was in an odd sort of way. But, alas! when next he was to go to Mr. Cope, there was a hue-and-cry all over the hay-loft for the Prayer-book. There was no place to put it safely, or if there had been, Poor Paul was too great a sloven to think of any such thing; and as it was in a somewhat rubbishy state to begin with, it was most likely that one of the cows had eaten it with her hay; and all that could be said was, that it would have been worse if it had been the Bible. As to Dick Royston, to find that he would change away his Bible for a pair of shoes, made Mrs. King doubly concerned that he should be a good deal thrown in Harold's way. There are many people who neglect their Bibles, and do not read them; but this may be from thoughtlessness or press of care, and is not like the wilful breaking with good, that it is to part with the Holy Scripture, save under the most dire necessity; and Dick was far from being in real want, nor was he ignorant, like Mr. Cope's poor Jem, for he had been to school, and could read well; but he was one of those many lads, who, alas! are everywhere to be found, who break loose from all restraint as soon as they can maintain themselves. They do their work pretty well, and are tolerably honest; but for the rest--alas! they seem to live without God. Prayers and Church they have left behind, as belonging to school-days; and in all their strength and health, their days of toil, their evenings of rude diversion, their Sundays of morning sleep, noonday basking in the sun, evening cricket, they have little more notion of anything concerning their souls than the horses they drive. If ever a fear comes over them, it seems a long long way off, a whole life-time before them; they are awkward, and in dread of one another's jeers and remarks; and if they ever wish to be better, they cast it from them by fancying that time must steady them when they have had their bit of fun, or that something will come from somewhere to change them all at once, and make it easy to them to be good--as if they were not making it harder each moment. This sort of lad had been utterly let alone till Mr. Cope came; and Lady Jane and the school-master felt it was dreary work to train up nice lads in the school, only to see them run riot, and forget all good as soon as they thought themselves their own masters. Mr. Cope was anxious to do the best he could for them, and the Confirmation made a good opportunity; but the boys did not like to be interfered with--it made them shy to be spoken to; and they liked lounging about much better than having to poke into that mind of theirs, which they carried somewhere about them, but did not like to stir up. They had no notion of going to school again--which no one wanted them to do--nor to church, because it was like little boys; and they wouldn't be obliged. So Mr. Cope made little way with them; a few who had better parents came regularly to him, but others went off when they found it too much trouble, and behaved worse than ever by way of shewing they did not care. This folly had in some degree taken possession of Harold; and though he could not be as bad as were some of the others, he was fast growing impatient of restraint, and worried and angry, as if any word of good advice affronted him. Driven from home by the fear of disturbing Alfred, he was left the more to the company of boys who made him ashamed of being ordered by his mother; and there was a jaunty careless style about all his ways of talking and moving, that shewed there was something wrong about him--he scorned Ellen, and was as saucy as he dared even to his mother; and though Mr. Cope found him better instructed than most of his scholars, he saw him quite as idle, as restless at church, and as ready to whisper and grin at improper times, as many who had never been trained like him. One August Sunday afternoon, Mrs. King was with Alfred while Ellen was at church. He was lying on his couch, very uncomfortable and fretful, when to the surprise of both, a knock was heard at the door. Mrs. King looked out of the window, and a smart, hard-looking, pigeon's-neck silk bonnet at once nodded to her, and a voice said, 'I've come over to see you, Cousin King, if you'll come down and let me in. I knew I should find you at home.' 'Betsey Hardman!' exclaimed Alfred, in dismay; 'you won't let her come up here, Mother?' 'Not if I can help it,' said Mrs. King, sighing. If there were a thing she disliked above all others, it was Sunday visiting. 'You must help it, Mother,' said Alfred, in his most pettish tones. 'I won't have her here, worrying with her voice like a hen cackling. Say you won't let her come her!' 'Very well,' said Mrs. King, in doubt of her own powers, and in haste to be decently civil. 'Say you won't,' repeated Alfred. 'Gadding about of a Sunday, and leaving her old sick mother--more shame for her! Promise, Mother!' He had nearly begun to cry at his mother's unkindness in running down- stairs without making the promise, for, in fact, Mrs. King had too much conscience to gain present quiet for any one by promises she might be forced to break; and Betsey Hardman was only too well known. Her mother was an aunt of Alfred's father, an old decrepit widow, nearly bed-ridden, but pretty well to do, by being maintained chiefly by her daughter, who made a good thing of taking in washing in the suburbs of Elbury, and always had a girl or two under her. She had neither had the education, nor the good training in service, that had fallen to Mrs. King's lot; and her way of life did not lead to softening her tongue or temper. Ellen called her vulgar, and though that is not a nice word to use, she was coarse in her ways of talking and thinking, loud-voiced, and unmannerly, although meaning to be very good-natured. Alfred lay in fear of her step, ten times harder than Harold's in his most boisterous mood, coming clamp clamp! up the stairs; and her shrill voice--the same tone in which she bawled to her deaf mother, and hallooed to her girls when they were hanging out the clothes in the high wind--coming pitying him--ay, and perhaps her whole weight lumbering down on the couch beside him, shaking every joint in his body! His mother's ways, learnt in the Selby nursery, had made him more tender, and more easily fretted by such things, than most cottage lads, who would have been used to them, and never have thought of not liking to have every neighbour who chose running up into the room, and talking without regard to subject or tone. He listened in a fright to the latch of the door, and the coming in. Betsey's voice came up, through every chink of the boards, whatever she did herself; and he could hear every word of her greeting, as she said how it was such a fine day, she said to Mother she would take a holiday, and come and see Cousin King and the poor lad: it must be mighty dull for him, moped up there. Stump! stump! Was she coming? His mother was answering something too soft for him to hear. 'What, is he asleep?' 'O Mother, must you speak the truth?' 'Bless me! I should have thought a little cheerful company was good for him. Do you leave him quite alone? Well--' and there was a frightful noise of the foot of the heaviest chair on the floor. 'I'll sit down and wait a bit! Is he so very fractious, then?' What was his mother saying? Alfred clenched his fist, and grinned anger at Betsey with closed teeth. There was the tiresome old word, 'Low--ay, so's my mother; but you should rise his spirits with company, you see; that's why I came over; as soon as ever I heard that there wasn't no hope of him, says I to Mother--' What? What was that she had heard? There was his mother, probably trying to restrain her voice, for it came up now just loud enough to make it most distressing to try to catch the words, which sounded like something pitying. 'Ay, ay--just like his poor father; when they be decliny, it will come out one ways or another; and says I to Mother, I'll go over and cheer poor Cousin King up a bit, for you see, after all, if he'd lived, he'd be nothing but a burden, crippled up like that; and a lingering job is always bad for poor folks.' Alfred leant upon his elbow, his eyes full stretched, but feeling as if all his senses had gone into his ears, in his agony to hear more; and he even seemed to catch his mother's voice, but there was no hope in that; it was of her knowing it would be all for the best; and the sadness of it told him that she believed the same as Betsey. Then came, 'Yes; I declare it gave me such a turn, you might have knocked me down with a feather. I asked Mr. Blunt to come in and see what's good for Mother, she feels so weak at times, and has such a noise in her head, just like the regiment playing drums, she says, till she can't hardly bear herself; and so what do you think he says? Don't wrap up her head so warm, says he--a pretty thing for a doctor to say, as if a poor old creature like that, past seventy years old, could go without a bit of flannel to her head, and her three night-caps, and a shawl over them when there's a draught. I say, Cousin, I ha'n't got much opinion of Mr. Blunt. Why don't you get some of them boxes of pills, that does cures wonderful? Ever so many lords and ladies cured of a perplexity fit, by only just taking an imposing draught or two.' Another time Alfred would have laughed at the very imposing draught, that was said to cure lords and ladies of this jumble between apoplexy and paralysis; but this was no moment for laughing, and he was in despair at fancying his mother wanted to lead her off on the quack medicine; but she went on. 'Well, only read the papers that come with them. I make my girl Sally read 'em all to me, being that she's a better scholar; and the long words is quite heavenly--I declare there ain't one of them shorter than peregrination. I'd have brought one of them over to shew you if I hadn't come away in a hurry, because Evans's cart was going out to the merry orchard, and says I to Mother, Well, I'll get a lift now there's such a chance to Friarswood: it'll do them all a bit of good to see a bit of cheerful company, seeing, as Mr. Blunt says, that poor lad is going after his father as fast as can be. Dear me, says I, you don't say so, such a fine healthy-looking chap as he was. Yes, he says, but it's in the constitution; it's getting to the lungs, and he'll never last out the winter.' Alfred listened for the tone of his mother's voice; he knew he should judge by that, even without catching the words--low, subdued, sad--he almost thought she began with 'Yes.' All the rest that he heard passed by him merely as a sound, noted no more than the lowing of the cattle, or the drone of the thrashing machine. He lay half lifted up on his pillows, drawing his breath short with apprehension; his days were numbered, and death was coming fast, fast, straight upon him. He felt it within himself--he knew now the meaning of the pain and sinking, the shortness of breath and choking of throat that had been growing on him through the long summer days; he was being 'cut off with pining sickness,' and his sentence had gone forth. He would have screamed for his mother in the sore terror and agony that had come over him, in hopes she might drive the notion from him; but the dread of seeing her followed by that woman kept his lips shut, except for his long gasps of breath. And she could not keep him--Mr. Blunt could not keep him; no one could stay the hand that had touched him! Prayer! They had prayed for his father, for Charlie, but it had not been God's Will. He had himself many times prayed to recover, and it had not been granted--he was worse and worse. Moreover, whither did that path of suffering lead? Up rose before Alfred the thought of living after the unknown passage, and of answering for all he had done; and now the faults he had refused to call to mind when he was told of chastisement, came and stood up of themselves. Bred up to know the good, he had not loved it; he had cared for his own pleasure, not for God; he had not heeded the comfort of his widowed mother; he had been careless of the honour of God's House, said and heard prayers without minding them; he had been disrespectful and ill-behaved at my Lady's--he had been bad in every way; and when illness came, how rebellious and murmuring he had been, how unkind he had been to his patient mother, sister, and brother; and when Mr. Cope had told him it was meant to lead him to repent, he would not hear; and now it was too late, the door would be shut. He had always heard that there was a time when sorrow was no use, when the offer of being saved had been thrown away. When Ellen came in, and after a short greeting to Betsey Hardman, went up- stairs, she found Alfred lying back on his pillow, deadly white, the beads of dew standing on his brow, and his breath in gasps. She would have shrieked for her mother, but he held out his hand, and said, in a low hoarse whisper, 'Ellen, is it true?' 'What, Alfy dear? What is the matter?' 'What _she_ says.' 'Who? Betsey Hardman? Dear dear Alf, is it anything dreadful?' 'That I shall die,' said Alfred, his eyes growing round with terror again. 'That Mr. Blunt said I couldn't last out the winter.' 'Dear Alfy, don't!' cried Ellen, throwing her arms round him, and kissing him with all her might; 'don't fancy it! She's always gossiping and gadding about, and don't know what she says, and she'd got no business to tell stories to frighten my darling!' she exclaimed, sobbing with agitation. 'I'm sure Mr. Blunt never said no such thing!' 'But Mother thinks it, Ellen.' 'She doesn't, she can't!' cried Ellen vehemently; 'I know she doesn't, or she could never go about as she does. I'll call her up and ask her, to satisfy you.' 'No, no, not while that woman is there!' cried Alfred, holding her by the dress; 'I'll not have _her_ coming up.' Even while he spoke, however, Mrs. King was coming. Betsey had spied an old acquaintance on the way from church, and had popped out to speak to her, and Mrs. King caught that moment for coming up. She understood all, for she had been sitting in great distress, lest Alfred should be listening to every word which she was unable to silence, and about which Betsey was quite thoughtless. So many people of her degree would talk to the patient about himself and his danger, and go on constantly before him with all their fears, and the doctor's opinions, that Betsey had never thought of there being more consideration and tenderness shewn in this house, nor that Mrs. King would have hidden any pressing danger from the sick person; but such plain words had not yet passed between her and Mr. Blunt; and though she had long felt what Alfred's illness would come to, the perception had rather grown on her than come at any particular moment. Now when Ellen, with tears and agitation, asked what that Betsey had been saying to frighten Alfred so, and when she saw her poor boy's look at her, and heard his sob, 'Oh, Mother!' it was almost too much for her, and she went up and kissed him, and laid him down less uneasily, but he felt a great tear fall on his face. 'It's not true, Mother, I'm sure it is not true,' cried Ellen; 'she ought--' Mrs. King looked at her daughter with a sad sweet face, that stopped her short, and brought the sense over her too. 'Did he say so, Mother?' said Alfred. 'Not to me, dear,' she answered; 'but, Ellen, she's coming back! She'll be up here if you don't go down.' Poor Ellen! what would she not have given for power to listen to her mother, and cry at her ease? But she was forced to hurry, or Betsey would have been half-way up-stairs in another instant. She was a hopeful girl, however, and after that 'not to me,' resolved to believe nothing of the matter. Mrs. King knelt down by her son, and looked at him tenderly; and then, as his eyes went on begging for an answer, she said, 'Dr. Blunt never told me there was no hope, my dear, and everything lies in God's power.' 'But you don't think I shall get well, Mother?' 'I don't feel as if you would, my boy,' she said, very low, and fondling him all the time. 'You've got to cough like Father and Charlie, and--though He might raise my boy up--yet anyhow, Alfy boy, if God sees it good for us, it _will_ be good for us, and we shall be helped through with it.' 'But I'm not good, Mother! What will become of me?' 'Perhaps the hearing this is all out of God's mercy, to give you time to get ready, my dear. You are no worse now than you were this morning; you are not like to go yet awhile. No, indeed, my child; so if you don't put off any longer--' 'Mother!' called up Ellen. She was in despair. Betsey was not to be kept by her from satisfying herself upon Alfred's looks, and Mrs. King was only in time to meet her on the stairs, and tell her that he was so weak and low, that he could not be seen now, she could not tell how it would be when he had had his tea. Ellen thought she had never had so distressing a tea-drinking in her life, as the being obliged to sit listening civilly to Betsey's long story about the trouble she had about a stocking of Mrs. Martin's that was lost in the wash, and that had gone to Miss Rosa Marlowe, because Mrs. Martin had her things marked with a badly-done K. E. M., and all that Mrs. Martin's Maria and all Miss Marlowe's Jane had said about it, and all Betsey's 'Says I to Mother,'--when she was so longing to be watching poor Alfred, and how her mother could sit so quietly making tea, and answering so civilly, she could not guess; but Mrs. King had that sense of propriety and desire to do as she would be done by, which is the very substance of Christian courtesy, the very want of which made Betsey, with all her wish to be kind, a real oppression and burthen to the whole party. And where was Harold? Ellen had not seen him coming out of church, but meal-times were pretty certain to bring him home. 'Oh,' said Betsey, 'I'll warrant he is off to the merry orchard.' 'I hope not,' said Mrs. King gravely. 'He never would,' said Ellen, in anger. 'Ah, well, I always said I didn't see no harm in a lad getting a bit of pleasure.' 'No, indeed,' said Mrs. King. 'Harold knows I would not stint him in the fruit nor in the pleasure, but I should be much vexed if he could go out on a Sunday, buying and selling, among such a lot as meet at that orchard.' 'Well, I'm sure I don't know when poor folks is to have a holiday if not on a Sunday, and the poor boy must be terrible moped with his brother so ill.' 'Not doing thine own pleasure on My holy day,' thought Ellen, but she did not say it, for her mother could not bear for texts to be quoted at people. But her heart was very heavy; and when she went up with some tea to Alfred, she looked from the window to see whether, as she hoped, Harold might be in Paul's hay-loft, preferring going without his tea to being teased by Betsey. Paul sat in his loft, with his Bible on his knee, and his head on Caesar's neck. 'Alfred,' said Ellen, 'do you know where Harold is? Sure he is not gone to the merry orchard?' 'Is not he come home?' said Alfred. 'Oh, then he is! He is gone to the merry orchard, breaking Sunday with Dick Royston! And by-and-by he'll be ill, and die, and be as miserable as I am!' And Alfred cried as Ellen had never seen him cry. CHAPTER VI--THE MERRY ORCHARD Where was Harold? Still the evening went on, and he did not come. Alfred had worn himself out with his fit of crying, and lay quite still, either asleep, or looking so like it, that when Betsey had finished her tea, and again began asking to see him, Ellen could honestly declare that he was asleep. Betsey had bidden them good-bye, more than half affronted at not being able to report to her mother all about his looks, though she carried with her a basket of gooseberries and French beans, and Mrs. King walked all the way down the lane with her, and tried to shew an interest in all she said, to make up for the disappointment. Maybe likewise Mrs. King felt it a relief to her uneasiness to look up and down the road, and along the river, and into the farm-yard, in the hope that Harold might be in sight; but nothing was to be seen on the road, but Master Norland, his wife, and baby, soberly taking their Sunday walk; nor by the river, except the ducks, who seemed to be enjoying their evening bath, and almost asleep on the water; nor in the yard, except Paul Blackthorn, who had come down from his perch to drive the horses in from the home-field, and shut the stable up for the night. She could not help stopping a moment at the gate, and calling out to Paul to ask whether he had seen anything of Harold. He seemed to have a great mind not to hear, and turned very slowly with his shoulder towards her, making a sound like 'Eh?' as if to ask what she said. 'Have you seen my boy Harold?' 'I saw him in the morning.' 'Have you not seen him since? Didn't he go to church with you?' 'No; I don't go to Sunday school.' 'Was he there?' She did not receive any answer. 'Do you know if many of the boys are gone to the merry orchard?' 'Ay.' 'Well, you are a good lad not to be one of them.' 'Hadn't got any money,' said Paul gruffly; but Mrs. King thought he said so chiefly from dislike to be praised, and that there had been some principle as well as poverty to keep him away. 'It might be better if no one had it on a Sunday,' she could not help sighing out as she looked anxiously along the lane ere turning in, and then said, 'My good lad, I don't want to get you to be telling tales, but it would set my heart at rest, and his poor brother's up there, if you could tell me he is not gone to Briar Alley.' Paul turned up his face from the gate upon which he was leaning his elbows, and gazed for a moment at her sad, meek, anxious face, then exclaimed, 'I can't think how he could!' Poor Paul! was it not crossing him how impossible it would seem to do anything to vex one who so cared for him? 'Then he is gone,' she said mournfully. 'They were all at him,' said Paul; 'and he said he'd never seen what it was like. Please don't take on, Missus; he's right kind and good-hearted, and wanted to treat me.' 'I had rather he had hearkened to you, my boy,' said Mrs. King. 'I don't know why he should do that,' said Paul, perhaps meaning that a boy who heeded not such a mother would certainly heed no one else. 'But please, Missus,' he added, 'don't beat him, for you made me tell on him.' 'Beat him! no,' said Mrs. King, with a sad smile; 'he's too big a boy for me to manage that way. I can't do more than grieve if he lets himself be led away.' 'Then I'd like to beat him myself if he grieves you!' burst out Paul, doubling up his brown fist with indignation. 'But you won't,' said Mrs. King gently; 'I don't want to make a quarrel among you, and I hope you'll help to keep him out of bad ways, Paul. I look to you for it. Good-night.' Perhaps the darkness and her own warm feeling made her forget the condition of that hand; at any rate, as she said Good-night she took it in her own and shook it heartily, and then she went in. Paul did not say Good-night in answer; but when she had turned away, his head went down between his two crossed arms upon the top of the gate, and he did not move for many many minutes, except that his shoulders shook and shook again, for he was sobbing as he had never sobbed since Granny Moll died. If home and home love were not matters of course to you, you might guess what strange new fountains of feeling were stirred in the wild but not untaught boy, by that face, that voice, that touch. And Mrs. King, as she walked to her own door in the twilight, with bitter pain in her heart, could not help thinking of those from the highways and hedges who flocked to the feast set at naught by such as were bidden. A sad and mournful Sunday evening was that to the mother and daughter, as each sat over her Bible. Mrs. King would not talk to Ellen, for fear of awakening Alfred; not that low voices would have done so, but Ellen was already much upset by what she had heard and seen, and to talk it over would have brought on a fit of violent crying; so her mother thought it safest to say nothing. They would have read their Bible to one another, but each had her voice so choked with tears, that it would not do. That Alfred was sinking away into the grave, was no news to Mrs. King; but perhaps it had never been so plainly spoken to her before, and his own knowledge of it seemed to make it more sure; but broken-hearted as she felt, she had been learning to submit to this, and it might be better and safer for him, she thought, to be aware of his state, and more ready to do his best with the time left to him. That was not the freshest sorrow, or more truly a darker cloud had come over, namely, the feeling, so terrible to a good careful mother, that her son is breaking out of the courses to which she has endeavoured and prayed to bring him up--that he is casting off restraint, and running into evil that may be the beginning of ruin, and with no father's hand to hold him in. O Harold, had you but seen the thick tears dropping on the walnut table behind the arm that hid her face from Ellen, you would not have thought your fun worth them! That merry orchard was about three miles from Friarswood. It belonged to a man who kept a small public-house, and had a little farm, and a large garden, with several cherry trees, which in May were perfect gardens of blossoms, white as snow, and in August with small black fruit of the sort known as merries; and unhappily the fertile produce of these trees became a great temptation to the owner and to all the villagers around. As Sunday was the only day when people could be at leisure, he chose three Sundays when the cherries were ripe for throwing open his orchard to all who chose to come and buy and eat the fruit, and of course cakes and drink of various kinds were also sold. It was a solitary spot, out of the way of the police, or the selling in church-time would have been stopped; but as there may be cases of real distress, the law does not shut up all houses for selling food and drink on a Sunday, so others, where there is no necessity, take advantage of it; and so for miles round all the idle young people and children would call it a holiday to go away from their churches to eat cherries at Briar Alley, buying and selling on a Sunday, noisy and clamorous, and forgetting utterly that it was the Lord's Day, not their day of idle pleasure. It was a sad pity that an innocent feast of fruit should be almost out of reach, unless enjoyed in this manner. To be sure, merries might be bought any day of the week at Briar Alley, and were hawked up and down Friarswood so cheaply that any one might get a mouth as purple as the black spaniel's any day in the season; but that was nothing to the fun of going with numbers, and numbers never could go except on a Sunday. But if people wish to serve God truly, why, they must make up their minds to miss pleasures for His sake, and this was one to begin with; and I am much mistaken if the happiness of the week would not have turned out greater in the end with him. Ay, and as to the owner of the trees, who said he was a poor man, and could not afford to lose the profit, I believe that if he would have trusted God and kept His commandment, his profit in the long run would have been greater here, to say nothing of the peril to his own soul of doing wrong, and leading so many into temptation. The Kings had been bred up to think a Sunday going to the merry orchard a thing never to be done; and in his most idle days Alfred would never have dreamt of such a thing. Indeed, their good mother always managed to have some treat to make up for it when they were little; and they certainly never wanted for merries, nay, a merry pudding had been their dinner this very day, with savage-looking purple juice and scalding hot stones. If Harold went it was for the frolic, not for want of the dainty; and wrong as it was, his mother was grieving more at the thought of his casting away the restraint of his old habits than for the one action. One son going away into the unseen world, the other being led away from the paths of right--no wonder she wept as she tried to read! At last voices were coming, and very loud ones. The summer night was so still, they could be heard a great way--those rude coarse voices of village boys boasting and jeering one another. 'I say, wouldn't you like to be one of they chaps at Ragglesford School?' 'What lots they bought there on Saturday, to be sure!' 'Well they may: they've lots of tin!' 'Have they? How d'ye know?' 'Why, the money-letters! Don't I know the feel of them--directed to master this and master that, and with a seal and a card, and half a sovereign, or maybe a whole one, under it; and such lots as they gets before the holidays--that's to go home, you see.' 'Well, it's a shame such little impudent rogues should get so much without ever doing a stroke of work for it.' 'I say, Harold, don't ye never put one of they letters in your pocket?' 'For shame, Dick!' 'Ha! I shall know where to come when I wants half a sovereign or so!' 'No, you won't.' It was only these last two or three speeches that reached the cottage at all clearly; and they were followed by a sound as if Harold had fallen upon one of the others, and they were holding him off, with halloos and shouts of hoarse laughing, which broke Alfred's sleep, and his voice came down-stairs with a startled cry of 'Mother! Mother! what is that?' She ran up-stairs in haste, and Ellen threw the door open. The sudden display of the light silenced the noisy boys; and Harold came slowly up the garden-path, pretty certain of a scolding, and prepared to feel it as little as he could help. 'Well, Master, a nice sort of a way of spending a Sunday evening this!' began Ellen; 'and coming hollaing up the lane, just on purpose to wake poor Alfred, when he's so ill!' 'I'm sure I never meant to wake him.' 'Then what did you bring all that good-for-nothing set roaring and shouting up the road for? And just this evening, too, when one would have thought you would we have cared for poor Mother and Alfred,' said she, crying. 'Why, what's the matter now?' said Harold. 'Oh, they've been saying he can't live out the winter,' said Ellen, shedding the tears that had been kept back all this time, and broke out now with double force, in her grief for one brother and vexation with the other. But next winter seemed a great way off to Harold, and he was put out besides, so he did not seem shocked, especially as he was reproached with not feeling what he did not know; so all he did was to say angrily, 'And how was I to know that?' 'Of course you don't know anything, going scampering over the country with the worst lot you can find, away from church and all, not caring for anything! Poor Mother! she never thought one of her lads would come to that!' 'Plenty does so, without never such a fuss,' said Harold. 'Why, what harm is there in eating a few cherries?' There would be very little pleasure or use in knowing what a wrangling went on all the time Mrs. King was up-stairs putting Alfred to bed. Ellen had all the right on her side, but she did not use it wisely; she was very unhappy, and much displeased with Harold, and so she had it all out in a fretful manner that made him more cross and less feeling than was his nature. There was something he did feel, however--and that was his mother's pale, worn, sorrowful face, when she came down-stairs and hushed Ellen, but did not speak to him. They took down the books, read their chapter, and she read prayers very low, and not quite steadily. He would have liked very much to have told her he felt sorry, but he was too proud to do so after having shewn Ellen he was above caring for such nonsense. So they all went to bed, Harold on a little landing at the top of the stairs; but--whether it was from the pounds of merry-stones he had swallowed, or the talk he had had with his sister--he could not go to sleep, and lay tossing and tumbling about, thinking it very odd he had not heeded more what Ellen had said when he first came in, and the notion dawning on him more and more, that day after day would come and make Alfred worse, and that by the time summer came again he should be alone. Who could have said it? Why had not he asked? What could he have been thinking about? It should not be true! A sort of frenzy to speak to some one, and hear the real meaning of those words, so as to make sure they were only Ellen's nonsense, came over him in the silent darkness. Presently he heard Alfred moving on his pillow, for the door was open for the heat; and that long long sigh made him call in a whisper, 'Alf, are you awake?' In another moment Harold was by his brother's side. 'Alf! Alf! are you worse?' he asked, whispering. 'No.' 'Then what's all this? What did they say? It's all stuff; I'm sure it is, and you're getting better. But what did Ellen mean?' 'No, Harold,' said Alfred, getting his brother's hand in his, 'it's not stuff; I shan't get well; I'm going after poor Charlie; and don't you be a bad lad, Harold, and run away from your church, for you don't know--how bad it feels to--' and Alfred turned his face down, for the tears were coming thick. 'But you aren't going to die, Alf. Charlie never was like you, I know he wasn't; he was always coughing. It is all Ellen. Who said it? I won't let them.' 'The doctor said it to Betsey Hardman,' said Alfred; and his cough was only too like his brother's. Harold would have said a great deal in contempt of Betsey Hardman, but Alfred did not let him. 'You'll wake Mother,' he said. 'Hush, Harold, don't go stamping about; I can't bear it! No, I don't want any one to tell me now; I've been getting worse ever since I was taken, and--oh! be quiet, Harold.' 'I can't be quiet,' sobbed Harold, coming nearer to him. 'O Alf! I can't spare you! There hasn't been no proper downright fun without you, and--' Harold had lain down by him and clung to his hand, trying not to sob aloud. 'O Harold!' sighed Alfred, 'I don't think I should mind--at least not so much--if I hadn't been such a bad boy.' 'You, Alfy! Who was ever a good boy if you was not?' 'Hush! You forget all about when I was up at my Lady's, and all that. Oh! and how bad I behaved at church, and when I was so saucy to Master about the marbles; and so often I've not minded Mother. O Harold! and God judges one for everything!' What a sad terrified voice it was! 'Oh! don't go on so, Alf! I can't bear it! Why, we are but boys; and those things were so long ago! God will not be hard on little boys. He is merciful, don't you know?' 'But when I knew it was wrong, I did the worst I could!' said Alfred. 'Oh, if I could only begin all over again, now I do care! Only, Harold, Harold, you are well; you can be good now when there's time.' 'I'll be ever so good if you'll only get well,' said Harold. 'I wouldn't have gone to that there place to-night; but 'tis so terribly dull, and one must do something.' 'But in church-time, and on Sunday!' 'Well, I'll never do it again; but it was so sunshiny, and they were all making such fun, you see, and it did seem so stuffy, and so long and tiresome, I couldn't help it, you see.' Alfred did not think of asking how, if Harold could not help it this time, he could be sure of never doing so again. He was more inclined to dwell on himself, and went back to that one sentence, 'God judges us for everything.' Harold thought he meant it for him, and exclaimed, 'Yes, yes, I know, but--oh, Alf, you shouldn't frighten one so; I never meant no harm.' 'I wasn't thinking about that,' sighed Alfred. 'I was wishing I'd been a better lad; but I've been worse, and crosser, and more unkind, ever since I was ill. O Harold! what shall I do?' 'Don't go on that way,' said Harold, crying bitterly. 'Say your prayers, and maybe you will get well; and then in the morning I'll ask Mr. Cope to come down, and he'll tell you not to mind.' 'I wouldn't listen to Mr. Cope when he told me to be sorry for my sins; and oh, Harold, if we are not sorry, you know they will not be taken away.' 'Well, but you are sorry now.' 'I have heard tell that there are two ways of being sorry, and I don't know if mine is the right.' 'I tell you I'll fetch Mr. Cope in the morning; and when the doctor comes he'll be sure to say it is all a pack of stuff, and you need not be fretting yourself.' When Harold awoke in the morning, he found himself lying wrapped in his coverlet on Alfred's bed, and then he remembered all about it, and looked in haste, as though he expected to see some sudden and terrible change in his brother. But Alfred was looking cheerful, he had awakened without discomfort; and with some amusement, was watching the starts and movements, the grunts and groans, of Harold's waking. The morning air and the ordinary look of things, had driven away the gloomy thoughts of evening, and he chiefly thought of them as something strange and dreadful, and yet not quite a dream. 'Don't tell Mother,' whispered Harold, recollecting himself, and starting up quietly. 'But you'll fetch Mr. Cope,' said Alfred earnestly. Harold had begun not to like the notion of meeting Mr. Cope, lest he should hear something of yesterday's doings, and he did not like Alfred or himself to think of last night's alarm, so he said, 'Oh, very well, I'll see about it.' He had not made up his mind. Very likely, if chance had brought him face to face with Mr. Cope, he would have spoken about Alfred as the best way to hinder the Curate from reproving himself; but he had not that right sort of boldness which would have made him go to meet the reproof he so richly deserved, and he was trying to persuade himself either that when Alfred was amused and cheery, he would forget all about 'that there Betsey's nonsense,' or else that Mr. Cope might come that way of himself. But Alfred was not likely to forget. What he had heard hung on him through all the little occupations of the morning, and made him meek and gentle under them, and he was reckoning constantly upon Mr. Cope's coming, fastening on the notion as if he were able to save him. Still the Curate came not, and Alfred became grieved, feeling as if he was neglected. Mr. Blunt, however, came, and at any rate he would have it out with him; so he asked at once very straightforwardly, 'Am I going to die, Sir?' 'Why, what's put that in your head?' said the doctor. 'There was a person here talking last night, Sir,' said Mrs. King. 'Well, but am I?' said Alfred impatiently. 'Not just yet, I hope,' said Mr. Blunt cheerfully. 'You are weak, but you'll pick up again.' 'But of this?' persisted Alfred, who was not to be trifled with. Mr. Blunt saw he must be in earnest. 'My boy,' he said, 'I'm afraid it is not a thing to be got over. I'll do the best I can for you, by God's blessing; and if you get through the winter, and it is a mild spring, you might do; but you'd better settle your mind that you can't be many years for this world.' Many years! that sounded like a reprieve, and sent gladness into Ellen's heart; but somehow it did not seem in the same light to Alfred; he felt that if he were slowly going down hill and wasting away, so as to have no more health or strength in which to live differently from ever before, the length of time was not much to him, and in his sickly impatience he would almost have preferred that it should not be what Betsey kindly called 'a lingering job.' There he lay after Mr. Blunt was gone, not giving Ellen any trouble, except by the sad thoughtfulness of his face, as he lay dwelling on all that he wanted to say to Mr. Cope, and the terror of his sin and of judgment sweeping over him every now and then. Still Mr. Cope came not. Alfred at last began to wonder aloud, and asked if Harold had said anything about it when he came in to dinner; but he heard that Harold had only rushed in for a moment, snatched up a lump of bread and cheese, and made off to the river with some of the lads who meant to spend the noon-tide rest in bathing. When he came for the evening letters he was caught, and Mr. Cope was asked for; and then it came out that Harold had never given the message at all. Alfred, greatly hurt, and sadly worn by his day of expectation, had no self-restraint left, and flew out into a regular passion, calling his brother angry names. Harold, just as passionate, went into a rage too, and scolded his brother for his fancies. Mrs. King, in great displeasure, turned him out, and he rushed off to ride like one mad to Elbury; and poor Alfred remained so much shocked at his own outbreak, just when he meant to have been good ever after, and sobbing so miserably, that no one could calm him at all; and Ellen, as the only hope, put on her bonnet to fetch Mr. Cope. At that moment Paul was come for his bit of bread. She found him looking dismayed at the sounds of violent weeping from above, and he asked what it was. 'Oh, Alfred is so low and so bad, and he wants Mr. Cope! Here's your bread, don't keep me!' 'Let me go! I'll be quicker!' cried Paul; and before she could thank him, he was down the garden and right across the first field. Alfred had had time to cry himself exhausted, and to be lying very still, almost faint, before Mr. Cope came in in the summer twilight. Good Paul! He had found that Mr. Cope was dining at Ragglesford and had run all the way thither; and here was the kind young Curate, quite breathless with his haste, and never regretting the cheerful party whence he had been called away. All Alfred could say was, 'O Sir, I shall die; and I'm a bad boy, and wouldn't heed you when you said so.' 'And God has made you see your sins, my poor boy,' said Mr. Cope. 'That is a great blessing.' 'But if I can't do anything to make up for them, what's the use? And I never shall be well again.' 'You can't make up for them; but there is One Who has made up for them, if you will only truly repent.' 'I wasn't sorry till I knew I should die,' said Alfred. 'No, your sins did not come home to you! Now, do you know what they are?' 'Oh yes; I've been a bad boy to Mother, and at church; and I've been cross to Ellen, and quarrelled with Harold; and I was so audacious at my Lady's, they couldn't keep me. I never did want really to be good. Oh! I know I shall go to the bad place!' 'No, Alfred, not if you so repent, that you can hold to our Blessed Saviour's promise. There is a fountain open for sin and all uncleanness.' 'It is very good of Him,' said Alfred, a little more tranquilly, not in the half-sob in which he had before spoken. 'Most merciful!' said Mr. Cope. 'But does it mean me?' continued Alfred. 'You were baptized, Alfred, you have a right to all His promises of pardon.' And he repeated the blessed sentences: 'Come unto Me, all that travail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you.' 'God so loved the world, that He gave His only-begotten Son, to the end that all that believe in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' 'But how ought I to believe, Sir?' 'You say you feel what your sins are; think of them all as you lie, each one as you remember it; say it out in your heart to our Saviour, and pray God to forgive it for His sake, and then think that it cost some of the pain He bore on the Cross, some of the drops of His agony in the Garden. Each sin of ours was indeed of that burden!' 'Oh, that will make them seem so bad!' 'Indeed it does; but how it will make you love Him, and feel thankful to Him, and anxious not to waste the sufferings borne for your sake, and glad, perhaps, that you are bearing some small thing yourself. But you are spent, and I had better not talk more now. Let me read you a few prayers to help you, and then I will leave you, and come again to-morrow.' How differently those Prayers and Psalms sounded to Alfred now that he had really a heart grieved and wearied with the burthen of sin! The point was to make his not a frightened heart, but a contrite heart. CHAPTER VII--HAROLD TAKES A WRONG TURN Mrs. King was very anxious about Alfred for many hours after this visit from the Curate, for he was continually crying, not violently, but the tears flowing quietly from his eyes as he lay, thinking. Sometimes it was the badness of the faults as he saw them now, looking so very different from what they did when they were committed in the carelessness of fun and high spirits, or viewed afterwards in the hardening light of self-justification. Now they did look so wantonly hard and rude--unkind to his sister, ruinous to Harold, regardless of his widowed mother, reckless of his God--that each one seemed to cut into him with a sense of its own badness, and he was quite as much grieved as afraid; he hated the fault, and hated himself for it. Indeed, he was growing less afraid, for the sorrow seemed to swallow that up; the grief at having offended One so loving was putting out the terror of being punished; or rather, when he thought that this illness was punishment, he was almost glad to have some of what he deserved; just as when he was a little boy, he really used to be happier afterwards for having been whipped and put in the corner, because that was like making it up. Though he knew very well that if he had ten thousand times worse than this to bear, it would not be making up for his faults, and he felt now that one of them had been his 'despising the chastening of the Lord.' And then the thought of what had made up for it would come: and though he had known of it all his life, and heeded it all too little, now that his heart was tender, and he had felt some of the horror and pain of sin, he took it all home now, and clung to it. He recollected the verses about that One kneeling--nay, falling on the ground, in the cold dewy night, with the chosen friends who could not watch with Him, and the agony and misery that every one in all the world deserved to feel, gathering on Him, Who had done no wrong, and making His brow stream with great drops of Blood. And the tortures, the shame, the slow Death--circumstance after circumstance came to his mind, and 'for me,' 'this fault of mine helped,' would rise with it, and the tears trickled down at the thought of the suffering and of the Love that had caused it to be undergone. Once he raised up his head, and saw through the window the deep dark-blue sky, and the stars, twinkling and sparkling away; that pale band of light, the Milky Way, which they say is made of countless stars too far off to be distinguished, and looking like a cloud, and on it the larger, brighter burnished stars, differing from one another in glory. He thought of some lines in a book Miss Jane once gave Ellen, which said of the stars: 'The Lord resigned them all to gain The bliss of pardoning thee.' And when he thought that it was the King of those stars Who was scourged and spit on, and for the sake of _his_ faults, the loving tears came again, and he turned to another hymn of Ellen's: 'Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!' And going on with this, he fell into a more quiet sleep than he had had for many nights. Alfred had worked up his mind to a point where it could not long remain; and when he awoke in the morning, the common affairs of the day occupied him in a way that was not hurtful to him, as the one chief thought was ever present, only laid away for a time, and helping him when he might have been fretful or impatient. He was anxious for Mr. Cope, and grateful when he saw him coming early in the day. Mr. Cope did not, however, say anything very new. He chiefly wished to shew Alfred that he must not think all his struggle with sin over, and that he had nothing to do but to lie still and be pardoned. There was much more work, as he would find, when the present strong feeling should grow a little blunt; he would have to keep his will bent to bear what was sent by God, and to prove his repentance by curing himself of all his bad habits of peevishness and exacting; to learn, in fact, to take up his cross. Alfred feebly promised to try, and it did not seem so difficult just then. The days were becoming cooler, and he did not feel quite so ill; and though he did not know how much this helped him, it made it much easier to act on his good resolutions. Miss Selby came to see him, and was quite delighted to see him looking so much less uncomfortable and dismal. 'Why, Alfred,' said she, 'you must be much better.' Ellen looked mournful at this, and shook her head so that Miss Jane turned her bright face to her in alarm. 'No, Ma'am,' said Alfred. 'Dr. Blunt says I can never get over it.' 'And does that make you glad?' almost gasped Miss Jane. 'No, Ma'am,' said Alfred; 'but Mr. Cope has been talking to me, and made it all so--' He could not get out the words; and, besides, he saw Miss Jane's eyes winking very fast to check the tears, and Ellen's had begun to rain down fast. 'I didn't mean to be silly,' said little Jane, in rather a trembling voice; 'but I'm sorry--no--I'm glad you are happy and good, Alfred.' 'Not good, Miss Jane,' cried Alfred; 'I'm such a bad boy, but there are such good things as I never minded before--' 'Well then, I think you'll like what I've brought you,' said Jane eagerly. It was a little framed picture of our Blessed Lord on His Cross, all darkness round, and the Inscription above His Head; and Miss Jane had painted, in tall Old English red letters, under it the two words, 'For me.' Alfred looked at it as if indeed it would be a great comfort to him to be always reminded by the eye, of how 'He was wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities.' He thanked Miss Jane with all his heart, and she and Ellen soon found a place to hang it up well in his sight. It was a pretty bright sight to see her insisting on holding the nail for it, and then playfully pretending to shrink and fancy that Ellen would hammer her fingers. Alfred could enjoy the sunshine of his sick-room again; and Ellen and his mother down-stairs told Miss Selby, with many tears, of the happy change that had come over him ever since he had resigned himself to give up hopes of life. Mrs. King looked so peaceful and thankful, that little Jane could hardly understand what it was that made her so much more at rest. Even Ellen, though her heart ached at the hope having gone out, and left a dark place where it had been, felt the great relief from hour to hour of not being fretted and snarled at for whatever she either did or left undone. Thanks and smiles were much pleasanter payment than groans, murmurs, and scoldings; and the brother and sister sometimes grew quite cheerful and merry together, as Alfred lay raised up to look over the hedge into the harvest-field across the meadow, where the reaper and his wife might be seen gathering the brown ears round, and cutting them with the sickle, and others going after to bind them into the glorious wheat sheaves that leant against each other in heaps of blessed promise of plenty. Paul tried reaping; but the first thing he did was to make a terrible cut in his hand, which the shuffler told him was for good luck! Some of the women in the field bound it up, but he was good for nothing after it except going after the cattle, and so he was likely to lose all the chance of earning himself any better clothes in harvest-time. Harold grumbled dreadfully that his mother could not spare him to go harvesting beyond their own tiny quarter of an acre of wheat. The post made it impossible for him to go out to work like the labourers; and besides, his mother did not think he had gained much good in hay-time, and wished to keep him from the boys. Very hard he thought it; and to hear him grumble, any one would have thought Mrs. King was a tyrant far worse than Farmer Shepherd, working the flesh off his bones, taking away the fun and the payment alike. The truth was, that the morning when Harold threw away from him the thought of his brother's danger, and broke all his promises to him in the selfish fear of a rebuke from the clergyman, had been one of the turning- points of his life, and a turning-point for the bad. It had been a hardening of his heart, just as it had begun to be touched, and a letting in of evil spirits instead of good ones. He became more than ever afraid of Mr. Cope, and shirked going near him so as to be spoken to; he cut Ellen off short if she said a word to him, and avoided being with Alfred, partly because it made him melancholy, partly because he was afraid of Alfred's again talking to him about the evil of his ways. In reality, his secret soul was wretched at the thought of losing his brother; but he tried to put the notion away from him, and to drown it in the noisiest jokes and most riotous sports he could meet with, keeping company with the wildest lads about the parish. That Dick Royston especially, whose honesty was doubtful, but who, being a clever fellow, was a sort of leader, was doing great harm by setting his face against the new parson, and laughing at the boys who went to him. Mrs. King was very unhappy. It was almost worse to think of Harold than of his sick brother; and Alfred grieved very much too, and took to himself the blame of having made home miserable to Harold, and driven him into bad company; of having been so peevish and unpleasant, that it was no wonder he would not come near him more than could be helped; and above all, of having set a bad example of idleness and recklessness, when he was well. If the tears were brought into his eyes at first by some unkind neglect of Harold's, they were sure to end in this thought at last; and then the only comfort was, that Mr. Cope had told him that he might make his sick-bed very precious to his brother's welfare, by praying always for him. Mr. Cope had talked it over with Mrs. King; and they had agreed that as Harold was under the regular age for Confirmation, and seemed so little disposed to prepare for it in earnest, they would not press it on him. He was far from fit for it, and he was in such a mood of impatient irreverence, that Mr. Cope was afraid of making his sin worse by forcing serious things on him, and his mother was in constant fear of losing her last hold on him. Yet Harold was not a bad or unfeeling boy by nature; and if he would but have paused to think, he would have been shocked to see how cruelly he was paining his widowed mother and dying brother, just when he should have been their strength and stay. One afternoon in October, when Alfred was in a good deal of pain, Mr. Blunt said he would send out some cooling ointment for the wound at the joint, when Harold took the evening letters into Elbury. Alfred reckoned much on the relief this was to give, and watched the ticks of the clock for the time for Harold to set off. 'Make haste,' were the last words his mother spoke--and Harold fully meant to make haste; nor was it weather to tempt him to stay long, for there was a chill raw fog hanging over the meadows, and fast turning into rain, which hung in drops upon his eyebrows, and the many-tiered cape of his father's box-coat, which he always wore in bad weather. It was fortunate he was likely to meet nothing, and that he and the pony both knew the road pretty well. How fuzzy the grey fog made the lamps of the town look! Did they disturb the pony? What a stumble! Ha! there's a shoe off. Be it known that it was Harold's own fault; he had not looked at the shoes for many a morning, as he knew it was his duty to do. He left Peggy with her ears back, much discomposed at being shod in a strange forge, and by any one but Bill Saunders. Then Harold was going to leave his bag at the post-office, when, as he turned up the street, some one caught hold of him, and cried, 'Ho! Harold King on foot! What's the row? Old pony tumbled down dead?' 'Cast a shoe,' said Harold. 'Oh, jolly, you'll have to wait!' went on Dick Royston. 'Come in here! Here's such a lark!' Harold looked into a court-yard belonging to a low public-house, and saw what was like a tent, with a bright red star on a blue ground at the end, lighted up. A dark figure came between, and there was a sudden crack that made Harold start. 'It's the unique (he called it eu-ni-quee) royal shooting-gallery, patronized by his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales,' (what a story!) said Dick. 'You've only to lay down your tin; one copper for three shots, and if you hit, you may take your choice--gingerbread-nuts, or bits of cocoa-nut, or, what's jolliest, lollies with gin inside 'em! Come, blaze away! or ha'n't you got the money? Does Mother keep you too short?' If there was a thing Harold had a longing for, it was to fire off a gun! If there was a person he envied more than another, it was old Isaac Coffin, when he prowled up and down Farmer Ledbitter's fields with an old blunderbuss and some powder, to keep off the birds! To be sure it was a public-house, but it was not inside one! And Mother would call it gambling. Oh, but it wasn't cards or skittles! And if he shot away his half-pence, how should he pay for the shoeing of the pony? The blacksmith might trust him, or the clerk at the post-office would lend him the money, or Betsey Hardman. And the time? One shot would not waste much! Pony must be shod. Besides, Dick and all the rest would say he was a baby. He paid the penny, threw aside his cap, and took the gun, though after all it was only a sham one, and what a miss he made! What business had every one to set up that great hoarse laugh? which made him so angry that he had nearly turned on Dick and cuffed him for his pains. However, he was the more bent on trying again, and the owner of the gallery shewed him how to manage better. He hit anything but the middle of the star, and just saw how he thought he might hit next time. Next time was barely a miss, so that the man actually gave him a gin-drop to encourage him. That made him mad to meet with real success; but it was the turn of another 'young gent,' as the man called him, and Harold had to stand by, with his penny in his hand, burning with impatience, and fancying he could mend each shot of that young gent, and another, and another, and another, who all thrust in to claim their rights before him. His turn came at last; and so short and straight was the gallery, that he really did hit once the side of the star, and once the middle, and thus gained one gingerbread-nut, and three of the gin-drops. It would have been his nature to share them with Alfred, but he could not do so without saying where he had been, and that he could not do, so he gave one to Dick, and swallowed the rest to keep out the cold. Just then the town clock struck six, and frightened him. He had been there three-quarters of an hour. What would they say at the post-office? The clerk looked out of his hole as angry as clerk could look. 'This won't do, King,' he said. 'Late for sorting! Fine, remember--near an hour after time.' 'Pony cast a shoe, Sir,' said Harold. He had never been so near a downright falsehood. 'Whew! Then I suppose I must not report you this time! But look out! You're getting slack.' No time this for borrowing of the clerk. Harold was really frightened, for he _had_ dawdled much more than he ought of late, and though he sometimes fancied himself sick of the whole post business, a complaint to his mother would be a dreadful matter. It put everything else out of his head; and he ran off in great haste to get the money from Betsey Hardman, knocking loud at her green door. What a cloud of steamy heat the room was, with the fire glowing like a red furnace, and five black irons standing up before it; and clothes-baskets full of heaps of whiteness, and horses with vapoury webs of lace and cambric hanging on them; and the three ironing-boards, where smoothness ran along with the irons; and the heaps of folded clothes; and Betsey in her white apron, broad and red in the midst of her maidens! 'Ha! Harold King! Well, to be sure, you are a stranger! Don't come nigh that there hoss; it's Mrs. Parnell's best pocket-handkerchiefs, real Walencines!' (she meant Valenciennes.) 'If you'll just run up and see Mother, I'll have it out of the way, and we'll have a cup of tea.' 'Thank you, but I--' 'My! What a smoke ye're in! Take care, or I shall have 'em all to do over again. Go up to Mother, do, like a good lad.' 'I can't, Betsey; I must go home.' 'Ay! that's the way. Lads never can sit down sensible and comfortable! it's all the same--' 'I wanted,' said Harold, interrupting her, 'to ask you to lend me sixpence. Pony's cast a shoe, and I had to leave her with the smith.' 'Ay? Who did you leave her with?' 'The first I came to, up in Wood Street.' 'Myers. Ye shouldn't have done that. His wife's the most stuck-up proud body I ever saw--wears steel petticoats, I'll answer for it. You should have gone to Charles Shaw.' 'Can't help it,' said Harold. 'Please, Betsey, let me have the sixpence; I'll pay you faithfully to-morrow!' 'Ay! that's always the way. Never come in unless ye want somewhat. 'Twasn't the way your poor father went on! He'd a civil word for every one. Well, and can't you stop a minute to say how your poor brother is?' 'Much the same,' said Harold impatiently. 'Yes, he'll never be no better, poor thing! All decliny; as I says to Mother, what a misfortune it is upon poor Cousin King! they'll all go off, one after t'other, just like innocents to the slaughter.' This was not a cheerful prediction; and Harold petulantly said he must get back, and begged for the sixpence. He got it at last, but not till all Betsey's pocket had been turned out; and finding nothing but shillings and threepenny-bits, she went all through her day's expenses aloud, calling all her girls to witness to help her to account for the sixpence that ought to have been there. Mrs. Brown had paid her four and sixpence--one florin and a half-crown--and she had three threepenny-pieces in her pocket, and twopence. Then Sally had been out and got a shilling's-worth of soap, and six-penn'orth of blue, and brought home one shilling; and there was the sausages--no one could recollect what they had cost, though they talked so much about their taste; and five-pence-worth of red-herrings, and the butter; yes, and threepence to the beggar who said he had been in Sebastopol. Harold's head was ready to turn round before it was all done; but he got away at last, with a scolding for not going up to see Mother. Home he trotted as hard as the pony would go, holding his head down to try to bury nose and mouth in his collar, and the thick rain plastering his hair, and streaming down the back of his neck. What an ill-used wretch was he, said he to himself, to have to rattle all over the country in such weather! Here was home at last. How comfortable looked the bright light, as the cottage door was thrown open at the sound of the horse's feet! 'Well, Harold!' cried Ellen eagerly, 'is anything the matter?' 'No,' he said, beginning to get sulky because he felt he was wrong; 'only Peggy lost a shoe--' 'Lame?' 'No, I took her to the smith.' 'Give me Alfred's ointment, please, before you put her up. He is in such a way about it, and we can't put him to bed--' 'Haven't got it.' 'Not got it! O Harold!' 'I should like to know how to be minding such things when pony loses a shoe, and such weather! I declare I'm as wet--!' said Harold angrily, as he saw his sister clasp her hands in distress, and the tears come in her eyes. 'Is Harold come safe?' called Mrs. King from above. 'Is the ointment come?' cried Alfred, in a piteous pain-worn voice. Harold stamped his foot, and bolted to the stable to put the pony away. 'It's not come,' said Ellen, coming up-stairs, very sadly. 'He has forgot it.' 'Forgot it!' cried Alfred, raising himself passionately. 'He always does forget everything! He don't care for me one farthing! I believe he wants me dead!' 'This is very bad of him! I didn't think he'd have done it,' said Mrs. King sorrowfully. 'He's been loitering after some mischief,' exclaimed Alfred. 'Taking his pleasure--and I must stay all this time in pain! Serve him right to send him back to Elbury.' Mrs. King had a great mind to have done so; but when she looked at the torrents of rain that streamed against the window, and thought how wet Harold must be already, and of the fatal illnesses that had been begun by being exposed to such weather, she was afraid to venture a boy with such a family constitution, and turning back to Alfred, she said, 'I am very sorry, Alfred, but it can't be helped; I can't send Harold out in the rain again, or we shall have him ill too.' Poor Alfred! it was no trifle to have suffered all day, and to be told the pain must go on all night. His patience and all his better thoughts were quite worn away, and he burst into tears of anger and cried out that it was very hard--his mother cared for Harold more than for him, and nobody minded it, if he lay in such pain all night. 'You know better than that, dear,' said his poor mother, sadly grieved, but bearing it meekly. 'Harold shall go as soon as can be to-morrow.' 'And what good will that be to-night?' grumbled Alfred. 'But you always did put Harold before me. However, I shall soon be dead and out of your way, that's all!' Mrs. King would not make any answer to this speech, knowing it only made him worse. She went down to see about Harold, an additional offence to Alfred, who muttered something about 'Mother and her darling.' 'How can you, Alfred, speak so to Mother?' cried Ellen. 'I'm sure every one is cross enough to me,' returned Alfred. 'Not Mother,' said Ellen. 'She couldn't help it.' 'She won't send Harold out again, though; I'm sure I'd have gone for him.' 'You don't know what the rain was,' said Ellen. 'Well, he should have minded; but you're all against me.' 'You'll be sorry by-and-by, Alfred; this isn't like the way you talk sometimes.' 'Some one else had need to be sorry, not me.' Perhaps, in the midst of his captious state, Alfred was somewhat pacified by hearing sounds below that made him certain that Harold was not escaping without some strong words from his mother. They were not properly taken. Harold was in no mood of repentance, and the consciousness that he had been behaving most unkindly, only made him more rough and self-justifying. 'I can't help it! I can't be a slave to run about everywhere, and remember everything--pony losing her shoe, and nigh tumbling down with me, and Ross at the post so cross for nothing!' 'You'll grieve at the way you have used your poor brother one of these days, Harold,' quietly answered his mother, so low, that Alfred could not hear through the floor. 'Now, you'll please to go to bed.' 'Ain't I to have no supper?' said Harold in a sullen voice, with a great mind to sit down in the chimney-corner in defiance. 'I shall give you something hot when you are in bed. If I treated you as you deserve, I should send you to Mr. Blunt's this moment; but I can't afford to have you ill too, so go to bed this moment.' His mother could still master him by her steadiness and he went up, muttering that he'd no notion of being treated like a baby, and that he would soon shew her the difference: he wasn't going to be made a slave to Alfred, and 'twas all a fuss about that stuff! He did fancy he said his prayers; but they could not have been real ones, for he was no softer when his mother came to his bedside with a great basin of hot gruel. He said he hated such nasty sick stuff, and grunted savagely when, with a look that ought to have gone to his heart, she asked if he thought he deserved anything better. Yet she did not know of the shooting gallery, nor of his false excuses. If he had not been deceiving her, perhaps he might have been touched. 'Well, Harold,' she said at last, after taking the empty basin from him, and picking up his wet clothes and boots to dry them by the fire, 'I hope as you lie there you'll come to a better mind. It makes me afraid for you, my boy. It is not only your brother you are sinning against, but if you are a bad boy, you know Who will be angry with you. Good-night.' She lingered, but Harold was still hard, and would neither own himself sorry, nor say good-night. When she passed his bed at the top of the stairs again, after hanging up the things by the fire, he had his head hidden, and either was, or feigned to be, asleep. Alfred's ill-temper was nearly gone, but he still thought himself grievously injured, and was at no pains to keep himself from groaning and moaning all the time he was being put to bed. In fact, he rather liked to make the most of it, to shew his mother how provoking she was, and to reproach Harold for his neglect. The latter purpose he did not effect; Harold heard every sound, and consoled himself by thinking what an intolerable work Alfred was making on purpose. If he had tried to bear it as well as possible, his brother would have been much more likely to be sorry. Alfred was thinking too much about his misfortunes and discomforts to attend to the evening reading, but it soothed him a little, and the pain was somewhat less, so he did fall asleep, so uneasily though, that Mrs. King put off going to bed as late as she could. It was nearly eleven, and Ellen had been in bed a long time, when Alfred started, and Mrs. King turned her head, at the click of the wicket gate, and a step plashing on the walk. She opened the little window, and the gust of wet wind puffed the curtains, whistled round the room, and almost blew out the candle. 'Who's there? 'It's me, Mrs. King! I've got the stuff,' called a hoarse tired voice. 'Well, if ever! It's Paul Blackthorn!' exclaimed Mrs. King. 'Thank ye kindly. I'll come and let you in.' 'Paul Blackthorn!' cried Alfred. 'Been all the way to Elbury for me! O Mother, bring him up, and let me thank him! But how ever did he know?' The tears came running down Alfred's cheeks at such kindness from a stranger. Mrs. King had hurried down-stairs, and at the threshold stood a watery figure, holding out the gallipot. 'Oh! thank you, thank you; but come in! Yes, come in! you must have something hot, and get dried.' Paul shambled in very foot-sore. He looked as if he were made of moist mud, and might be squeezed into any shape, and streams of rain were dropping from each of his many rags. 'Well, I don't know how to thank you--such a night! But he'll sleep easy now. How did you come to think of it?' 'I was just coming home from the parson's, and I met Harold putting up Peggy, in a great way because he'd forgotten. That's all, Missus,' said Paul, looking shamefaced. 'Good-night to you.' 'No, no, that won't do. I must have you sit down and get dry,' said Mrs. King, nursing up the remains of the fire; and as Paul's day-garments served him for night-gear likewise, he could hardly help accepting the invitation, and spreading his chilled hands to the fire. As to Mrs. King's feelings, it must be owned that, grateful as she was, it was rather like sitting opposite to the heap in the middle of Mr. Shepherd's farm-yard. 'Would you take that?' she said, holding out a three-penny piece. 'I'd make it twice as much if I could, but times are hard.' 'No, no, Missus, I didn't do it for that,' said Paul, putting it aside. 'Then you must have some supper, that I declare.' And she brought out a slice of cold bacon, and some bread, and warmed some beer at the fire. She would go without bacon and beer herself to- morrow, but that was nothing to her. It was a real pleasure to see the colour come into Paul's bony yellow cheeks at the hearty meal, which he could not refuse; but he did not speak much, for he was tired out, and the fire and the beer were making him very sleepy. Alfred rapped above with the stick that served as a bell. It was to beg that Paul would come and be thanked; and though Mrs. King was a little afraid of the experiment, she did ask him to walk up for a moment. Grunt went he, and in rather an unmannerly way, he said, 'I'd rather not.' 'Pray do,' said Mrs. King; 'I don't think Alfred will sleep easy without saying thank you.' So Paul complied, and in a most ungainly fashion clumped up-stairs and stood at the door. He had not forgotten his last reception, and would not come a step farther, though Alfred stretched out his hand and begged him to come in. Alfred could say only 'Thank you, I never thought any one would be so kind.' And Paul made gruff reply, 'Ye're very welcome,' turned about as if he were running away, and tumbled down-stairs, and out of the house, without even answering Mrs. King's 'Good-night.' Harold had wakened at the sounds. He heard all, but he chose to seem to be asleep, and, would you believe it? he was only the more provoked! Paul's exertion made his neglect seem all the worse, and he was positively angry with him for 'going and meddling, and poking his nose where he'd no concern. Now he shouldn't be able to get the stuff to-morrow, and so make it up; and of course mother would go and dock Paul's supper out of his dinner!' If such reflections were going on upon one side of the partition, there were very different thoughts upon the other. The stranger's kindness had done more than relieve Alfred's pain: the warm sense of thankfulness had softened his spirit, and carried off his selfish fit. He knew not how kind people were to him, and how ungrateful he had been to punish his innocent mother and sister, and so much to magnify a bit of thoughtlessness on Harold's part; to be angry with his mother for not driving him out when she thought it might endanger his health and life, and to say such cruel things on purpose to wound her. Alfred felt himself far more cruel than he had even thought Harold. And was this his resolution? Was this the shewing the sincerity of his repentance through his conduct in illness? Was this patience? Was it brotherly love? Was it the taking up the cross so as to bear it like his Saviour, Who spoke no word of complaining, no murmur against His tormentors? How he had fallen! How he had lost himself! It was a bitter distress, and threw him almost into despair. He prayed over and over to be forgiven, and began to long for some assurance of pardon, and for something to prevent all his right feelings and wishes from thus seeming to slip away from his grasp at the first trial. He told his mother how sorry he was; and she answered, 'Dear lad, don't fret about it. It was very hard for you to bear, and you are but learning, you see, to be patient.' 'But I'm not learning if I don't go on no better,' sighed Alfred. 'By bits you are, my boy,' she said; 'you are much less fractious now than you used to be, only you could not stand this out-of-the-way trial.' Alfred groaned. 'Do you remember what our Saviour said to St. Peter?' said his mother; '"Whither I go thou canst not follow Me now, but thou shalt follow Me afterwards." You see, St. Peter couldn't bear his cross then, but he went on doing his best, and grieving when he failed, and by-and-by he did bear it almost like his Master. He got to be made strong out of weakness.' There was some comfort to Alfred in this; but he feared, and yet longed, to see Mr. Cope, and when he came, had scarcely answered his questions as to how he felt, before he said, 'O Sir, I've been a bad boy again, and so cross to them all!' 'O Sir,' said Ellen, who could not bear for him to blame himself, 'I'm sure it was no wonder--he's so distracted with the pain, and Harold getting idling, and forgetting to bring him the ointment. Why, even that vagabond boy was so shocked, that he went all the way to Elbury that very night for it. I told Alfred you'd tell him that anybody would be put out, and nobody would think of minding what he said.' 'Nobody, especially so kind a sister,' said Mr. Cope, smiling; 'but that is not what Alfred is thinking of.' 'No, Sir,' said Alfred; 'their being so good to me makes it all the worse.' 'I quite believe so; and you are very much disappointed in yourself.' 'Oh yes, Sir, just when I wanted to be getting patient, and more like--' and his eyes turned to the little picture, and filled with tears. Mr. Cope said somewhat of what his mother had said that he was but a scholar in patience, and that he must take courage, though he had slipped, and pray for new strengthening and refreshing to go on in the path of pain his Lord had hallowed for him. Perhaps the words reminded Alfred of the part of the Catechism where they occur, for he said, 'Oh, I wish I was confirmed! If I could but take the Holy Sacrament, to make me stronger, and sure of being forgiven--' 'You shall--before--' said Mr. Cope, speaking eagerly, but becoming choked as he went on. 'You are one whom the Church would own as ready and desirous to come, though you cannot be confirmed. You should at once--but you see I am not yet a priest; I have not the power to administer the Holy Communion; but I trust I shall be one in the spring, and then, Alfred--Or if you should be worse, I promise you that I would bring some one here. You shall not go without the Bread of Life.' Alfred felt what he said to the depths of his heart, but he could not say anything but 'Thank you, Sir.' Mr. Cope, still much moved, laid his hand upon that of the boy. 'So, Alfred, we prepare together. As I hope and long to prepare myself to have that great charge committed to me, which our Saviour Christ gave to His Apostles; so you prepare for the receiving of that Bread and that Cup which will more fully unite you to Him, and join your suffering to what He bore for you.' 'How shall I, Sir?' murmured Alfred. 'I will do my best to shew you,' said Mr. Cope; 'but your Catechism tells you best. Think over that last answer.' Alfred's face lighted sweetly as he went over it. 'Why, that's what I can't help doing, Sir; I can't forget my faults, I'm so afraid of them; and I'm sure I do want to lead a new life, if I didn't keep on being so bad; and thinking about His dying is the best comfort I have. Nor I'm sure I don't bear ill-will to nobody, only I suppose it is not charity to run out at poor Mother and Ellen when one's put out.' 'Perhaps that is what you want to learn,' said Mr. Cope, 'and to get all these feelings deepened, and more earnest and steadfast. If the long waiting does that for you, it will be good, and keep you from coming lightly to the Holy Feast.' 'Oh, I could not do that!' exclaimed Alfred. 'And may I think that all my faults will be taken away and forgiven?' 'All you repent of, and bring in faith--' 'That is what they say at church in the Absolution,' said Alfred thoughtfully. 'Rather it is what the priest says to them,' said Mr. Cope; 'it is the applying the promise of forgiveness that our Saviour bought. I may not yet say those words with authority, Alfred, but I should like to hope that some day I may speak them to you, and bring rest from the weight at your heart.' 'Oh! I hope I may live to that!' said Alfred. 'You shall hear them, whether from me or from another,' said Mr. Cope, 'that is, if God will grant us warning. But you need not fear, Alfred, if you thoroughly repent, and put your full faith in the great Sacrifice that has been offered for your sins and the sins of all the world. God will take care of His child, and you already have His promise that He will give you all that is needful for your salvation.' CHAPTER VIII--CONFIRMATION If Harold had known all the consequences of his neglect, perhaps he would have been more sorry for it than as yet he had chosen to be. The long walk and the warm beer and fire sent Paul to his hay-nest so heavy with sleep, that he never stirred till next morning he was wakened by Tom Boldre, the shuffler, kicking him severely, and swearing at him for a lazy fellow, who stayed out at night and left him to do his work. Paul stumbled to his feet, quite confused by the pain, and feeling for his shoes in the dark loft. The shuffler scarcely gave him an instant to put them on, but hunted him down-stairs, telling him the farmer was there, and he would catch it. It would do nobody any good to hear the violent way in which Mr. Shepherd abused the boy. He was a passionate man, and no good labourers liked to work with him because of his tongue. With such grown men as he had, he was obliged to keep himself under some restraint, but this only incited him to make up for it towards the poor friendless boy. It was really nearly eight o'clock, and Paul's work had been neglected, which was enough to cause displeasure; and besides, Boldre had heard Paul coming home past eleven, and the farmer insisted on knowing what he had been doing. Under all his rags, Paul was a very proud boy, and thus asked, he would not tell, but stood with his legs twisted, looking very sulky. 'No use asking him,' cried Mrs. Shepherd's shrill voice at the back door; 'why, don't ye hear that Mrs. Barker's hen-roost has been robbed by Dick Royston and two or three more on 'em?' 'I never robbed!' cried Paul indignantly. 'None of your jaw,' said the farmer angrily. 'If you don't tell me this moment where you've been, off you go this instant. Drinking at the Tankard, I'll warrant.' 'No such thing, Sir,' said Paul. 'I went to Elbury after some medicine for a sick person.' Somehow he had a feeling about the house opposite, which would not let him come out with the name in such a scene. 'That's all stuff,' broke in Mrs. Shepherd, 'I don't believe one word of it! Send him off; take my advice, Farmer, let him go where he comes from; Ellen King told me he was out of prison.' Paul flushed crimson at this, and shook all over. He had all but turned to go, caring for nothing more at Friarswood; but just then, John Farden, one of the labourers, who was carrying out some manure, called out, 'No, no, Ma'am. Sure enough he did go to Elbury to Dr. Blunt's. I was on the road myself, and I hears him. "Good-night," says I. "Good-night," says he. "Where be'est going?" says I. "To doctor's," says he, "arter some stuff for Alfred King." 'Yes,' said Paul, speaking more to Farden than to his master, 'and then Mrs. King gave me some supper, and that was what made me so late.' 'She ought to be ashamed of herself, then,' said Mrs. Shepherd spitefully, 'having a vagabond scamp like that drinking beer at her house at that time of night. How one is deceived in folks!' 'Well, what are you doing here?' cried the farmer, turning on Paul angrily; 'd'ye mean to waste any more of the day?' So Paul was not turned off, and had to go straight to his work. It was well he had had so good a supper, for he had not a moment to snatch a bit of breakfast. It so happened that his work was to go with John Farden, who was carrying out the manure in the cart. Paul had to hold the horse, while John forked it out into little heaps in the field. John was a great big powerful man, with a foolish face, not a good workman, nor a good character, or he would not have been at that farm. He had either never been taught anything, or had forgotten it all; he never went near church; he had married a disreputable wife, and had two or three unruly children, who were likely to be the plagues of their parents and the parish, but not a whit did John heed; he did not seem to have much more sense than to work just enough to get food, lodging, beer, and tobacco, to sleep all night, and doze all Sunday. There was not any malice nor dishonesty in him; but it was terrible that a man with an immortal soul should live so nearly the life of the brute beasts that have no understanding, and should never wake to the sense of God or of eternity. He was not a man of many words, and nothing passed for a long time but shouts of hoy, and whoa, and the like, to the horse. Paul went heavily on, scarce knowing what he was about; there was a stunned jaded feel about him, as if he were hunted and driven about, a mere outcast, despised by every one, even by the Kings, whose kindness had been his only ray of brightness. Not that his senses or spirits were alive enough even to be conscious of pain or vexation; it was only a dull dreary heedlessness what became of him next; and, quick clever boy as he had been in the Union, he did not seem to have a bit more sense, thought, or feeling, than John Farden. John Farden was the first to break the silence: 'I wouldn't bide,' said he. Paul looked up, and muttered, 'I have nowhere to go.' 'Farmer uses thee shameful,' repeated John. 'Why don't thee cut?' Paul saw the smoke of Mrs. King's chimney. That had always seemed like a friend to him, but it came across him that they too thought him a runaway from prison, and he felt as if his only bond of fellowship was gone. But there was something else, too; and he made answer, 'I'll bide for the Confirmation.' 'Eh?' said John, 'what good'll that do ye?' 'Help me to be a good lad,' said Paul, who knew John Farden would not enter into any other explanation. 'Why, what'll they do to ye?' 'The Bishop will put his hand on me and bless me,' said Paul; and as he said the words there was hope and refreshment coming back. He was a child of God, if no other owned him. 'Whoy,' said Farden, much as he might have spoken to his horse, 'rum sort of a head thou'st got! Thee'll never go up to Bishop such a guy!' 'Can't help it,' said Paul rather sullenly; 'it ain't the clothes that God looks at.' John scanned him all over, with his face looking more foolish than ever in the puzzle he felt. 'Well,' he said, 'and what wilt get by it?' 'God's grace to do right, I hope,' said Paul; then he added, out of his sad heart, 'It's bad enough here, to be sure. It would be a bad look-out if one hoped for nothing afterwards.' Somehow John's mind didn't take in the notion of afterwards, and he did not go on talking to Paul. Perhaps there was a dread in his poor dull mind of getting frightened out of the deadly stupefied sleep it was bound in. But that bit of talk had done Paul great good, by rousing him to the thought of what he had to hope for. There was the Confirmation nigh at hand, and then on beyond there was rest; and the words came into his mind, 'There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary are at rest.' Poor, poor boy! He was very young to have such yearnings towards the grave, and well-nigh to wish he lay as near to it as Alfred King, so he might have those loving tender hands near him, those kind voices round him. Paul had gone through a great deal in these few months; and, used to good shelter and regular meals, he was less inured to bodily hardship than many a cottage boy. His utter neglect of his person was telling on him; he was less healthy and strong than he had been, and though high spirits, merriment, and the pleasure of freedom and independence, had made all light to him in the summer, yet now the cold weather, with his insufficient food and scanty clothing, was dulling him and deadening him, and hard work and unkind usage seemed to be grinding his very senses down. To be sure, when twelve o'clock came, he went up into the loft, ate his bit of dry bread, and said his prayers, as he had not been able to do in the morning, and that made him feel less forlorn and downcast for a little while; but then as he sat, he grew cold, and numb, and sleepy, and seemed to have no life in him, but to be moving like a horse in a mill, when Boldre called him down, and told him not to be idling there. The theft in Mrs. Barker's poultry-yard was never traced home to any one, but the world did not the less believe Dick Royston and Jesse Rolt to have been concerned in it. Indeed, they had been drinking up some of their gains when Harold met them at the shooting-gallery: and Mrs. Shepherd would not put it out of her head that Paul Blackthorn was in the secret, and that if he did really go for the medicine as he said, it was only as an excuse for carrying the chickens to some receiver of stolen goods. She had no notion of any person doing anything out of pure love and pity. Moreover, it is much easier to put a suspicion into people's heads than out again; and if Paul's whole history and each day's doings had been proved to her in a court of justice, she would still have chiefly remembered that she had always thought ill of him, and that Ellen King had said he was a runaway convict, and so she would have believed him to the end. Ellen had long ago forgotten that she had said anything of the kind; and though she still held her nose rather high when Paul was near, she would have answered for his honesty as readily as for that of her own brothers. But hers had not been the charity that thinketh no evil, and her idle words had been like thistle-down, lightly sent forth, but when they had lighted, bearing thorns and prickles. Those thorns were galling poor Paul. Nobody could guess what his glimpses of that happy, peaceful, loving family were to him. They seemed to him like a softer, better kind of world, and he looked at their fair faces and fresh, well-ordered garments with a sort of reverence; a kind look or greeting from Mrs. King, a mere civil answer from Ellen, those two sights of the white spirit-looking Alfred, were like the rays of light that shone into his dark hay-loft. Sometimes he heard them singing their hymns and psalms on a Sunday evening, and then the tears would come into his eyes as he leant over the gate to listen. And, as if it was because Ellen kept at the greatest distance from him, he set more store by her words and looks than those of any one else, was always glad when she served him in the shop, and used to watch her on Sunday, looking as fresh as a flower in her neat plain dress. And now to hear that she not only thought meanly of him, which he knew well enough, but thought him a thief, a runaway, and an impostor coming about with false tales, was like a weight upon his sunken spirits, and seemed to take away all the little heart hard usage had left him, made him feel as if suspicious eyes were on him whenever he went for his bit of bread, and took away all his peace in looking at the cottage. He did once take courage to say to Harold, 'Did your sister really say I had run away from gaol?' 'Oh, nobody minds what our Ellen says,' was the answer. 'But did she say so?' 'I don't know, I dare say she did. She's so fine, that she thinks no one that comes up-stairs in dirty shoes worth speaking to. I'm sure she's the plague of my life--always at me.' That was not much comfort for Paul. He had other friends, to be sure. All the boys in the place liked him, and were very angry with the way the farmer treated him, and greatly to their credit, they admired his superior learning instead of being jealous of it. Mrs. Hayward, the sexton's wife, the same who had bound up his hand when he cut it at harvest, even asked him to come in and help her boys in the evenings with what they had to prepare for Mr. Cope. He was not sorry to do so sometimes. The cottage was a slatternly sort of place, where he did not feel ashamed of himself, and the Haywards were mild good sort of folks, from whom he was sure never to hear either a bad or an unkind word; though he did not care for them, nor feel refreshed and helped by being with them as he did with the Kings. John Farden, too, was good-natured to him, and once or twice hindered Boldre from striking or abusing him; he offered him a pipe once, but Paul could not smoke, and another time brought him out a pint of beer into the field. Mrs. Shepherd spied him drinking it from her upper window, and believed all the more that he got money somehow, and spent it in drink. So the time wore on till the Confirmation, all seeming like one dull heavy dream of bondage; and as the weather became colder, the poor boy seemed to have no power of thinking of anything, but of so getting through his work as to avoid violence, to keep himself from perishing with cold, and not to hurt his chilblains more than he could help. All his quick intellect and good instruction seemed to have perished away, and the last time he went to Mr. Cope's, he sat as if he were stupid or asleep, and when a question came to him, sat with his mouth open like silly Bill Pridden. Mr. Cope knew him too well not to feel, as he wrote the ticket, that there were very few of whom he could so entirely from his heart say 'Examined and APPROVED,' as the poor lonely outcast foundling, Paul Blackthorn, who could not even tell whether he were fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen, but could just make sure that he had once been caned by old Mr. Haynes, who went away from the Union twelve years ago. 'Do you think you can keep the ticket safe if I give it you now, Paul?' asked Mr. Cope, recollecting that the cows might sup upon it like his Prayer-book. Paul put his hands down to the bottom of his pockets. They were all one hole, and that sad lost foolish look came over his wan face again, and startled Mr. Cope. The boys grinned, but Charles Hayward stepped forward. 'Please, Sir, let me take care of it for him.' Mr. Cope and Paul both agreed, and Mr. Cope kept Charles for a moment to say, as he gave him a shilling, 'Look here, Charles, do you think you can manage to get that poor fellow a tolerable breakfast on Saturday before he goes? And if you could make him look a little more decent?' Charles pulled his forelock and looked knowing. In fact, there was a little plot among these good-natured boys, and Harold King was in it too, though he was not of the Confirmation party, and said and thought he was very glad of it. He did not want to bind himself to be so very good. Silly boy; as if Baptism had not bound him already! Mrs. Hayward put her head out as Paul passed her cottage, and called out, 'I say, you Paul, you come in to-morrow evening with our Charlie and Jim, and I'll wash you when I washes them.' Good Mrs. Hayward made a mistake that the more delicate-minded Mrs. King would never have made. Perhaps if a pail of warm water and some soap had been set before Paul, he might actually have washed himself; but he was much too big and too shamefaced a lad to fancy sharing a family scrubbing by a woman, whatever she might do to her own sons. But considering the size of the Hayward cottage, and the way in which the family lived, this sort of notion was not likely to come into the head of the good-natured mother. So she and her boys were much vexed when Paul did not make his appearance, and she made a face of great disgust when Charles said, 'Never mind, Mother, my white frock will hide no end of dirt.' 'I shall have to wash it over again before you can wear it, I know,' said Mrs. Hayward. 'Not as I grudges the trouble; he's a poor lost orphant, that it's a shame to see so treated.' Mrs. Hayward did not know that she was bestowing the cup of cold water, as well as being literally ready to wash the feet of the poor disciple. A clean body is a type and token of a pure mind; and though the lads of Friarswood did not quite perceive this, there was a feeling about them of there being something unnatural and improper, and a disgrace to Friarswood, in any one going up to the Bishop in such a condition as Paul. Especially, as Charles Hayward said, when he was the pick of the whole lot. Perhaps Charles was right, for surely Paul was single-hearted in his hope of walking straight to his one home, Heaven, and he had been doing no other than bearing his cross, when he so patiently took the being 'buffeted' when he did well, and faithfully served his froward master. But Paul was not to escape the outward cleansing, and from one of the very last people from whom it would have been expected. He had just pulled his bed of hay down over him, and was trying to curl himself up so as to stop his teeth from chattering, with Caesar on his feet, when the dog growled, and a great voice lowered to a gruff whisper, said, 'Come along, young un!' 'I'm coming,' cried Paul. Though it was not Boldre's voice, it had startled him terribly; he was so much used to ill-treatment, that he expected a savage blow every moment. But the great hand that closed on him, though rough, was not unkind. 'Poor lad, how he quakes!' said John Farden's voice. 'Don't ye be afeard, it's only me.' 'Nobody got at the horses?' cried Paul. 'No, no; only I ain't going to have you going up to yon big parson all one muck-heap! Come on, and make no noise about it.' Paul did not very well know what was going to befall him, but he did not feel unsafe with John Farden, and besides, his lank frame was in the grasp of that big hand like a mouse in the power of a mastiff. So he let himself be hauled down the ladder, into an empty stall, where, behold, there was a dark lantern (which had been at bad work in its time), a pail, a brush, a bit of soap, and a ragged towel. John laid hold of him much as Alfred in his page days used to do of Lady Jane's little dog when it had to be washed, but Puck had the advantage in keeping on his shaggy coat all the time, and in being more gently handled, whereas Farden scrubbed with such hearty good-will, that Paul thought his very skin would come off. But he had undergone the like in the workhouse, and he knew how to accommodate himself to it; and when his rough bath was over, though he was very sore, and stiff, and chilly, he really felt relieved, and more respectable than he had done for many months, only rather sorry he must put on his filthy old rags again; and he gave honest John more thanks than might have been expected. The Confirmation was to be at eleven o'clock, at Elbury, and John had undertaken his morning's work, so that Mr. Shepherd grudgingly consented to spare him, knowing that all the other farmers of course did the same, and that there would be a cry of shame if he did not. Paul had just found his way down the ladder in the morning, with thoughts going through his mind that to him this would be the coming of the Comforter, and he was sure he wanted comfort; and that for some hours of this day at least, he should be at peace from rude words and blows, when he heard a great confusion of merry voices and suppressed laughing, and saw the heads of some of the lads bobbing about near Mrs. King's garden. Was it time already to set off, he wondered, looking up to the sun; but then those boys seemed to be in an uproarious state such as did not suit his present mood, nor did he think Mr. Cope would consider it befitting. He would have let them go by, feeling himself such a scare-crow as they might think a blot upon them; but he remembered that Charles Hayward had his ticket, and as he looked at himself, he doubted whether he should be let into a strange church. 'Paul! Paul Blackthorn!' called Harold, with a voice all aglee. 'Well!' said Paul, 'what do you want of me?' 'Come on, and you'll see.' 'I don't want a row. Is Charlie Hayward there? Just ask him for my card, and don't make a work.' 'He'll give it you if you'll come for it,' said Harold; and seeing there was no other chance, Paul slowly came. Harold led him to the stable, where just within the door stood a knot of stout hearty boys, snorting with fun, hiding their heads on each other's shoulders, and bending their buskined knees with merriment. 'Now then!' cried Charles Hayward, and he had got hold of the only button that held Paul's coat together. Paul was bursting out with something, but George Grant's arms were round his waist, and his hands were fumbling at his fastenings. They were each one much stronger than he was now, and they drowned his voice with shouts of laughter, while as fast as one garment was pulled off, another was put on. 'Mind, you needn't make such a work, it bain't presents,' said George Grant, 'only we won't have them asking up at Elbury if we've saved the guy to bring in.' 'It is a present, though, old Betty Bushel's shirt,' said Charles Hayward. 'She said she'd throw it at his head if he brought it back again; but the frock's mine.' 'And the corduroys is mine,' said George Grant. 'My! they be a sight too big in the band! Run in, Harold, and see if your mother can lend us a pin.' 'And the waistcoat is my summer one,' said Fred Bunting. 'He's too big too; why, Paul, you're no better than a natomy!' 'Never mind, my white frock will hide it all,' said Charles, 'and here's Ned's cap for you. Oh! and it's poor Alfred's boots.' Paul could not make up his mind to walk all the way in the boots, but to satisfy the boys he engaged to put them on as soon as they were getting to Elbury. 'My! he looks quite respectable,' cried Charles, running back a little way to look at him. 'I wonder if Mr. Cope will know him?' exclaimed Harold, jumping leap-frog fashion on George Grant's back. 'The maids will take him for some strange gentleman,' exclaimed Jem Hayward; 'and why, bless me, he's washed, I do declare!' as a streak of light from the door fell on Paul's visage. 'No, you don't mean it,' broke out Charles. 'Let's look! yes, I protest, why, the old grime between his eyes is gone after all. How did you manage that, Paul?' Paul rather uneasily mumbled something about John Farden, and the boys clapped their hands, and shouted, so that Alfred, who well knew what was going on, raised himself on his pillow and laughed. It was rather blunt treatment for feelings if they were tender, but these were rough warm- hearted village boys, and it was all their good-nature. 'And where's the grub?' asked Charles importantly, looking about. 'Oh, not far off,' said Harold; and in another moment, he and Charles had brought in a black coffee-pot, a large mug, some brown sugar, a hunch of bread, some butter, and a great big smoking sausage. Paul looked at it, as if he were not quite sure what to do with it. One boy proceeded to turn in an inordinate quantity of sugar, another to pour in the brown coffee that sent out a refreshing steam enough to make any one hungry. George Grant spread the butter, cut the sausage in half, put it on the bread, and thrust it towards Paul. 'Eat it--s--s,' said Charles, patting Paul on the back. 'Mr. Cope said you was to, and you must obey your minister.' 'Not all for me?' said Paul, not able to help a pull at the coffee, the mug warming his fingers the while. 'Oh yes, we've all had our breakfastisses,' said George Grant; 'we are only come to make you eat yours like a good boy, as Mr. Cope said you should.' They stood round, looking rather as they would have done had Paul been an elephant taking his meal in a show; but not one would hear of helping him off with a crumb out of Mr. Cope's shilling. George Grant was a big hungry lad, and his breakfast among nine at home had not been much to speak of; but savoury as was the sausage, and perfumy as was the coffee, he would have scorned to take a fragment from that stranger, beg him to do so as Paul might; and what could not be eaten at that time, with a good pint of the coffee, was put aside in a safe nook in the stable to be warmed up for supper. That morning's work was not a bad preparation for Confirmation after all. Harold had stayed so long, that he had to jump on the pony and ride his fastest to be in time at the post. He was very little ashamed of not being among those lads, and felt as if he had the more time to enjoy himself; but there were those who felt very sad for him--Alfred, who would have given so much to receive the blessing; and Ellen, whose confirmation was very lonely and melancholy without either of her brothers; besides his mother, to whom his sad carelessness was such constant grief and heart-ache. Ellen was called for by the carriage from the Grange, and sat up behind with the kitchen-maid, who was likewise to be confirmed. Little Miss Jane sat inside in her white dress and veil, looking like a snowdrop, Alfred thought, as his mother lifted him up to the window to see her, as the carriage stood still while Ellen climbed to her seat. In the course of the morning, Mrs. King made time to read over the Confirmation Service with Alfred, to think of the blessing she was receiving, and to pray that it might rest upon her through life. And they entreated, too, that Harold might learn to care for it, and be brought to a better mind. 'O Mother,' said Alfred, after lying thinking for sometime, 'if I thought Harold would take up for good and be a better boy to you than I have been, I should not mind anything so much.' And there was Harold all the time wondering whether he should be able to get out in the evening to have a lark with Dick and Jesse. Ellen was set down by-and-by. Her colour was very deep, but she looked gentle and happy, and the first thing she did was to bend over Alfred, kiss him, and say how she wished he had been there. Then, when she had been into her own room, she came back and told them about the beautiful large Elbury Church, and the great numbers of young girls and boys on the two sides of the aisle, and of the Bishop seated in the chair by the altar, and the chanted service, with the organ sounding so beautiful. And then how her heart had beat, and she hardly dared to speak her vow, and how she trembled when her turn came to go up to the rail, but she said it was so comfortable to see Mr. Cope in his surplice, looking so young among the other clergymen, and coming a little forward, as if to count out and encourage his own flock. She was less frightened when she had met his kind eye, and was able to kneel down with a more quiet mind to receive the gift which had come down on the Day of Pentecost. Alfred wanted to know whether she had seen Paul, but Ellen had been kneeling down and not thinking of other people, when the Friarswood boys went up. Only she had passed him on the way home, and seen that though he was lagging the last of the boys, he did not look dull and worn, as he had been doing lately. Ellen had been asked to go to the Grange after church to-morrow evening, and drink tea there, in celebration of the Confirmation which the two young foster-sisters had shared. Harold went to fetch her home at night, and they both came into the house fresh and glowing with the brisk frosty air, and also with what they had to tell. 'O mother, what do you think? Paul Blackthorn is to go to the Grange to- morrow. My Lady wants to see him, and perhaps she will make Mr. Pound find some work for him about the farm.' Harold jumped up and snapped his fingers towards the farm. 'There's for old Skinflint!' said he; 'not a chap in the place but will halloo for joy!' 'Well, I am glad!' said Mrs. King; 'I didn't think that poor lad would have held out much longer, winter weather and all. But how did my Lady come to hear of it?' 'Oh, it seems she noticed him going to church in all his rags, and Mr. Cope told her who he was; so Miss Jane came and asked me all about him, and I told her what a fine scholar he is, and how shamefully the farmer and Boldre treat him, and how good he was to Alfred about the ointment, and how steady he is. And I told her about the boys dressing him up yesterday, and how he wouldn't take a gift. She listened just as if it was a story, and she ran away to her grandmamma, and presently came back to say that the boy was to come up to-morrow after his work, for Lady Jane to speak to him.' 'Well, at least, he has been washed once,' said Mrs. King; 'but he's so queer; I hope he will have no fancies, and will behave himself.' 'I'll tackle him,' declared Harold decidedly. 'I've a great mind to go out this moment and tell him.' Mrs. King prevented this; she persuaded Harold that Mrs. Shepherd would fly out at them if she heard any noise in the yard, and that it would be better for every one to let Paul alone till the morning. Morning came, and as soon as Harold was dressed, he rushed to the farm- yard, but he could not find Paul anywhere, and concluded that he had been sent out with the cows, and would be back by breakfast-time. As soon as he had brought home the post-bag, he dashed across the road again, but came back in a few moments, looking beside himself. 'He's gone!' he said, and threw himself back in a chair. 'Gone!' cried Mrs. King and Ellen with one voice, quite aghast. 'Gone!' repeated Harold. 'The farmer hunted him off this morning! Missus will have it that he's been stealing her eggs, and that there was a lantern in the stable on Friday night; so they told him to be off with him, and he's gone!' 'Poor, poor boy! just when my Lady would have been the making of him!' cried Ellen. 'But where--which way is he gone?' asked Mrs. King. 'I might ride after him, and overtake him,' cried Harold, starting up, 'but I never thought to ask! And Mrs. Shepherd was ready to pitch into me, so I got away as soon as I could. Do you run over and ask, Ellen; you always were a favourite.' They were in such an eager state, that Ellen at once sprang up, and hastily throwing on her bonnet, ran across the road, and tapped at Mrs. Shepherd's open door, exclaiming breathlessly, 'O Ma'am, I beg your pardon, but will you tell me where Paul Blackthorn is gone?' 'Paul Blackthorn! how should I know?' said Mrs. Shepherd crossly. 'I'm not to be looking after thieves and vagabonds. He's a come-by-chance, and he's a go-by-chance, and a good riddance too!' 'Oh but, Ma'am, my Lady wanted to speak to him.' This only made Mrs. Shepherd the more set against the poor boy. 'Ay, ay, I know--coming over the gentry; and a good thing he's gone!' said she. 'The place isn't to be harbouring thieves and vagrants, or who's to pay the rates? My eggs are gone, I tell you, and who should take 'em but that lad, I'd like to know?' 'Them was two rotten nest-eggs as I throwed away when I was cleaning the stable.' 'Who told you to put in your word, John Farden?' screamed Mrs. Shepherd, turning on him. 'Ye'd best mind what ye're about, or ye'll be after him soon.' 'No loss neither,' muttered John, stopping to pick up his shovel. 'And you didn't see which way he was gone?' asked Ellen, looking from the labourer to the farmer's wife. 'Farmer sent un off or ever I come,' replied John, 'or I'd ha' gied un a breakfast.' 'I'm sure I can't tell,' said Mrs. Shepherd, with a toss of her head. 'And as to you, Ellen King, I'm surprised at you, running after a scamp like that, that you told me yourself was out of a prison.' 'Oh but, Mrs. Shepherd--' 'You ought to be ashamed of yourself,' interrupted Mrs. Shepherd; 'and I wonder your mother allows it. But there's nothing like girls now-a-days.' Ellen thought John Farden grinned; and feeling as if nothing so shocking could ever happen to her again, she flew back, she hardly knew how, to her home, clapped the door after, and dropping into a chair as Harold had done, burst into such a fit of crying, that she could not speak, and only shook her head in answer to Harold's questions as to how Paul was gone. 'Oh, no one knew!' she choked out among her sobs; 'and Mrs. Shepherd--such things!' Harold stamped his foot, and Mrs. King tried to soothe her. In the midst, she recollected that she could not bear her brothers to guess at the worst part of the 'such things;' and recovering herself a moment, she said, 'No, no, they've driven him off! He's gone, and--and, oh! Mother, Mrs. Shepherd will have it he's a thief, and--and she says I said so.' That was bad enough, and Ellen wept bitterly again; while her mother and Harold both cried out with surprise. 'Yes--but--I did say I dare said he was out of a reformatory--and that she should remember it! Now I've taken away his character, and he's a poor lost boy!' Oh, idle words! idle words! CHAPTER IX--ROBBING THE MAIL There was no helping it! People must have their letters whether Paul Blackthorn were lost or not, and Harold was a servant of the public, and must do his duty, so after some exhortations from his mother, he ruefully rose up, hoping that he should not have to go to Ragglesford. 'Yes, you will,' said his mother, 'and maybe to wait. Here's a registered letter, and I think there are two more with money in them.' 'To think,' sighed Harold, as he mounted his pony, 'of them little chaps getting more money for nothing, than Paul did in a month by working the skin off his bones!' 'Don't be discontented, Harold, on that score. Them little chaps will work hard enough by-and-by: and the money they have now is to train them in making a fit use of it then.' Harold looked anxiously up and down the road for Paul, and asked Mr. Cope's housekeeper whether he had been there to take leave. No; and indeed Harold would have been a little vexed if he had wished good-bye anywhere if not at home. There was a fine white frost, and the rime hung thickly on every spray of the heavy branches of the dark firs and larches that overhung the long solitary lane between the Grange and Ragglesford, and fringed the park palings with crystals. Harold thought how cold poor Paul must be going on his way in his ragged clothes. The ice crackled under the pony's feet as she trotted down Ragglesford Lane, and the water of the ford looked so cold, that Peggy, a very wise animal, turned her head towards the foot- bridge, a narrow and not very sound affair, over which Harold had sometimes taken her when the stream was high, and threatened to be over his feet. Harold made no objection; but no sooner were all the pony's four hoofs well upon the bridge, than at the other end appeared Dick Royston. 'Hollo, Har'ld!' was his greeting, 'I've got somewhat to say to ye.' 'D'ye know where Paul Blackthorn is?' asked Harold. 'Not I--I'm a traveller myself, you must know.' 'You, going to cut?' cried Harold. 'Ay,' said Dick, laying hold of the pony's rein. 'The police have been down at Rolt's--stupid fellow left old gander's feet about--Mrs. Barker swore to 'em 'cause he'd had so many kicks and bites on common--Jesse's took up and peached--I've been hiding about all night--precious cold it was, and just waiting, you see, to wish you good-bye.' Harold, very much shocked, could have dispensed with his farewells, nor did he like the look of his eyes. 'Thank you, Dick; I'm sorry--I didn't think--but I'm after time--I wish you'd let go of Peggy.' 'So that's all you have to say to an old comrade!' said Dick; 'but, I say, Har'ld, I'm not going so. I must have some tin to take me to Portsmouth. I want to know what you've got in that there bag!' 'You won't have that; it's the post. Let go, Dick;' and he pushed the pony forward, but Dick had got her fast by the head. Harold looked round for help, but Ragglesford Lane was one of the loneliest places in the country. There was not a house for half a mile, and Lady Jane's plantations shut in the road on either side. 'I mean to have it,' said Dick, looking coolly up into his face; 'I mean to see if there's any of the letters with a half-sovereign in 'em, that you tell us about.' 'Dick, Dick, it would be robbing! For shame, Dick! What would become of Mother and me?' 'That's your look-out,' said Dick; and he stretched out his hand for the bag. He was four years older than Harold, and much stouter. Harold, with a ready move, chucked the bag round to his back, and shouted lustily in hopes that there might be a keeper in the woods, 'Help! Thieves! He's robbing the post!' Dick's hoarse laugh was all the answer. 'That'll do, my dear,' he said; 'now you'd best be quiet; I'd be loath to hurt you.' For all answer, Harold, shouting all the time, dealt him a stroke right over the eyes and nose with his riding-switch, and made a great effort to force the pony on in hopes the blow might have made him slacken his hold. But though one moment Dick's arm was thrown over his watering eyes, the other hand held the bridle as firmly as ever, and the next instant his fist dealt Harold such a blow, as nearly knocked out all his breath. Setting his teeth, and swearing an oath, Dick was pouncing on the boy's arm, when from the road before them came bursting a meagre thing darting like a wild cat, which fell upon him, hallooing as loud as Harold. Dick turned in fury, and let go the bridle. The pony backed in alarm. The new-comer was grappling with the thief, and trying to drag him aside. 'On, on; go on, Har'ld!' he shouted, but his strength was far from equal to Dick's, who threw him aside on the hand-rail. Old rotten rail that it was, it crashed under the weight, and fell with both the boys into the water. Peggy dashed forward to the other side, where Harold pulled her up with much difficulty, and turned round to look at the robber and the champion. The fall was not far, nor the water deep, and they had both risen, and were ready to seize one another again in their rage. And now Harold saw that he who had come to his help was no other than Paul Blackthorn, who shouted loudly, 'On, go on! I'll keep him.' 'He'll kill you!' screamed Harold, in despair, ready to push in between them with his horse; but at that moment cart-wheels were heard in the road, and Dick, shaking his fist, and swearing at them both, shook off Paul as if he had been a feather, and splashing out of the ford on the other side, leapt over the hedge, and was off through the plantations. Paul more slowly crept up towards Harold, dripping from head to foot. 'Paul! Paul! I'm glad I've found you!' cried Harold. 'You've saved the letters, man, and one was registered! Come along with me, up to the school.' 'Nay, I'll not do that,' said Paul. 'Then you'll stay till I come back,' said Harold earnestly; 'I've got so much to tell you! My Lady sent for you. Our Ellen told her all about you, and you're to go to her. Ellen was in such a way when she found you were off.' 'Then she didn't think I'd taken the eggs?' said Paul. 'She'd as soon think that I had,' said Harold. 'Why, don't we all know that you're one of the parson's own sort? But what made you go off without a word to nobody?' 'I don't know. Every one was against me,' said Paul; 'and I thought I'd just go out of the way, and you'd forget all about me. But I never touched those eggs, and you may tell Mr. Cope so, and thank him for all his kindness to me.' 'You'll tell him yourself. You're going home along with me,' cried Harold. 'There! I'll not stir a step till you've promised! Why, if you make off now, 'twill be the way to make them think you have something to run away for, like that rascal.' 'Very well,' said Paul, rather dreamily. 'Then you won't?' said Harold. 'Upon your word and honour?' Paul said the words after him, not much as if he knew what he was about; and Harold, rather alarmed at the sound of the Grange clock striking, gave a cut to the pony, and bounded on, only looking back to see that Paul was seating himself by the side of the lane. Harold said to himself that his mother would not have liked to see him do so after such a ducking, but he knew that he was more tenderly treated than other lads, and with reason for precaution too; and he promised himself soon to be bringing Paul home to be dried and warmed. But he was less speedy than he intended. When he arrived at the school, he had first to account to the servants for his being so late, and then he was obliged to wait while the owner of the registered letter was to sign the green paper, acknowledging its safe delivery. Instead of having the receipt brought back to him, there came a message that he was to go up to tell the master and the young gentlemen all about the robbery. So the servant led the way, and Harold followed a little shy, but more curious. The boys were in school, a great bare white-washed room, looking very cold, with a large arched window at one end, and forms ranged in squares round the hacked and hewed deal tables. Harold thought he should tell Alfred that the young gentlemen had not much the advantage of themselves in their schoolroom. The boys were mostly smaller than he was, only those of the uppermost form being of the same size. There might be about forty of them, looking rather red and purple with the chilly morning, and all their eighty eyes, black or brown, blue or grey, fixed at once upon the young postman as he walked into the room, straight and upright, in his high stout gaiters over his cord trousers, his thick rough blue coat and red comforter, with his cap in his hand, his fair hair uncovered, and his blue eyes and rosy cheeks all the more bright for that strange morning's work. He was a well-mannered boy, and made his bow very properly to Mr. Carter, the master, who sat at his high desk. 'So, my little man,' said the master, 'I hear you've had a fight for our property this morning. You've saved this young gentleman's birthday present of a watch, and he wants to thank you.' 'Thank you, Sir,' said Harold; 'but he'd have been too much for me if Paul hadn't come to help. He's a deal bigger than me.' The boys all made a thumping and scuffling with their feet, as if to applaud Harold; and their master said, 'Tell us how it was.' Harold gave the account in a very good simple manner, only he did not say who the robber was--he did not like to do so--indeed, he would not quite believe it could be his old friend Dick. The boys clapped and thumped doubly when he came to the switching, and still more at the tumble into the water. 'Do you know who the fellow was?' asked Mr. Carter. 'Yes, I knowed him,' said Harold, and stopped there. 'But you had rather not tell. Is that it?' 'Please, Sir, he's gone, and I wouldn't get him into trouble.' At this the school-boys perfectly stamped, and made signs of cheering. 'And who is the boy that came to help you?' 'Paul Blackthorn, Sir; he's a boy from the Union who worked at Farmer Shepherd's. He's a right good boy, Sir; but he's got no friends, nor no--nothing,' said Harold, pausing ere he finished. 'Why didn't you bring him up with you?' asked the master. 'Please, Sir, he wouldn't come.' 'Well,' said Mr. Carter, 'you've behaved like a brave fellow, and so has your friend; and here's something in token of gratitude for the rescue of our property.' It was a crown piece. 'And here,' said the boy whose watch had been saved, 'here's half-a-crown. Shake hands, you're a jolly fellow; and I'll tell my uncle about you.' Harold was a true Englishman, and of course his only answer could be, 'Thank you, Sir, I only did my duty;' and as the other boys, whose money had been rescued, brought forward more silver pledges of gratitude, he added, 'I'll take it to Paul--thank you, Sir--thank you, Sir.' 'That's right; you must share, my lad,' said the school-master. 'It is a reward for both of you.' 'Thank you, Sir, it was _my_ duty,' repeated Harold, making his bow. 'Sir, Sir, pray let us give him three cheers,' burst out the head boy in an imploring voice. Mr. Carter smiled and nodded; and there was such a hearty roaring and stamping, such 'hip, hip, hurrah!' bursting out again and again, that the windows clattered, and the room seemed fuller of noise than it could possibly hold. It is not quite certain that Mr. Carter did not halloo as loud as any of the boys. Harold turned very red, and did not know which way to look while it was going on, nor what to do when it was over, except to say a very odd sort of 'Thank you, Sir;' but his heart leapt up with a kind of warm grateful feeling of liking towards those boys for going along with him so heartily; and the cheers gave a pleasure and glow that the coins never would have done, even had he thought them his own by right. He was not particularly good in this; he had never felt the pinch of want, and was too young to care; and he did not happen to wish to buy anything in particular just then. A selfish or a covetous boy would not have felt as he did; but these were not his temptations. Knowing, as he did, that the assault had been the consequence of his foolish boasts about the money-letters, and that he, being in charge, ought to defend them to the last gasp, he was sure he deserved the very contrary from a reward, and never thought of the money belonging to any one but Paul, who had by his own free will come to the rescue, and saved the bag from robbery, himself from injury and disgrace. How happy he was in thinking what a windfall it was for his friend, and how far it would go in fitting him up respectably! Peggy was ready to trot nearly as fast as he wished her down the lane to the place where he had left Paul; and no sooner did Harold come in sight of the olive-coloured rags, than he bawled out a loud 'Hurrah! Come on, Paul; you don't know what I've got for you! 'Twas a young gentleman's watch as you saved; and they've come down right handsome! and here's twelve-and-sixpence for you--enough to rig you out like a regular swell! Why, what's the matter?' he added in quite another voice, as he had now come up to Paul, and found him sitting nearly doubled up, with his head bent over his knees. He raised his face up as Harold came, and it was so ghastly pale, that the boy, quite startled, jumped off his pony. 'Why, old chap, what is it? Have you got knit up with cold, sitting here?' 'Yes, I suppose so,' said Paul; but his very voice shivered, his teeth chattered, and his knees knocked together with the chill. 'The pains run about me,' he added; but he spoke as if he hardly knew what he was doing or saying. 'You must come home with me, and Mother will give you something hot,' said Harold. 'Come, you'll catch your death if you don't. You shall ride home.' He pulled Paul from his seat with some difficulty, and was further alarmed when he found that the poor fellow reeled and could hardly stand; but he was somewhat roused, and knew better what he was about. Harold tried to put him on the pony, but this could not be managed: he could not help himself enough, Peggy always swerved aside, nor was Harold strong enough to lift him up. The only thing to be done was for Harold to mount, and Paul to lean against the saddle, while the pony walked. When they had to separate at the ford, poor Paul's walk across the bridge was so feeble and staggering, that Harold feared every moment that he would fall where the rail was broken away, but was right glad to put his arm on his shoulder again to help to hold him up. The moving brought a little more life back to the poor boy's limbs, and he walked a little better, and managed to tell Harold how he had felt too miserable to speak to any one after the rating the farmer had given him, and how he had set out on the tramp for more work, though with hope so nearly dead in his heart, that he only wished he could sit down and die. He had walked out of the village before people were about, so as not to be noticed, and then had found himself so weak and weary that he could not get on without food, and had sat down by the hedge to eat the bit of bread he had with him. Then he had taken the first lonely-looking way he saw, without knowing that it was one of Harold's daily rides, and was slowly dragging himself up the hill from the ford when the well-known voice, shouting for help, had suddenly called him back, and filled him with spirit and speed that were far enough off now, poor fellow! That was a terrible mile and a half--Harold sometimes thought it would never be over, or that Paul would drop down, and he would have to gallop off for help; but Paul was not one to give in, and somehow they got back at last, and Harold, with his arm round his friend, dragged him through the garden, and across the shop, and pushed him into the arm-chair by the fire, Mrs. King following, and Ellen rushing down from up-stairs. 'There!' cried Harold, all in a breath, 'there he is! That rascal tried to rob me on Ragglesford Bridge, and was nigh too much for me; but _he_ there came and pulled him off me, and got spilt into the river, and he's got a chill, and if you don't give him something jolly hot, Mother, he'll catch his death!' Mrs. King thought so too: Paul's state looked to her more alarming than it did even to Harold. He did not seem able to think or speak, but kept rocking himself towards the fire, and that terrible shivering shaking him all over. 'Poor lad!' she said kindly. 'I'll tell you what, Harold, all you can do is put him into your bed at once.--Here, Ellen, you run up first, and bring me a shirt to warm for him. Then we'll get his own clothes dried.' 'No, no,' cried Harold, with a caper, 'we'll make a scare-crow of 'em. You don't know what I know, Mother. I've got twelve shillings and sixpence here all his own; and you'll see what I won't do with it at old Levi's, the second-hand clothes man, to-night.' Harold grew less noisy as he saw how little good the fire was doing to his patient, and how ill his mother seemed to think him. He quietly obeyed her, by getting him up-stairs, and putting him into his own bed, the first in which Paul had lain down for more than four months. Then Mrs. King sent Harold out for some gin; she thought hot spirits and water the only chance of bringing back any life after such a dreadful chill; and she and Ellen kept on warming flannels and shawls to restore some heat, and to stop the trembling that shook the bed, so that Alfred felt it, even in the next room, where he lay with the door open, longing to be able to help, and wishing to understand what could have happened. At last, the cordial and the warm applications effected some good. Paul was able to say, 'I don't know why you are so good to me,' and seemed ready to burst into a great fit of crying; but Mrs. King managed to stop him by saying something about one good turn deserving another, and that she hoped he was coming round now. Harold was now at leisure to tell the story in his brother's room. Alfred did not grieve now at his brother's being able to do spirited things; he laughed out loud, and said, 'Well done, Harold!' at the switching, and rubbed his hands, and lighted up with glee, as he heard of the Ragglesford boys and their cheers; and then, Harold went eagerly on with his scheme for fitting up Paul at the second-hand shop, both Mrs. King and Alfred taking great interest in his plans, till Mrs. King hearing something like a moan, went back to Paul. She found his cheeks and hands as burning hot as they had been cold; they were like live coals; and what was worse, such severe pains were running all over his limbs, that he was squeezing the clothes into his mouth that he might not scream aloud. Happily it was Mr. Blunt's day for calling; and before the morning was over he came, and after a few words of explanation, he stood at Paul's bedside. Not much given to tenderness towards the feelings of patients of his degree, Mr. Blunt's advice was soon given. 'Yes, he is in for rheumatic fever--won't be about again for a long time to come. I say, Mistress, all you've got to do is to send in your boy to the Union at Elbury, tell 'em to send out a cart for him, and take him in as a casual pauper. Then they may pass him on to his parish.' Therewith Mr. Blunt went on to attend to Alfred. 'Then you think this poor lad will be ill a long time, Sir?' said Mrs. King, when Mr. Blunt was preparing to depart. 'Of course he will; I never saw a clearer case! You'd better send him off as fast as you can, while he can be moved. He'll have a pretty bout of it, I dare say. 'It is nothing infectious, of course, Sir?' said the mother, a little startled by this hastiness. 'Infectious--nonsense! why, you know better than that, Mrs. King; I only meant that you'd better get rid of him as quick as you can, unless you wish to set up a hospital at once--and a capital nurse you'd be! I would leave word with the relieving officer for you, but that I've got to go on to Stoke, and shan't be at home till too late.' Mrs. King's heart ached for the poor forlorn orphan, when she remembered what she had heard of the nursing in Elbury Union. She did not know how to turn him from her door the day he had saved her son from danger such as she could not think of without shuddering; and yet, what could she do? Her rent and the winter before her, a heavy doctor's bill, and the loss of Alfred's work! Slowly she went up the stairs again to the narrow landing that held the bed where Paul Blackthorn lay. He was quite still, but there were large tears coursing one after the other from his eyes, his hollow cheeks quite glazed with them. 'Is the pain so very bad?' she said in her soft voice, putting her hand over his hot forehead, in the way that Alfred liked. 'I don't--know,' he answered; and his black eyes, after looking up once in her face with the piteous earnest glance that some loving dogs have, shut themselves as if on purpose to keep in the tears, but she saw the dew squeezing out through the eye-lashes. 'My poor boy, I'm sure it's very bad for you,' she said again. 'Please, don't speak so kind,' said Paul; and this time he could not prevent a-sob. 'Nobody ever did so before, and--' he paused, and went on, 'I suppose they do it up in Heaven, so I hope I shall die.' 'You are vexing about the Union,' said Mrs. King, without answering this last speech, or she knew that she should begin to cry herself. 'I _did_ think I'd done with them,' said Paul, with another sob. 'I said I'd never set foot in those four walls again! I was proud, maybe; but please don't stop with me! If you wouldn't look and speak like that, the place wouldn't seem so hard, seeing I'm bred to it, as they say;' and he made an odd sort of attempt to laugh, which ended in his choking himself with worse tears. 'Harold is not gone yet,' said Mrs. King soothingly; 'we'll wait till he comes in from his work, and see how you are, when you've had a little sleep. Don't cry; you aren't going just yet.' That same earnest questioning glance, but with more hope in it, was turned on her again; but she did not dare to bind herself, much as she longed to take the wanderer to her home. She went on to her son's room. 'Mother, Mother,' Alfred cried in a whisper, so eager that it made him cough, 'you can't never send him to the workhouse?' 'I can't bear the thought, Alfy,' she said, the tears in her eyes; 'but I don't know what to do. It's not the trouble. That I'd take with all my heart, but it is hard enough to live, and--' 'I'm sure,' said Ellen, coming close, that her undertone might be heard, 'Harold and I would never mind how much we were pinched.' 'And I could go without--some things,' began Alfred. 'And then,' went on the mother, 'you see, if we got straitened, and Matilda found it out, she'd want to help, and I can't have her savings touched; and yet I can't bear to let that poor lad be sent off, so ill as he is, and after all he's done for Harold--such a good boy, too, and one that's so thankful for a common kind word.' 'O Mother, keep him!' said Alfred; 'don't you know how the Psalm says, "God careth for the stranger, and provideth for the fatherless and the widow"?' Mrs. King almost smiled. 'Yes, Alf, I think it would be trusting God's word; but then there's my duty to you.' 'You've not sent Harold off for the cart?' said Alfred. 'No; I thought somehow, we have enough for to-day; and it goes against me to send him away at once. I thought we'd wait to see how it is to-morrow; and Harold won't mind having a bed made up in the kitchen.' Tap, tap, on the counter. Some one had come in while they were talking. It was Mr. Cope, very anxious to hear the truth of the strange stories that were going about the place. Ellen and Alfred thought it very tiresome that he was so long in coming up-stairs; but the fact was, that their mother was very glad to talk the matter over without them. She knew indeed that Mr. Cope was a very young man, and not likely to be so well able as herself, with all her experience, to decide what she could afford, or whether she ought to follow her feelings at the risk of debt or of privations for her delicate children; but she also knew that though he had not experience, education had given him a wider and clearer range of thought; and that, as her pastor, he ought to be consulted; so though she did not exactly mean to make it a matter for his decision (unless, indeed, he should have some view which had not occurred to her), she knew that he was by far the best person to help her to see her way, and form her own judgment. Mr. Cope heard all the story with as much eagerness as the Ragglesford boys themselves, and laughed quite out loud at Harold's spirited defence. 'That's a good lad!' said he. 'Well, Mrs. King, I don't think you need be very uneasy about your boy. When a fellow can stand up like that in defence of his duty, there must be the right stuff in him to be got at in time! And now, as to his ally--this other poor fellow--very kind of you to have taken him in.' 'I couldn't do no other, Sir,' said Mrs. King; 'he came in so drenched, and so terribly bad, I could do nothing but let him lie down on Harold's bed; and now Dr. Blunt thinks he's going to have a rheumatic fever, and wanted me to send in to the relieving officer, to have him removed, but I don't know how to do that; the poor lad doesn't say one word against it, but I can see it cuts him to the heart; and they do tell such stories of the nurses at the Union, that it does seem hard to send him there, such an innocent boy, too, and one that doesn't seem to know how to believe it if one says a kind word to him.' The tears were in Mrs. King's eyes as she went on: 'I do wish to let him stay here and do what I can for him, with all my heart, and so does all the children, but I don't hardly know what's right by them, poor things. If the parish would but allow him just one shilling and sixpence a week out of the house, I think I could do it.' 'What, with your own boy in such a state, you could undertake to nurse a stranger through a rheumatic fever!' 'It wouldn't make much difference, Sir,' said Mrs. King. 'You see I am up a good deal most nights with Alfred, and we have fire and candle almost always alight. I should only be glad to do it for a poor motherless lad like that, except for the cost; and I thought perhaps if you could speak to the Guardians, they might allow him ever so little, because there will be expenses.' Mr. Cope had not much hope from the parish, so he said, 'Mr. Shepherd ought to do something for him after he has worked for him so long. He has been looking wretchedly ill for some time past; and I dare say half this illness is brought on by such lodging and living as he got there. But what did you say about some eggs?' Mrs. King told him; and he stood a moment thoughtful, then said, 'Well, I'll go and see about it,' and strode across to the farm. When Mr. Cope came back, Ellen was serving a customer. He stood looking redder than they had ever seen him, and tapping the toe of his boot impatiently with his stick; and the moment the buyer had turned away, he said, 'Ellen, ask your mother to be kind enough to come down.' Mrs. King came, and found the young Curate in such a state of indignation, as he could not keep to himself. He had learnt more than he had ever known, or she had ever known, of the oppression that the farmer and his wife and Tom Boldre had practised on the friendless stranger, and he was burning with all the keen generous displeasure of one new to such base ways. At the gate he had met, going home to dinner, John Farden with Mrs. Hayward, who had been charing at the farm. Both had spoken out, and he had learned how far below the value of his labour the boy had been paid, how he had been struck, abused, and hunted about, as would never have been done to one who had a father to take his part. And he had further heard Farden's statement of having himself thrown away the eggs, and Mrs. Hayward's declaration that she verily believed that the farmer only made the accusation an excuse for hurrying the lad off because he thought him faltering for a fever, and wouldn't have him sick there. This was shocking enough; Mr. Cope had thought it merely the kind-hearted woman's angry construction, but it was still worse when he came to the farmer and his wife. So used were they to think it their business to wring the utmost they could out of whatever came in their way, that they had not the slightest shame about it. They thought they had done a thing to be proud of in making such a good bargain of the lad, and getting so much work out of him for so little pay; in fact, that they had been rather weakly kind in granting him the freedom of the hay-loft; the notion of his dishonesty was firmly fixed in their heads, though there was not a charge to bring against him. This was chiefly because they had begun by setting him down as a convict, and because they could not imagine any one living honestly on what they gave him. And lastly, the farmer thought the cleverest stroke of all, was the having got rid of him just as winter was coming on and work was scarce, and when there seemed to be a chance of his being laid up to encumber the rates. Mr. Cope was quite breathless after the answer he had made to them. He had never spoken so strongly in his life before, and he could hardly believe his own ears, that people could be found, not only to do such things, but to be proud of having done them. It is to be hoped there are not many such thoroughgoing tyrants; but selfishness is always ready to make any one into a tyrant, and Mammon is a false god, who manages to make his servants satisfied that they are doing their duty. It was plain enough that no help was to be expected from the farm, and neither Mrs. King nor the clergyman thought there was much hope in the Guardians; however, they were to be applied to, and this would be at least a reprieve for Paul. Mr. Cope went up to see him, and found Harold sitting on the top step of the stairs. 'Well, boys,' he said, in his hearty voice, 'so you've had a battle, I hear. I'm glad it turned out better than your namesake's at Hastings.' Paul was not too ill to smile at this; and Harold modestly said, 'It was all along of he, Sir.' 'And he seems to be the chief sufferer.--Are you in much pain, Paul?' 'Sometimes, Sir, when I try to move,' said Paul; 'but it is better when I'm still.' 'You've had a harder time of it than I supposed, my boy,' said Mr. Cope. 'Why did you never let me know how you were treated?' Paul's face shewed more wonder than anything else. 'Thank you, Sir,' he said, 'I didn't think it was any one's business.' 'No one's business!' exclaimed the young clergyman. 'It is every one's business to see justice done, and it should never have gone on so if you had spoken. Why didn't you?' 'I didn't think it would be any use,' again said Paul. 'There was old Joe Joiner, he always said 'twas a hard world to live in, and that there was nothing for it but to grin and bear it.' 'There's something better to be done than to grin,' said Mr. Cope. 'Yes, I know, Sir,' said Paul, with a brighter gleam on his face; 'and I seem to understand that better since I came here. I was thinking,' he added, 'if they pass me back to Upperscote, I'll tell old Joe that folks are much kinder than he told me, by far.' 'Kinder--I should not have thought that your experience!' exclaimed Mr. Cope, his head still running on the Shepherds. But Paul did not seem to think of them at all, or else to take their treatment as a matter-of-course, as he did his Union hardships. There was a glistening in his eyes; and he moved his head so as to sign down- stairs, as he said, 'I didn't think there was ne'er a one in the world like _her_.' 'What, Mrs. King? I don't think there are many,' said Mr. Cope warmly. 'And yet I hope there are.' 'Ay, Sir,' said Paul fervently. 'And there's Harold, and John Farden, and all the chaps. Please, Sir, when I'm gone away, will you tell them all that I'll never forget 'em? and I'll be happier as long as I live for knowing that there are such good-hearted folks.' Mr. Cope felt trebly moved towards one who thought harshness so much more natural than kindness, and who received the one so submissively, the other so gratefully; but the conversation was interrupted by Harold's exclaiming that my Lady in her carriage was stopping at the gate, and Mother was running out to her. Rumours of the post-office robbery, as little Miss Selby called it, had travelled up to the Grange, and she was wild to know what had happened to Harold; but her grandmamma, not knowing what highway robbers might be roaming about Friarswood, would not hear of her walking to the post-office, and drove thither with her herself, in full state, close carriage, coachman and footman; and there was Mrs. King, with her head in at the carriage window, telling all the story. 'So you have this youth here?' said Lady Jane. 'Yes, my Lady; he was so poorly that I couldn't but let him lie down.' 'And you have not sent him to the workhouse yet?' 'Why, no, not yet, my Lady; I thought I would wait to see how he is to- morrow.' 'You had better take care, Mary,' said Lady Jane. 'You'll have him too ill to be moved; and then what will you do? a great lad of that age, and with illness enough in the house already!' She sighed, and it was not said unkindly; but Mrs. King answered with something about his being so good a lad, and so friendless. And Miss Jane exclaimed, 'O Grandmamma, it does seem so hard to send him to the workhouse!' 'Do not talk like a silly child, my dear,' said Lady Jane. 'Mary is much too sensible to think of saddling herself with such a charge--not fit for her, nor the children either--even if the parish made it worth her while, which it never will. The Union is intended to provide for such cases of destitution; and depend on it, the youth looks to nothing else.' 'No, my Lady,' said Mrs. King; 'he is so patient and meek about it, that it goes to one's very heart.' 'Ay, ay,' said the old lady; 'but don't be soft-hearted and weak, Mary. It is not what I expect of you, as a sensible woman, to be harbouring a mere vagrant whom you know nothing about, and injuring your own children.' 'Indeed, my Lady,' began Mrs. King, 'I've known the poor boy these four months, and so has Mr. Cope; and he is as steady and serious a boy as ever lived.' 'Very likely,' said Lady Jane; 'and I am sure I would do anything for him--give him work when he is out again, or send him with a paper to the county hospital. Eh?' But the county hospital was thirty miles off; and the receiving day was not till Saturday. That would not do. 'Well,' added Lady Jane, 'I'll drive home directly, and send Price with the spring covered cart to take him in to Elbury. That will be better for him than jolting in the open cart they would send for him.' 'Why, thank you, my Lady, but I--I had passed my word that he should not go to-day.' Lady Jane made a gesture as if Mary King were a hopelessly weak good-natured woman; and shaking her head at her with a sort of lady-like vexation, ordered the coachman to drive on. My Lady was put out. No wonder. She was a very sensible, managing woman herself, and justly and up-rightly kind to all her dependants; and she expected every one else to be sternly and wisely kind in the same pattern. Mrs. King was one whom she highly esteemed for her sense and good judgment, and she was the more provoked with her for any failure in these respects. If she had known Paul as the Kings did, it is probable she might have felt like them. Not knowing him, nor knowing the secrets of Elbury Union, she thought it Mrs. King's clear duty to sacrifice him for her children's sake. Moreover, Lady Jane had strict laws against lodgers--the greatest kindness she could do her tenants, though often against their will. So to have her model woman receiving a strange boy into her house, even under the circumstances, was beyond bearing. So Mrs. King stood on her threshold, knowing that to keep Paul Blackthorn would be an offence to her best friend and patroness. Moreover, Mr. Cope was gone, without having left her a word of advice to decide her one way or the other. CHAPTER X--CHRISTMAS DAY Things are rather apt to settle themselves; and so did Paul Blackthorn's stay at the post-office, for the poor boy was in such an agony of pain all night, and the fever ran so high, that it was impossible to think of moving him, even if the waiting upon him in such suffering had not made Mrs. King feel that she could not dismiss him to careless hands. His patience, gratitude, and surprise at every trouble she took for him were very endearing, as were the efforts he made to stifle and suppress moans and cries that the terrible aches would wring from him, so as not to disturb Alfred. When towards morning the fever ran to his head, and he did not know what he said, it was more moving still to see that the instinct of keeping quiet for some one's sake still suppressed his voice. Then, too, his wanderings shewed under what dread and harshness his life had been spent, and what his horror was of a return to the workhouse. In his senses, he would never have thought of asking to remain at Friarswood; but in his half-conscious state, he implored again and again not to be sent away, and talked about not going back, but only being left in a corner to die; and Mrs. King, without knowing what she was about, soothed him by telling him to lie still, for he was not going to that place again. At day-break she sent Harold, on his way to the post, for an order from the relieving officer for medical attendance; and, after some long and weary hours, the Union doctor came. He said, like Mr. Blunt, that it was a rheumatic fever, the effect of hardship and exposure; for which perhaps poor Paul--after his regular meals, warm clothing, and full shelter, in the workhouse--was less prepared than many a country lad, whose days had been much happier, but who had been rendered more hardy by often going without some of those necessaries which were provided for the paupers. The head continued so much affected, that the doctor said the hair must be taken off; which was done by old Master Warren, who singed the horses in the autumn, killed the pigs in the winter, and shaved the men on Saturday night. It was a very good thing for all parties; and he would take no pay for his trouble, but sent down a pitcher with what he called 'all manner of yarbs' steeping in it, with which, as he said, to 'ferment the boy's limbs.' Foment was what he meant; and Mrs. King thought, as it was kindly intended, and could do no harm, she would try if it would do any good; but she could not find that it made much difference whether she used that or common warm water. However, the good will made Paul smile, and helped to change his notion about its being very few that had any compassion for a stranger. So, too, did good Mrs. Hayward, who, when he was at the worst, twice came to sit up all night with him after her day's work; and though she was not as tender a nurse as Mrs. King, treated him like her own son, and moreover carried off to her own tub all the clothes she could find ready to be washed, and would not take so much as a mouthful of meat or drink in return, struggling, toil-worn body as she was. The parish, as might have been foreseen, would afford nothing but the doctor to a chance-comer such as Paul. If he needed more, he might come into the House, and be passed home to Upperscote. But by the time this reply came, Mrs. King not only felt that it would be almost murder to send a person in such a state four miles on a November day, but she was caring so much for her patient, that it sounded almost as impossible as to send Alfred away. Besides, she had remembered the cup of cold water, she had thought of the widow's cruse of oil and barrel of meal, and she had called to mind, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me;' and thereupon she took heart, and made up her mind that it was right to tend the sick lad; and that even if she should bring trouble and want on herself and her children, it would be a Heaven- sent trial that would be good for them. So she made up her resolution to a winter of toil, anxiety, and trouble, and to Lady Jane's withdrawal of favour; and thinking her ungrateful, which, to say the truth, grieved her more than anything else, excepting of course her forebodings for Alfred. Ellen was in great distress about my Lady's displeasure. Not that she dreamt of her mother's giving up Paul on that account; but she was very fond of her little foster-sister, and of many of the maid-servants, and her visits to the Grange were the chief change and amusement she ever had. So while Mrs. King was busy between the shop, her work, and Paul, Ellen sat by her brother, making the housekeeper's winter dress, and imagining all sorts of dreadful things that might come of my Lady being angry with them, till Alfred grew quite out of patience. 'Well, suppose and suppose,' he said, 'suppose it was not to happen at all! Why, Mother's doing right would be any good for nothing if she only did it to please my Lady.' Certainly this was the very touchstone to shew whether the fear of man were the guide. And Ellen was still more terrified that day, for when she went across to the farm for the evening's supply of milk and butter, Mrs. Shepherd launched out into such a torrent of abuse against her and her mother, that she came home trembling from head to foot; and Mrs. King declared she should never go thither again. They would send to Mrs. Price's for the little bit of fresh butter that was real nourishment to Alfred: the healthy ones would save by going without any. One word more as to the Shepherds, and then we have done with him. On the Sunday, Mr. Cope had an elder brother staying with them, who preached on the lesson for the day, the second chapter of the Prophet Habakkuk; and when he came to the text, 'Woe to him that coveteth an evil covetousness to his house,' he brought in some of the like passages, the threats to those that 'grind the faces of the poor,' that 'oppress the hireling in his wages,' and that terrible saying of St. James, 'Behold, the hire of the labourers who have reaped down your fields, which is of you kept by fraud, crieth; and the cries of them which have reaped are entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabbath.' Three days after, the Curate was very much amazed to hear that Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd did not choose to be preached at in their own church, and never meant to come thither again. Now it so happened that he could testify that the sermon had been written five years ago, and that his brother had preached it without knowing that the Shepherds were in existence, for he had only come late the night before, and there was so much to say about their home, that the younger brother had not said a word about his parish before church, though the Kings and their guests were very near his heart. But it was of no use to say so. It was the _truth_ that wounded the farmer and his wife, and no one could make that otherwise. They did not choose to hear their sin rebuked, so they made an excuse by pretending to take offence, and except when they now and then went to the next parish to a meeting-house, cut themselves off from all that might disturb them in the sole pursuit of gain. It is awful to think of such hardening of the heart, first towards man, then towards the warnings of God. And mind, whoever chooses profit rather than mercy, is in the path of Farmer Shepherd. Some certainty as to Lady Jane Selby's feelings came on the second evening of Paul's illness. Mrs. Crabbe, the housekeeper, was seen with infinite trouble and disgust getting her large person over the stiles across the path fields. A call from her was almost a greater event than one from my Lady herself. Why! Mother had been her still-room maid, and always spoke to her as 'Ma'am,' and she called her 'Mary,' and she had chosen Matilda's name for her, and had given her a silver watch! So when Mrs. Crabbe had found her way in, and had been set down to rest in the arm-chair, she proceeded to give 'Mary' a good round scolding against being weak and soft-hearted, saying at last that my Lady was quite in a way about it. She was sure that Harold would catch his death of cold, putting him to sleep in the kitchen, upon the stones--and so--my Lady had sent off the cart with the little chair-bed, that would take down and put up again--mattress, bed-clothes, and all. That was a comfortable finish to the scolding! Not that it was a finish though, for the thanks made Mrs. Crabbe afraid the family thought themselves forgiven, so she went on to declare they all would be pinched, and get into debt, and she should advise her god-daughter, Matilda, not to help them with a farthing of her wages, and as to going without their full meals, that was what none of them were fit to do. With which it appeared that the cart was bringing a can of broth, a couple of rabbits, some calves'-feet jelly, and a bottle of port wine for Alfred, who lived on that and cod-liver oil more than on any other nourishment. At that rate, Lady Jane's displeasure did not seem likely to do much harm; but there was pain in it too, for when Mrs. Crabbe had managed to get up-stairs, past the patch-work quilt that was hung up to shelter Paul from the draught, and had seen Alfred, and been shocked to find how much wasted he was since she last had seen him, she said, 'One thing you know--my Lady says she can't have Miss Selby coming down here to see Alfred while this great lad is always about. And I'm sure it is not proper for her at any time, such a young lady as she is, over all those inconvenient stiles. I declare I shall speak to Mr. Price about them.' Losing Miss Jane's visits was to Alfred like losing a sunbeam, and his spirit felt very dreary after he had heard this sentence. Ellen knew her well enough to suspect that she was very sorry, but that she could not help herself; and Mrs. King caught the brother and sister making such grumbling speeches to each other about the old lady's crossness, that her faithful, grateful spirit was quite grieved, and she spoke strongly up for the just, right-minded lady to whom she had loyally looked up for many and many a year, though, with the right sort of independence, she would not give up to any one's opinion what she knew to be her duty. 'We all knew it must cost us something,' she said, 'and we'll try to be ready with it, though it does go to one's heart that the first should be what vexes you, my Alfy; but it won't be for long.' 'No, Mother; but if it ain't here long? Oh! I don't seem to have nothing to look to if Miss Jane ain't coming here no more, with her pretty ways!' And there were large tears on his cheeks. Mrs. King had tears in her eyes too, but she bent down over the boy, and turning his eyes to the little picture on the wall, she said in a whisper in his ear, 'Didn't He bear His Cross for the sake of other people?' Alfred did not answer; he turned his face in towards the pillow, and though Ellen thought he was crying, it did not seem to her to be so sadly. Cost them something their kindness did. To be sure, there came a party of boys with the master from Ragglesford, when there had been time for them to write the history of the robbery to their homes; and as it came just before the monthly letter which they all had to write by way of practice, to be shewn up to the master, it was a real treasure to them to have such a story to tell. Some of their friends, especially the uncle who gave the watch, had sent small sums of money for the lad who had behaved so well, and these altogether came to a fair amount, which the boys were highly pleased to give over into Mrs. King's hands. She, like Harold, never made the smallest question that it was all for Paul's benefit, and though, when she mentioned it to him, he gave a cheery smile, and said it would lessen the cost of his illness to her, yet she put it all aside with the first twelve-and-sixpence. She told Ellen that it went against her to touch the orphan's money, and that unless it came to very bad times indeed, it should be kept to set him up decently when he should recover. No one else could afford aid in money, not Mr. Cope, for he had little more than a maintenance for himself; indeed, Mrs. King was not in a station where it would seem becoming to offer alms to her. Lady Jane gave help in nourishing food, but the days when this would come were uncertain, and she had made a resolution against undertaking any share of the expense, lest she should seem to encourage Mary King, as she said, in such weak good nature--cramming up her house with a strange boy like that, when she had quite enough to do with her own son. So they had to fight on as they could; and the first week, when Paul's illness was at the height, Ellen had so much more to do for Alfred and about the house, and was so continually called off her work, that she could not finish Mrs. Crabbe's gown as soon as was expected; and the ladies' maid, who was kept waiting, took huff, and sent her new purple silk to Elbury to be madeup. It is not quite certain that Ellen did not shed a few tears. Harold had to go without his butter, and once took it much to heart that his mother would buy no shrimps for tea, but after some one had whispered to him that if there were a trouble about rent, or about Mr. Blunt's bill, Peggy would be sold, he bore it all pretty well; and after all, Alfred and Paul were so apt to give him tastes of their dainties, that he had not much loss! Rent was the care. The pig was killed and cut up to great advantage; Mrs. King sold a side of it at once, which went a good way towards it, but not the whole; and there was a bad debt of John Farden's for bread, contracted last winter, and which he had never paid off in the summer. That would just have made it up, but what hopes were there of that? Just then, however, came a parcel from Matilda. It was her way of helping her family to send them the clothes which her mistresses allowed her to have when they left them off, when Mrs. King either made them up for herself or Ellen, or disposed of them at Elbury. What a treat those parcels were! How curious were all the party at the unpacking, looking at the many odd things that were sure to come out, on the happy doubtful certainty that each one would be remembered by the good sister. So there were the little directed parcels--a neat knitted grey and black handkerchief for Mother to wear in the shop; a whole roll of fashion-books for Ellen, and a nice little pocket-book besides; and a bundle of 'Illustrated News' to amuse the boys; a precious little square book of 'Hymns for the Sick' for Alfred; and a famous pair of riding-gloves, like bears' paws, for Harold. And what rolls besides! Worn flimsy dresses, once pretty, but now only fit for the old-clothes man, yet whose trimmings Ellen pulled out and studied; bonnets that looked as if they had been sat upon; rolls of soft ragged cambric handkerchiefs, on which Mrs. King seized as the most valuable part of the cargo, so useful would they be to poor Alfred; some few real good things, in especial, a beautiful thick silk dress which had been stained, but which dyeing would render very useful; and a particularly nice grey cloth mantle, which Matilda had mentioned in her letter as likely to be useful to Ellen--it was not at all the worse for wear, except as to the lining of the hood, and she should just fancy Ellen in it. Ellen could just fancy herself in it. She had a black silk one, which had come in the same way, and looked very well, but it was just turning off, and it was not warm enough for winter without a shawl under it. That grey looked as if it was made for her, it suited her shoulders and her shape so well! She put it on and twisted about in it, and then she saw her good mother not saying one word, and knew she was thinking of the sum that was wanting to the rent. 'Well, Mother,' said Ellen, 'I'll go in and take the things to Betsey on the next market-day, and if we can get thirty shillings on them without the mantle--' 'Yes, if you can, my dear,' said her mother; 'I'm sure I should be very glad for you to have it, but you see--' And Mrs. King sighed. Ellen passed by Paul on the landing, and saw him with his face flushed with pain and fever, trying to smile at her. She remembered how her unkind words had brought trouble on him, and how her mother had begun by telling her that they must give up their own wishes if they were to nurse him. Ellen went to Elbury on the market-day, and by the help of Betsey Hardman, she got great credit for her bargaining. She brought home thirty shillings, and ten shillings' worth of soap for the shop, where that article was running low; but she did not bring home the cloak, though Betsey had told her a silk cloak over a shawl looked so mean! and she feared all the servants at the Grange would think the same! 'They always were good children to me,' said Mrs. King to Mr. Cope, 'but somehow, since Paul has been here, I think they are better than ever! There's poor Alfred, though his cough has been so bad of late, has been so thoughtful and so good; he says he's quite ashamed to find how patient Paul is under so much sharper pain than he ever had, and he's ready to send anything to Paul that he fancies will do him good--quite carried out of himself, you see; and there's Harold, so much steadier; I've hardly had to find fault with him since that poor boy made off--he's sure to come in in time, and takes care not to disturb his brother, and helps his sister and me all he can.' Mr. Cope was not at all surprised that the work of mercy was blessed to all the little household, nor that it drew out all the better side of their dispositions. There was no positive change, nor sudden resolution, to alter Harold; but he had been a good deal startled by Dick's wickedness, and in him had lost a tempter. Besides, he considered Paul as his own friend, received for his sake, and therefore felt himself bound to do all he could for him, and though he was no nurse, he could do much to set his mother and Ellen free to attend to their patients. And Paul's illness, though so much less dangerous, frightened and subdued Harold much more than the quiet gradual pining away of Alfred, to which he was used. The severe pain, the raging fever, and the ramblings in talk, were much more fearful things to witness than the low cough, the wearing sore, and the helpless languor, though there was much hope for the one, and scarcely any for the other. While to Harold's apprehension, Alfred was always just the same, only worsening visibly from month to month; Paul was better or worse every time he came in, and when fresh from hearing his breath gasp with sharp pain, or receiving his feeble thanks for some slight service, it was not in Harold to go out and get into thoughtless mischief. Moreover, there were helpful things to do at home, such as Harold liked. He was fond of chopping wood, so he was very obliging about the oven, and what he liked best of all was helping his mother in certain evening cookeries of sweet-meats, by receipts from Mrs. Crabbe. On the day of the expedition from Ragglesford, the young gentlemen had found out that Mrs. King's bottles contained what they called 'the real article and no mistake,' much better than what the old woman at the turnpike sold; and so they were, for Mrs. King made them herself, and, like an honest woman, without a morsel of sham in them. She was not going to break the Eighth Commandment by cheating in a comfit any more than by stealing a purse; and the children of Friarswood had long known that, and bought all the 'lollies' that they were not naughty enough to buy on Sundays, when, as may be supposed, her shutters were not shut only for a decent show. And now Harold did not often ride up to the school without some little master giving him a commission for some variety of sweet-stuff; and though Mrs. King used to say it was a pity the children should throw away their money in that fashion, it brought a good deal into her till, and Harold greatly liked assisting at the manufacture. How often he licked his fingers during the process need not be mentioned; but his objection to Ragglesford was quite gone off, now that some one was nearly certain to be looking out for him, with a good-natured greeting, or an inquiry for Paul. He knew one little boy from another, and felt friendly with them all, and he really was quite grieved when the holidays came, and they wished him good-bye. The coach that had been hired to take them to Elbury seemed something to watch for now, and some thoughtful boy stopped all the whooping and hurraing as they came near the house on the bridge. Some other stopped the coach, and they all came dropping off it like a swarm of black flies, and tumbling into the shop, where Mrs. King and her daughter had need to have had a dozen pair of hands to have served them, and they did not go till they had cleared out her entire stock of sweet things and gingerbread; nay, some of them would have gone off without their change, if she had not raced out to catch them with it after they were climbing up the coach, and then the silly fellows said they hated coppers! And meeting Harold and his post-bag on his way home from Elbury, they raised such a tremendous cheer at him that poor Peggy seemed to make but three springs from the milestone to the bridge, and he could not so much as touch his cap by way of answer. Somehow, even after those droll customers were gone, every Saturday's reckoning was a satisfactory one. More always seemed to come in than went out. The potatoes had been unusually free from disease in Mrs. King's garden, and every one came for them; the second pig turned out well; a lodger at the butcher's took a fancy to her buns; and on the whole, winter, when her receipts were generally at the lowest, was now quite a prosperous time with her. The great pressure and near anxiety she had expected had not come, and something was being put by every week towards the bill for flour, and for Mr. Blunt's account, so that she began to hope that after all the Savings Bank would not have to be left quite bare. Quite unexpectedly, John Farden came in for a share of the savings of an old aunt at service, and, like an honest fellow as he was, he got himself out of debt at once. This quite settled all Mrs. King's fears; Mr. Blunt and the miller would both have their due, and she really believed she should be no poorer! Then she recollected the widow's cruse of oil, and tears of thankfulness and faith came into her eyes, and other tears dropped when she remembered the other more precious comfort that the stranger had brought into the widow's house, but she knew that the days of miracles and cures past hope were gone, and that the Christian woman's promise was 'that her children should come again,' but not till the resurrection of the just. And though to her eye each frost was freshly piercing her boy's breast, each warm damp day he faded into greater feebleness, yet the hope was far clearer. He was happy and content. He had laid hold of the blessed hope of Everlasting Life, and was learning to believe that the Cross laid on him here was in mercy to make him fit for Heaven, first making him afraid and sorry for his sins, and ready to turn to Him Who could take them away, and then almost becoming gladness, in the thought of following his Master, though so far off. Not that Alfred often said such things, but they breathed peace over his mind, and made Scripture-reading, prayers, and hymns very delightful to him, especially those in Matilda's book; and he dwelt more than he told any one on Mr. Cope's promise, when he trusted to be made more fully 'one with Christ' in the partaking of His Cup of Life. It used to be his treat, when no one was looking, to read over that Service in his Prayer- book, and to think of the time. It was like a kind of step; he could fix his mind on that, and the sense of forgiveness he hoped for therein, better than on the great change that was coming; when there was much fear and shrinking from the pain, and some dread of what as yet seemed strange and unknown, he thought he should feel lifted up so as to be able to bear the thought, when that holy Feast should have come to him. All this made him much less occupied with himself, and he took much more share in what was going on; he could be amused and playful, cared for all that Ellen and Harold did, and was inclined to make the most of his time with his brother. It was like old happy times, now that Alfred had ceased to be fretful, and Harold took heed not to distress him. One thing to which Alfred looked forward greatly, was Paul's being able to come into his room, and the two on their opposite sides of the wall made many pleasant schemes for the talk and reading that were to go on. But when the day came, Alfred was more disappointed than pleased. Paul had been cased, by Lady Jane's orders, in flannel; he had over that a pair of trousers of Alfred's--much too long, for the Kings were very tall, and he was small and stunted in growth--and a great wrapping-gown that Mr. Cope had once worn when he was ill at college, and over his shaven head a night-cap that had been their father's. Ellen, with many directions from Alfred, had made him up a couch with three chairs, and the cushions Alfred used to have when he could leave his bed; the fire was made up brightly, and Mrs. King and Harold helped Paul into the room. But all the rheumatic pain was by no means over, and walking made him feel it; he was dreadfully weak, and was so giddy and faint after the first few steps, that they could not bring him to shake hands with Alfred as both had wished, but had to lay him down as fast as they could. So tired was he, that he could hardly say anything all the time he was there; and Alfred had to keep silence for fear of wearying him still more. There was a sort of shyness, too, which hindered the two from even letting their eyes meet, often as they had heard each other's voices, and had greeted one another through the thin partition. As Paul lay with his eyes shut, Alfred raised himself to take a good survey of the sharp pinched features, the hollow cheeks, deep-sunk pits for the eyes,--and yellow ghastly skin of the worn face, and the figure, so small and wasted that it was like nothing, curled up in all those wraps. One who could read faces better than young Alfred could, would have gathered not only that the boy who lay there had gone through a great deal, but that there was much mind and thought crushed down by misery, and a gentle nature not fit to stand up alone against it, and so sinking down without exertion. And when Alfred was learning a verse of his favourite hymn-- 'There is a rill whose waters rise--' Paul's eye-lids rose, and looked him all over dreamily, comparing him perhaps with the notions he had carried away from his two former glimpses. Alfred did not look now so utterly different from anything he had seen before, since Mrs. King and Ellen had been hovering round his bed for nearly a month past; but still the fair skin, pink colour, dark eye-lashes, glossy hair, and white hands, were like a dream to him, as if they belonged to the pure land whither Alfred was going, and he was quite loath to hear him speak like another boy, as he knew he could do, having often listened to his talk through the wall. At the least sign of Alfred's looking up, he turned away his eyes as if he had been doing something by stealth. He came in continually after this; and little things each day, and Harold's talk, made the two acquainted and like boys together; but it was not till Christmas Day that they felt like knowing each other. It was the first time Paul felt himself able to be of any use, for he was to be left in charge of Alfred, while Mrs. King and both her other children went to church. Paul was sadly crippled still, and every frost filled his bones with acute pain, and bent him like an old man, so that he was still a long way from getting down-stairs, but he could make a shift to get about the room, and he looked greatly pleased when Alfred declared that he should want nobody else to stay with him in the morning. Very glad he was that his mother would not be kept from Ellen's first Holy Communion. Owing to the Curate not being a priest, the Feast had not been celebrated since Michaelmas; but a clergyman had come to help Mr. Cope, that the parish might not be deprived of the Festival on such a day as Christmas. Harold, though in a much better mood than at the Confirmation time, was not as much concerned to miss it as perhaps he ought to have been. Thought had not come to him yet, and his head was full of the dinner with the servants at the Grange. It was sad that he and Ellen should alone be able to go to it; but it would be famous for all that! Ay, and so were the young postman's Christmas-boxes! So Paul and Alfred were left together, and held their tongues for full five minutes, because both felt so odd. Then Alfred said something about reading the Service, and Paul offered to read it to him. Paul had not only been very well taught, but had a certain gift, such as not many people have, for reading aloud well. Alfred listened to those Psalms and Lessons as if they had quite a new meaning in them, for the right sound and stress on the right words made them sound quite like another thing; and so Alfred said when he left off. 'I'm sure they do to me,' said Paul. 'I didn't know much about "good- will to men" last Christmas.' 'You've not had overmuch good-will from them, neither,' said Alfred, 'since you came out.' 'What! not since I've been at Friarswood?' exclaimed Paul. 'Why, I used to think all _that_ was only something in a book.' 'All what?' asked Alfred. 'All about--why, loving one's neighbour--and the Good Samaritan, and so on. I never saw any one do it, you know, but it was comfortable like to read about it; and when I watched to your mother and all of you, I saw how it was about one's neighbour; and then, what with that and Mr. Cope's teaching, I got to feel how it was--about God!' and Paul's face looked very grave and peaceful. 'Well,' said Alfred, 'I don't know as I ever cared about it much--not since I was a little boy. It was the fun last Christmas.' And Paul looking curious, Alfred told all about the going out for holly, and the dining at the Grange, and the snap-dragon over the pudding, till he grew so eager and animated that he lost breath, and his painful cough came on, so that he could just whisper, 'What did you do?' 'Oh! I don't know. We had prayers, and there was roast beef for dinner, but they gave it to me where it was raw, and I couldn't eat it. Those that had friends went out; but 'twasn't much unlike other days.' 'Poor Paul!' sighed Alfred. 'It won't be like that again, though,' said Paul, 'even if I was in a Union. I know--what I know now.' 'And, Paul,' said Alfred, after a pause, 'there's one thing I should like if I was you. You know our Blessed Saviour had no house over Him, but was left out of the inn, and nobody cared for Him.' Paul did not make any answer; and Alfred blushed all over. Presently Alfred said, 'Harold will run in soon. I say, Paul, would you mind reading me what they will say after the Holy Sacrament--what the Angels sang is the beginning.' Paul found it, and felt as if he must stand to read such praise. 'Thank you,' said Alfred. 'I'm glad Mother and Ellen are there. They'll remember us, you know. Did you hear what Mr. Cope promised me?' Paul had not heard; and Alfred told him, adding, 'It will be the Ember- week in Lent. You'll be one with me then, Paul?' 'I'd like to promise,' said Paul fervently; 'but you see, when I'm well--' 'Oh, you won't go away for good. My Lady, or Mr. Cope, will get you work; and I want you to be Mother's good son instead of me; and a brother to Harold and Ellen.' 'I'd never go if I could help it,' said Paul; 'I sometimes wish I'd never got better! I wish I could change with you, Alfred; nobody would care if 'twas me; nor I'm sure I shouldn't.' 'I should like to get well!' said Alfred slowly, and sighing. 'But then you've been a much better lad than I was.' 'I don't know why you should say that,' said Paul, with his hand under his chin, rather moodily. 'But if I thought I could be good and go on well, I would not mind so much. I say, Alfred, when people round go on being--like Tom Boldre, you know--do you think one can always feel that about God being one's Father, and church home, and all the rest?' 'I can't say--I never tried,' said Alfred. 'But you know you can always go to church--and then the Psalms and Lessons tell you those things. Well, and you can go to the Holy Sacrament--I say, Paul, if you take it the first time with me, you'll always remember me again every time after.' 'I must be very odd ever to forget you!' said Paul, not far from crying. 'Ha!' he exclaimed, 'they are coming out of church!' 'I want to say one thing more, while I've got it in my head,' said Alfred. 'Mr. Cope said all this sickness was a cross to me, and I'd got to take it up for our Saviour's sake. Well, and then mayn't yours be being plagued and bullied, without any friends? I'm sure something like it happened to our Lord; and He never said one word against them. Isn't that the way you may be to follow Him?' Illness and thought had made such things fully plain to Alfred, and his words sank deep into Paul's mind; but there was not time for any answer, for Harold was heard unlocking the door, and striding up three steps at a time, sending his voice before him. 'Well, old chaps, have you quarrelled yet? Have you been jolly together? I say, Mrs. Crabbe told Ellen that the pudding was put into the boiler at eight o'clock last night; and my Lady and Miss Jane went in to give it a stir! I'm to bring you home a slice, you know; and Paul will know what a real pudding is like.' The two boys spent a happy quiet afternoon with Mrs. King; and Charles Hayward brought all the singing boys down, that they might hear the carols outside the window. Paul, much tired, was in his bed by that time; but his last thought was that 'Good-will to Men' had come home to him at last. CHAPTER XI--BETTER DAYS FOR PAUL Paul's reading was a great prize to Alfred, for he soon grew tired himself; his sister could not spare time to read to him, and if she did, she went mumbling on like a bee in a bottle. Her mother did much the same, and Harold used to stumble and gabble, so that it was horrible to hear him. Such reading as Paul's was a new light to them all, and was a treat to Ellen as she worked as much as to Alfred; and Paul, with hands as clean as Alfred's, was only too happy to get hold of a book, and infinitely enjoyed the constant supply kept up by Miss Selby, to make up for her not coming herself. Then came the making out the accounts, a matter dreaded by all the family. Ellen and Alfred both used to do the sums; but as they never made them the same, Mrs. King always went by some reckoning of her own by pencil dots on her thumb-nail, which took an enormous time, but never went wrong. So the slate and the books came up after tea, one night, and Ellen set to work with her mother to pick out every one's bill. There might be about eight customers who had Christmas bills; but many an accountant in a London shop would think eight hundred a less tough business than did the King family these eight; especially as there was a debtor and creditor account with four, and coals, butcher's meat, and shoes for man and horse, had to be set against bread, tea, candles, and the like. One pound of tea, 3_s._ 6_d._, that was all very well; but an ounce and a half of the same made Ellen groan, and look wildly at the corner over Alfred's bed, as if in hopes she should there see how to set it down, so as to work it. 'Fourpence, all but--' said a voice from the arm-chair by the fire. Ellen did not take any particular heed, but announced the fact that three shillings were thirty-six pence, and six was forty-two. Also that sixteen ounces were one pound, and sixteen drams one ounce; but there she got stuck, and began making figures and rubbing them out, as if in hopes that would clear up her mind. Mrs. King pecked on for ten minutes on her nail. 'Well,' she said, 'Paul's right; it is fourpence.' 'However did you do it?' asked Ellen. 'As 16 to 1.5, so 42,' quoth Paul quickly. 'Three halves into 42; 21 and 42 is 63; 63 by 16, gives 3 and fifteen-sixteenths. You can't deduct a sixteenth of a penny, so call it fourpence.' Ellen and Alfred were as wise as to the working as they were before. Next question--Paul's answer came like the next line in the book--Mrs. King proved him right, and so on till she was quite tired of the proofs, and began to trust him. Alfred asked how he could possibly do such things, which seemed to him a perfect riddle. 'I should have had my ears pretty nigh pulled off if I took five minutes to work _that_ in my head,' said Paul. 'But I've forgotten things now; I could do it faster once.' 'I'm sure you hadn't need,' said Mrs. King; 'it's enough to distract one's senses to count so fast. All in your poor head too!' 'And I've got to write them all out to-morrow,' said Ellen dismally; 'I must wait till dark, or I shan't set a stitch of work. I wish people would pay ready money, and then one wouldn't have to set down their bills. Here's Mr. Cope, bread--bread--bread, as long as my arm!' 'If you didn't mind, maybe I could save you the trouble, Miss Ellen,' said Paul. 'Did you ever make out a bill?' asked Mrs. King. 'Never a real one; but every Thursday I used to do sham ones. Once I did a jeweller's bill for twelve thousand pounds and odd! It is so long since I touched a pen, that may be I can't write; but I should like to try.' Ellen brought a pen, and the cover of a letter; and hobbling up to the table, he took the pen, cleared it of a hair that was sticking in it, made a scratch or two weakly and ineffectually, then wrote in a neat clear hand, without running up or down, 'Friarswood, Christmas.' 'A pretty hand as ever I saw!' said Mrs. King. 'Well, if you can write like that, and can be trusted to make no mistakes, you might write out our bills; and we'd be obliged to you most kindly.' And so Paul did, so neatly, that when the next evening Mr. Cope walked in with the money, he said, looking at Harold, 'Ah! my ancient Saxon, I must make my compliments to you: I did not think you could write letters as well as you can carry them.' ''Twas Paul did it, Sir,' said Harold. 'Yes, Sir; 'twas Paul,' said Mrs. King. 'The lad is a wonderful scholar: he told off all the sums as if they was in print; and to hear him read--'tis like nothing I ever heard since poor Mrs. Selby, Miss Jane's mother.' 'I saw he had been very well instructed--in acquaintance with the Bible, and the like.' 'And, Sir, before I got to know him for a boy that would not give a false account of himself, I used to wonder whether he could have run away from some school, and have friends above the common. If you observe, Sir, he speaks so remarkably well.' Mr. Cope had observed it. Paul spoke much better English than did even the Kings; though Ellen was by way of being very particular, and sometimes a little mincing. 'You are quite sure it is not so?' he said, a little startled at Mrs. King's surmise. 'Quite sure now, Sir. I don't believe he would tell a falsehood on no account; and besides, poor lad!' and she smiled as the tears came into her eyes, 'he's so taken to me, he wouldn't keep nothing back from me, no more than my own boys.' 'I'm sure he ought not, Mrs. King,' said the Curate, 'such a mother to him as you have been. I should like to examine him a little. With so much education, he might do something better for himself than field-labour.' 'A very good thing it would be, Sir,' said Mrs. King, looking much cheered; 'for I misdoubt me sometimes if he'll ever be strong enough to gain his bread that way--at least, not to be a good workman. There! he's not nigh so tall as Harold; and so slight and skinny as he is, going about all bent and slouching, even before his illness! Why, he says what made him stay so long in the Union was that he looked so small and young, that none of the farmers at Upperscote would take him from it; and so at last he had to go on the tramp.' Mr. Cope went up-stairs, and found Ellen, as usual, at her needle, and Paul in the arm-chair close by Alfred, both busied in choosing and cutting out pictures from Matilda's 'Illustrated News,' with which Harold ornamented the wall of the stair-case and landing. Mr. Cope sat down, and made them laugh with something droll about the figures that were lying spread on Alfred. 'So, Paul,' he said, 'I find Mrs. King has engaged you for her accountant.' 'I wish I could do anything to be of any use,' said Paul. 'I've half a mind to ask you some questions in arithmetic,' said Mr. Cope, with his merry eyes upon the boy, and his mouth looking grave; 'only I'm afraid you might puzzle me.' 'I can't do as I used, Sir,' said Paul, rather nervously; 'I've forgotten ever so much; and my head swims.' The slate was lying near; Mr. Cope pushed it towards him, and said, 'Well, will you mind letting me see how you can write from dictation?' And taking up one of the papers, he read slowly several sentences from a description of a great fire, with some tolerably long-winded newspaper words in them. When he paused, and asked for the slate, there it all stood, perfectly spelt, well written, and with all the stops and capitals in the right places. 'Famously done, Paul! Well, and do you know where this place was?' naming the town. Paul turned his eyes about for a moment, and then gave the name of a county. 'That'll do, Paul. Which part of England?' 'Midland.' And so on, Mr. Cope got him out of his depth by asking about the rivers, and made him frown and look teased by a question about a battle fought in that county. If he had ever known, he had forgotten, and he was weak and easily confused; but Mr. Cope saw that he had read some history and learnt some geography, and was not like some of the village boys, who used to think Harold had been called after Herod--a nice namesake, truly! 'Who taught you all this, Paul?' he said. 'You must have had a cleverer master than is common in Unions. Who was he?' 'He was a Mr. Alcock, Sir. He was a clever man. They said in the House that he had been a bit of a gentleman, a lawyer, or a clerk, or something, but that he could never keep from the bottle.' 'What! and so they keep him for a school-master?' 'He was brought in, Sir; he'd got that mad fit that comes of drink, Sir, and was fresh out of gaol for debt. And when he came to, he said he'd keep the school for less than our master that was gone. He couldn't do anything else, you see.' 'And how did he teach you?' 'He knocked us about,' said Paul, drawing his shoulders together with an unpleasant recollection; 'he wasn't so bad to me, because I liked getting my tasks, and when he was in a good humour, he'd say I was a credit to him, and order me in to read to him in the evening.' 'And when he was not?' 'That was when he'd been out. They said he'd been at the gin-shop; but he used to be downright savage,' said Paul. 'At last he never thought it worth while to teach any lessons but mine, and I used to hear the other classes; but the inspector came all on a sudden, and found it out one day when he'd hit a little lad so that his nose was bleeding, and so he was sent off.' 'How long ago was this?' 'Going on for a year,' said Paul. 'Didn't the inspector want you to go to a training-school?' said Alfred. 'Yes; but the Guardians wouldn't hear of it.' 'Did you wish it?' asked Mr. Cope. 'I liked my liberty, Sir,' was the answer; and Paul looked down. 'Well, and what you do think now you've tried your liberty?' Paul didn't make any answer, but finding that good-humoured face still waiting, he said slowly, 'Why, Sir, it was well-nigh the worst of all to find I was getting as stupid as the cows.' Mr. Cope laughed, but not so as to vex him; and added, 'So that was the way you learnt to be a reader, Paul. Can you tell me what books you used to read to this master?' Paul paused; and Alfred said, '"Uncle Tom's Cabin," Sir; he told us the story of that.' 'Yes,' said Paul; 'but that wasn't all: there was a book about Paris, and all the people in the back lanes there; and a German prince who came, and was kind.' 'You must not tell them stories out of that book, Paul,' said Mr. Cope quickly, for he knew it was a very bad one. 'No, Sir,' said Paul; 'but most times it was books he called philosophy, that I couldn't make anything of--no story, and all dull; but he was very savage if I got to sleep over them, till I hated the sight of them.' 'I'm glad you did, my poor boy,' said Mr. Cope. 'But one thing more. Tell me how, with such a man as this, you could have learnt about the Bible and Catechism, as you have done.' 'Oh,' said Paul, 'we had only the Bible and Testament to read in the school, because they were the cheapest; and the chaplain asked us about the Catechism every Sunday.' 'What was the chaplain's name?' Paul was able, with some recollection, to answer; but he knew little about the clergyman, who was much overworked, and seldom able to give any time to the paupers. Three days after, Mr. Cope again came into the post-office. 'Well, Mrs. King, I suppose you don't need to be told that our friend Paul has spoken nothing but truth. The chaplain sends me his baptismal registry, for which I asked. Just seventeen he must be--a foundling, picked up at about three weeks old, January 25th, 1836. They fancy he was left by some tramping musicians, but never were able to trace them--at least, so the chaplain hears from some of the people who remember it. Being so stunted, and looking younger than he is, no farmer would take him from the House, and the school-master made him useful, so he was kept on till the grand exposure that he told us of.' 'Ah! Sir,' said Mrs. King,' I'm afraid that master was a bad man. I only wonder the poor lad learnt no more harm from him!' 'One trembles to think of the danger,' said Mr. Cope; 'but you see there's often a guard over those who don't seek the temptation, and perhaps this poor fellow's utter ignorance of anything beyond the Union walls helped him to let the mischief pass by his understanding, better than if he had had any experience of the world.' 'I doubt if he'll ever have that, Sir,' said Mrs. King, her sensible face lighting up rather drolly; 'there's Harold always laughing at him for being so innocent, and yet so clever at his book.' 'So much the better for him,' said Mr. Cope. 'The Son of Sirach never said a wiser word than that "the knowledge of wickedness is not wisdom." Why, Mrs. King, what have I said? you look as if you had a great mind to laugh at me.' 'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Mrs. King, much disconcerted at what seemed to her as if it might have been disrespect, though that was only Mr. Cope's droll way of putting it, 'I never meant--' 'Well, but what were you thinking of?' 'Why, Sir, I beg your pardon, but I was thinking it wouldn't have been amiss if he had had sense enough to keep himself clean and tidy.' 'I agree with you,' said Mr. Cope, laughing, and seeing she used 'innocent' in a slightly different sense from what he did; 'but perhaps Union cleanliness was not inviting, and he'd not had you to bring him up to fresh cheeks like Harold's. Besides, I believe it was half depression and want of heart to exert himself, when there was no one to care for him; and he certainly had not been taught either self-respect, or to think cleanliness next to godliness.' 'Poor lad--no,' said Mrs. King; 'nor I don't think he'd do it again, and I trust he'll never be so lost again.' 'Lost, and found,' said Mr. Cope gravely. 'Another thing I was going to say was, that this irreverent economy of the Guardians, in allowing no lesson-books but the Bible, seems to have, after all, been blest to him in his knowledge of it, like an antidote to the evil the master poured in.' 'Yes, Sir,' said Mrs. King, 'just so; only he says, that though he liked it, because, poor lad, there was nothing else that seemed to him to speak kind or soft, he never knew how much it was meant for him, nor it didn't seem to touch him home till he came to you, Sir.' Mr. Cope half turned away. His bright eyes had something very like a tear in them, for hardly anything could have been said to make the young clergyman so happy, as to tell him that any work of his should be blessed; but he went on talking quickly, to say that the chaplain gave a still worse account of Alcock than Paul's had been, saying that some gentlemen who had newly become Guardians at the time of the inspector's visit, had taken up the matter, and had been perfectly shocked at the discoveries they had made about the man to whom the poor children had been entrusted. On his dismissal, some of the old set, who were all for cheapness, had talked of letting young Blackthorn act as school-master; but as he was so very young, and had been brought up by this wretched man, the gentlemen would not hear of it; and as they could not afford to accept the inspector's offer of recommending him to a government school, he had been sent out in quest of employment, as being old enough to provide for himself. Things had since, the chaplain said, been put on a much better footing, and he himself had much more time to attend to the inmates. As to Paul, he was glad to hear that he was in good hands; he said he had always perceived him to be a very clever boy, and knew no harm of him but that he was a favourite with Alcock, which he owned had made him very glad to get him out of the House, lest he should carry on the mischief. Mr. Cope and Mrs. King were both of one mind, that this was hard measure. So it was. Man's measure always is either over hard or over soft, because he cannot see all sides at once. Now they saw Paul's side, his simplicity, and his suffering; the chaplain had only seen the chances of his conveying the seeds of ungodly teaching to the workhouse children; he could not tell that the pitch which Paul had not touched by his own will, had not stuck by him--probably owing to that very simplicity which had made him so helpless in common life. Having learnt all this, Mr. Cope proposed to Paul to use the time of his recovery in learning as much as he could, so as to be ready in case any opportunity should offer for gaining his livelihood by his head rather than by his hands. Paul's face glowed. He liked nothing better than to be at a book, and with Mr. Cope to help him by bright encouragements and good-natured explanations instead of tweaks of the ears and raps on the knuckles, what could be pleasanter? So Mr. Cope lent him books, set him questions, and gave him pen, ink, and copy-book, and he toiled away with them till his senses grew dazed, and his back ached beyond bearing; so that 'Mother,' as he called her now, caught him up, and made him lie on his bed to rest, threatening to tell Mr. Cope not to set him anything so hard; while Ellen watched in wonder at any one being so clever, and was proud of whatever Mr. Cope said he did well; and Harold looked on him as a more extraordinary creature than the pie-bald horse in the show, who wore a hat and stood on his hind legs, since he really was vexed when book and slate were taken out of his hands. He would have over-tasked himself in his weakness much more, if it had not been for his lovingness to Alfred. To please Alfred was always his first thought; and even if a difficult sum were just on the point of proving itself, he would leave off at the first moment of seeing Alfred look as if he wanted to be read to, and would miss all his calculations, to answer some question--who was going down the village, or what that noise could be. Alfred tried to be considerate, and was sorry when he saw by a furrow on Paul's brow that he was trying to win up again all that some trifling saying had made him lose. But Alfred was not scholar enough to perceive the teasing of such interruptions, and even had he been aware of it, he was not in a state when he could lie quite still long together without disturbing any one; he could amuse himself much less than formerly, and often had most distressing restless fits, when one or other of them had to give him their whole attention; and it was all his most earnest efforts could do to keep from the old habit of fretfulness and murmuring. And he grieved so much over the least want of temper, and begged pardon so earnestly for the least impatient word--even if there had been real provocation for it--that it was a change indeed since the time when he thought grumbling and complaint his privilege and relief. Nothing helped him more than Paul's reading Psalms to him--the 121st was his favourite--or saying over hymns to him in that very sweet voice so full of meaning. Sometimes Ellen and Paul would sing together, as she sat at her work, and it almost always soothed him to hear the Psalm tunes, that were like an echo from the church, about which he had cared so little when he had been able to go there in health and strength, but for which he now had such a longing! He came to be so used to depend on their singing the Evening Hymn to him, that one of the times when it was most hard for him to be patient, was one cold evening, when Ellen was so hoarse that she could not speak, and an unlucky draught in from the shop door had so knit Paul up again, that he was lying in his bed, much nearer screaming than singing. Most of all, however, was Alfred helped by Mr. Cope's visits, and the looking forward to the promised Feast, with more earnestness as the time drew on, and he felt his own weakness more longing for the support and blessing of uniting his suffering with that of his Lord. 'In all our afflictions He was afflicted,' was a sound that came most cheeringly to him, and seemed to give him greater strength and good-will to bear his load of weakness. There was a book which young Mrs. Selby had given his mother, which was often lying on his bed, and had marks in it at all the favourite places. Some he liked to look at himself, some for Paul to read to him. They were such sentences as these: 'My son, I descended from Heaven for thy salvation; I took upon Me thy miseries; not necessity, but charity, drawing Me thereto, that thou thyself mightest learn patience, and bear temporal miseries without grudging.' 'For from the hour of My Birth, even until My Death on the Cross, I was not without suffering and grief.' And then again: 'Offer up thyself unto Me, and give thyself wholly for God, and thy offering shall be acceptable.' 'Behold, I offered up Myself wholly unto My Father for thee, and gave My whole Body and Blood for thy food, that I might be wholly thine, and that thou mightest continue Mine unto the end.' So he might think of all that he went through as capable of being made a free offering, which God would accept for the sake of the One Great Offering, 'consuming and burning away' (as the book said) 'all his sins with the fire of Christ's love, and cleansing his conscience from all offences.' It was what he now felt in the words, 'Thy Will be done,' which he tried to say in full earnest; but he thought he should be very happy when he should go along with the offering ourselves, our souls, and bodies, to be a 'reasonable, holy, and lively sacrifice.' Each of Mr. Cope's readings brought out or confirmed these refreshing hopes; and Paul likewise dwelt on such thoughts. Hardship had been a training to him, like sickness for Alfred; he knew what it was to be weary and heavy laden, and to want rest, and was ready to draw closer to the only Home and Father that he could claim. His gentle unresisting spirit was one that so readily forgot ill-will, that positively Harold cherished more dislike to the Shepherds than he did; and there was no struggle to forgive, no lack of charity for all men, so that hope and trust were free. These two boys were a great deal to the young deacon. Perhaps he reckoned on his first ministration as a priest by Alfred's bedside, as much or even more than did the lad, for to him the whole household were as near and like-minded friends, though neither he nor they ever departed from the fitting manners of their respective stations. He was one who liked to share with others what was near his heart, and he had shewn Alfred the Service for the Ordination of Priests, and the Prayers for Grace that would be offered, and the holy vows that he would take upon him, and the words with which those great Powers would be conferred--those Powers that our Chief Shepherd left in trust for the pastors who feed His flock. And once he had bent down and whispered to Alfred to pray that help might be given to him to use those powers faithfully. So wore on the early spring; and the morning had come when he was to set out for the cathedral town, when Harold rode up to the parsonage door, and something in his looks as he passed the window made Mr. Cope hasten to the door to meet him. 'O Sir!' said Harold, bursting out crying as he began to speak, 'poor Alfred is took so bad; and Mother told me to tell you, Sir--if he's not better--he'll never live out the day!' Poor Harold, who had never seemed to heed his brother's illness, was quite overwhelmed now. It had come upon him all at once. 'What is it? Has the doctor been?' 'No, Sir; I went in at six o'clock this morning to ask him to come out, and he said he'd come--and sent him a blister--but Alf was worse by the time I got back, Sir,--he can't breathe--and don't seem to notice.' And without another word, nor waiting for comfort, Harold dug his heels into Peggy, passed his elbow over his eyes, and cantered on with the tears drying on his face in the brisk March wind. There was no finishing breakfast for the Curate; he thrust his letters into his pocket, caught up his hat, and walked off with long strides for the post-office. It shewed how different things were from usual, that Paul, who had hardly yet been four times down-stairs, his thin pointed face all in a flush, was the only person in the shop, trying with a very shaky hand to cut out some cheese for a great stout farm maid-servant, who evidently did not understand what was the matter, and stared doubly when the clergyman put his strong hand so as to steady Paul's trembling one, and gave his help to fold up the parcel. 'How is he, Paul?' Paul was very near crying as he answered, 'Much worse, Sir. Mother has been up all night with him. O Sir! he did so want to live till you came home.' 'May I go up?' asked Mr. Cope. Paul was sure that he might, and crept up after him. It was bad enough, but not quite so bad as Harold, in his fright, had made Mr. Cope believe. Poor boy! it had all come upon him now; and seeing his brother unable to speak and much oppressed, he fancied he did not know him, whereas Alfred was fully sensible, though too ill to do more than lift his eyes, and put out his weak fingers as Mr. Cope came into the room, where he was lying raised on his pillows, with his mother and sister doing all they could for him. A terrible pain in the side had come on in the night, making every breath painful, every cough agonizing, and his whole face and brow were crimson with the effort of gasping. Paul looked a moment but could not bear it, and went, and sat down on the top of the stairs; while Mr. Cope kindly held Alfred's hot hand, and Mrs. King, in her low patient tone, told how the attack had begun. She was in the midst, when Mr. Blunt's gig was seen at the gate. His having thus hastened his coming was more than they had dared to hope; and while Mrs. King felt grateful for the kindness, Ellen feared that it shewed that he thought very badly of the case. Mr. Cope was much hurried, but he could not bear to go till he had heard Mr. Blunt's opinion; so he went down to the kitchen, tried to console Paul by talking kindly to him, wrote a note, and read his letters. They were much comforted to hear that Mr. Blunt thought that there was hope of subduing the present inflammatory pain; and though there was much immediate danger, it was not hastening so very fast to the end as they had at first supposed. Yet, in such a state as Alfred's, a few hours might finish all. There was no saying. Already, when Mr. Cope went up again, the remedies had given some relief; and though the breaths came short and hard, like so many stabs, Alfred had put his head into an easier position, and his eyes and lips looked more free to look a greeting. There was so much wistful earnestness in his face, and it deeply grieved Mr. Cope to be forced to leave him, and in too much haste even to be able to pray with him. 'Well, Alfred, dear fellow,' he said, his voice trembling, 'I am come to wish you good-bye. I am comforted to find that Mr. Blunt thinks there is good hope that you will be here--that we shall be together when I come back. Yes, I know that is what is on your mind, and I do reckon most earnestly on it; but if it should not be His Will--here, Ellen, will you take care of this note? If he should be worse, will you send this to Mr. Carter, at Ragglesford? and I know he will come at once.' The dew stood on Alfred's eye-lashes, and his lips worked. He looked up sadly to Mr. Cope, as if this did not answer his longings. Mr. Cope replied to the look--'Yes, dear boy, but if it cannot be, still remember it is Communion. He can put us together. We all drink into one Spirit. I shall be engaged in a like manner--I would not--I could not go, Alfred, for pleasure--no, nor business--only for this. You must think that I am gone to bring you home the Gift--the greatest, best Gift--the one our Lord left with His disciples, to bear them through their sorrows and pains--through the light affliction that is but for a moment, but worketh an exceeding weight of glory. And if I should not be in time,' he added, nearly sobbing as he spoke, 'then--then, Alfred, the Gift, the blessing is yours all the same. It is the Great High Priest to Whom you must look--perhaps you may do so the more really if it should not be through--your friend. If we are disappointed, we will make a sacrifice of our disappointment. Good-bye, my boy; God bless you!' Bending close down to his face, he whispered, 'Think of me. Pray for me--now--always.' Then, rising hastily, he shook the hands of the mother and sister, ran down-stairs, and was gone. CHAPTER XII--REST AT LAST The east wind had been swept aside by gales from the warm south, and the spring was bursting out everywhere; the sky looked softly blue, instead of hard and chill; the sun made everything glisten: the hedges were full of catkins; white buds were on the purple twigs of the blackthorns; primroses were looking out on the sunny side of the road; the larks were mounting up, singing as if they were wild with delight; and the sunbeams were full of dancing gnats, as the Curate of Friarswood walked, with quick eager steps, towards the bridge. His eyes were anxiously bent on the house, watching the white smoke rising from the chimney; then he hastened on to gain the first sight at the upper windows, feeling almost as he could have done had it been a brother who lay there; so much was his heart set on the first whom he had striven to help through the valley of the shadow of death. The window was open, but the blind was not drawn; and almost at the same moment the gate opened, some one looked out, and seeing him, waved his hand and arm in joyful signal towards some one within, and this gesture set Mr. Cope's heart at rest. Was it Harold? No, it was Paul Blackthorn, who stood leaning on the wicket, as he held it open for the clergyman, at whom he looked up as if expecting some change, and a little surprised to find the same voice and manner. 'Well, Paul, then he is not worse?' 'No, Sir, thank you, he is better. The pain has left him, and he can speak again,' said Paul, but not very cheerfully. 'That is a great comfort! But who's that?' as a head, not Ellen's, appeared for a moment at the window. 'That's Miss King, Sir--Miss Matilda!' 'Oh! Well, and how are the bones, Paul? Better, I hope, since I see you are come out with the bees,' said Mr. Cope, laying his hand kindly on his shoulder (a thing fit to touch now, since it was in a fustian coat of poor Alfred's), and accommodating his swift strong steps to the feeble halt with which Paul still moved. 'Thank you, Sir, yes; I've been down here twice when the sun was out,' he said, as if it were a grand undertaking; but then, with a sudden smile, 'and poor Caesar knew me, Sir; he came right across the road, and wagged his tail, and licked my hand.' 'Good old Caesar! You were his best friend, Paul.--Well, Mrs. King, this is a blessing!' Mrs. King looked sadly worn out with nursing, and her eyes were full of tears. 'Yes, Sir,' she said, 'indeed it is. My poor darling has been so much afraid he was too much set on your coming home, and yet so patient and quiet about it.' 'Then you ventured to wait?' And Mr. Cope heard that the attack of inflammation had given way to remedies, but that Alfred was so much weakened, that they could not raise him again. He was sustained by as much nourishment as they could give him: but the disease had made great progress, and Mr. Blunt did not think that he could last many days. His eldest sister had come for a fortnight from her place, and was a great comfort to them all. 'And so is Paul,' said Mrs. King, looking for him kindly; 'I don't know what we should do without his help up-stairs and down. And, Sir, yesterday,' she added, colouring a good deal--'I beg your pardon, but I thought, maybe, you'd like to hear it--Alfred would have nobody else up with him in morning church-time--and made him read the most--of that Service, Sir.' Mr. Cope's eyes glistened, and he said something huskily of being glad that Alfred could think of it. It further appeared that Alfred had wished very much to see Miss Selby again, and that Mrs. King had sent the two sisters to the Grange to talk it over with Mrs. Crabbe, and word had been sent by Harold that morning that the young lady would come in the course of the afternoon. Mr. Cope followed Mrs. King up-stairs; Alfred's face lighted up as his sister Matilda made way for the clergyman. He was very white, and his breath was oppressed; but his look had changed very much--it had a strange, still sort of brightness and peace about it. He spoke in very low tones, just above a whisper, and smiled as Mr. Cope took his hand, and spoke to him. 'Thank you, Sir. It is very nice,' he said. 'I thank God that He has let you wait for me,' said Mr. Cope. 'I am glad,' said Alfred. 'I did want to pray for it; but I thought, perhaps, if it was not His Will, I would not--and then what you said. And now He is making it all happy.' 'And you do not grieve over your year of illness?' 'I would not have been without it--no,' said Alfred, very quietly, but with much meaning. '"It is good for me that I have been in trouble," is what you mean,' said Mr. Cope. 'It has made our Saviour seem--I mean--He is so good to me,' said Alfred fervently. But talking made him cough, and that brought a line in the fair forehead so full of peace. Mr. Cope would not say more to him, and asked his mother whether the Feast, for which he had so much longed, should be on the following day. She thought it best that it should be so; and Alfred again said, 'Thank you, Sir,' with the serene expression on his face. Mr. Cope read a Psalm and a prayer to him, and thinking him equal to no more, went away, pausing, however, for a little talk with Paul in the shop. Paul did not say so, but, poor fellow, he had been rather at a loss since Matilda had come. In herself, she was a very good, humble, sensible girl; but she wore a dark silk dress, and looked, moved, and spoke much more like a lady than Ellen: Paul stood in great awe of her, and her presence seemed all at once to set him aloof from the others. He had been like one of themselves for the last three months, now he felt that he was like a beggar among them; he did not like to call Mrs. King mother, lest it should seem presuming; Ellen seemed to be raised up the same step as her sister, and even Alfred was almost out of his reach; Matilda read to him, and Paul's own good feeling shewed him that he would be only in the way if he spent all his time in Alfred's room as formerly; so he kept down-stairs in the morning, and went to bed very early. Nobody was in the least unkind to him: but he had just begun to grieve at being a burden so long, and to wonder how much longer he should be in getting his health again. And then it might be only to be cast about the world, and to lose his one glimpse of home kindness. Poor boy! he still cried at the thought of how happy Alfred was. He did all he could to be useful, but he could scarcely manage to stoop down, could carry nothing heavy, and moved very slowly; and he now and then made a dreadful muddle in the shop, when a customer was not like Mrs. Hayward, who told him where everything was, and the price of all she wanted, as well as Mrs. King could do herself. He could sort the letters and see to the post-office very well; and for all his blunders, he did so much by his good-will, that when Mrs. King wanted to cheer him up, she declared that he saved her all the expense of having in a woman from the village to help, and that he did more about the house than Harold. This was true: for Harold did not like doing anything but manly things, as he called them; whereas Paul did not care what it was, so that it saved trouble to her or Ellen. Talking and listening to Harold was one use of Paul. Now that it had come upon him, and he saw Alfred worse from day to day, the poor boy was quite broken-hearted. Possibly, when at his work, or riding, he managed to shake off the remembrance; but at home it always came back, and he cried so much at the sight of Alfred, and at any attempt of his brother to talk to him, that they could scarcely let him stay ten minutes in the room. Then, when Paul had gone to bed on the landing at seven o'clock, he would come and sit on his bed, and talk, and cry, and sob about his brother, and his own carelessness of him, often till his mother came out and ordered him down-stairs to his own bed in the kitchen; and Paul turned his face into the pillow to weep himself to sleep, loving Alfred very little less than did his brother, but making less noise about it, and feeling very lonely when he saw how all the family cared for each other. So Mr. Cope's kind manner came all the more pleasantly to him; and after some talk on what they both most cared about, Mr. Cope said, 'Paul, Mr. Shaw of Berryton tells me he has a capital school-master, but in rather weak health, and he wants to find a good intelligent youth to teach under him, and have opportunities of improving himself. Five pounds a year, and board and lodgings. What do you think of it, Paul?' Paul's sallow face began growing red, and he polished the counter, on which he was leaning; then, as Mr. Cope repeated, 'Eh, Paul?' he said slowly, and in his almost rude way, 'They wouldn't have me if they knew how I'd been brought up.' 'Perhaps they would if they knew what you've come to in spite of bringing up. And,' added Mr. Cope, 'they are not so much pressed for time but that they can wait till you've quite forgotten your tumble into the Ragglesford. We must fatten you--get rid of those spider-fingers, and you and I must do a few more lessons together--and I think Mrs. King has something towards your outfit; and by Whitsuntide, I told Mr. Shaw that I thought I might send him what I call a very fair sample of a good steady lad.' Paul did not half seem to take it in--perhaps he was too unhappy, or it sounded like sending him away again; or, maybe, such a great step in life was more than he could comprehend, after the outcast condition to which he had been used: but Mr. Cope could not go on talking to him, for the Grange carriage was stopping at the gate, and Matilda and Ellen were both coming down-stairs to receive Miss Jane. Poor little thing, she looked very pale and nervous; and as she shook hands with the Curate, as he met her in the garden-path, she said with a startled manner, 'Oh! Mr. Cope--were you there? Am I interrupting--?' 'Not at all,' he said. 'I had only called in as I came home, and had just come down again.' 'Is it--is it very dreadful?' murmured Jane, with a sort of gasp. She was so entirely unused to scenes of sadness or pain, that it was very strange and alarming to her, and it was more difficult than ever to believe her no younger than Ellen. 'Very far from dreadful or distressing,' said Mr. Cope kindly, for he knew it was not her fault that she had been prevented from overcoming such feelings, and that this was a great effort of kindness. 'It is a very peaceful, soothing sight--he is very happy, and not in a suffering state.' 'Oh, will you tell Grandmamma?' said Jane, with her pretty look of earnestness; 'she is so much afraid of its much for me, and she was so kind in letting me come.' So Miss Selby went on to the two sisters, and Mr. Cope proceeded to the carriage, where Lady Jane had put out her head, glad to be able to ask him about the state of affairs. Having nothing but this little grand- daughter left to her, the old lady watched over her with almost over-tender care, and was in much alarm both lest the air of the sick- room should be unwholesome, or the sight too sorrowful for her; and though she was too kind to refuse the wish of the dying boy, she had come herself, in order that 'the child,' as she called her, might not stay longer than was good for her; and she was much relieved to hear Mr. Cope's account of Alfred's calm state, and of the freshness of the clean room, in testimony of which he pointed to the open window. 'Yes,' she said, 'I hope Mary King was wise enough; but I hardly knew how it might be with such a number about the house--that boy and all. He is not gone, is he?' 'No, he is not nearly well enough yet, though he does what he can to be useful to her. When he is recovered, I have a scheme for him.' So Mr. Cope mentioned Mr. Shaw's proposal, by which my Lady set more store than did Paul as yet. Very kind-hearted she was, though she did not fancy adopting chance-comers into her parish; and as long as he was not saddled upon Mary King, as she said, she was very glad of any good for him; so she told Mr. Cope to come to her for what he might want to fit him out properly for the situation; and turning her keen eyes on him as he stood near the cottage door, pronounced that, after all, he was a nice, decent-looking lad enough, which certainly her Ladyship would not have said before his illness. Miss Jane did not stay long. Indeed, Alfred could not talk to her, and she did not know what to say to him; she could only stand by his bed, with the tears upon her cheeks, making little murmuring sounds in answer to Mrs. King, who said for her son what she thought he wished to have said. Meanwhile, Jane was earnestly looking at him, remarking with awe, that, changed as he was since she had last seen him--so much more wasted away--the whole look of his face was altered by the gentleness and peace that it had gained, so as to be like the white figure of a saint. She could not bear it when Mrs. King told her Alfred wanted to thank her for all her kindness in coming to see him. 'Oh, no,' she said, 'I was not kind at all;' and her tears would not be hindered. 'Only, you know, I could not help it.' Alfred gave her a bright look. Any one could see what a pleasure it was to him to be looking at her again, though he did not repent of his share in the sacrifice for Paul's sake. No, if Paul had been given up that Miss Jane might come to him, Alfred would not have had the training that made all so sweet and calm with him now. He turned his head to the little picture, and said, 'Thank you, Ma'am, for that. That's been my friend.' 'Yes, indeed it has, Miss Jane,' said his mother. 'There's nothing you ever did for him that gave him the comfort that has been.' 'And please, Ma'am,' said Alfred, 'will you tell my Lady--I give her my duty--and ask her pardon for having behaved so bad--and Mrs. Crabbe--and the rest?' 'I will, Alfred; but every one has forgiven that nonsense long ago.' 'It was very bad of me,' said Alfred, pausing for breath; 'and so it was not to mind you--Miss Jane--when you said I was ill for a warning.' 'Did I?' said Jane. 'Yes--in hay-time--I mind it--I didn't mind for long--but 'twas true. He had patience with me.' The cough came on, and Jane knew she must go; her grandmother had bidden her not to stay if it were so, and she just ventured to squeeze Alfred's hand, and then went down-stairs, checking her tears, to wish Matilda and Ellen good-bye; and as she passed by Paul, told him not to uncover his still very short-haired head, and kindly hoped he was better. Paul, in his dreary feelings, hardly thought of Mr. Cope's plan, till, as he was getting the letters ready for Harold, he turned up one in Mr. Cope's writing, addressed to the 'Rev. A. Shaw, Berryton, Elbury.' 'That's to settle for me, then,' he said; and Harold who was at tea, asking, 'What's that?' he explained. 'Well,' said Harold, 'every one to his taste! I wouldn't go to school again, not for a hundred pounds; and as to _keeping_ school!' (Such a face as he made really caused Paul to smile.) 'Nor you don't half like it, neither,' continued Harold. 'Come, you'd better stay and get work here! I'd sooner be at the plough-tail all day, than poke out my eyes over stuff like that,' pointing to Paul's slate, covered with figures. 'Here, Nelly,' as she moved about, tidying the room, 'do you hear? Mr. Cope's got an offer of a place for Paul--five pounds a year, and board and lodging, to be school-master's whipper-in, or what d'ye call it?' 'What do you say, Harold?' cried Ellen, putting her hands on the back of a chair, quite interested. 'You going away, Paul?' 'Mr. Cope says so--and I must get my living, you know,' said Paul. 'But not yet; you are not well enough yet,' said the kind girl. 'And where did you say--?' 'To Berryton.' 'Berryton--oh! that's just four miles out on the other side of Elbury, where Susan Congleton went to live that was housemaid at the Grange. She says it's such a nice place, and such beautiful organ and singing at church! And what did you say you were to be, Paul?' 'I'm to help the school-master.' 'Gracious me!' cried Ellen. 'Why, such a scholar as you are, you'll be quite a gentleman yet, Paul. Why, they school-masters get fifty or sixty pounds salaries sometimes. I protest it's the best thing I've heard this long time! Was it Mr. Cope's doing, or my Lady's?' 'Mr. Cope's,' said Paul, beginning to think he had been rather less grateful than he ought. 'Ah! it is like him,' said Ellen, 'after all the pains he has taken with you. And you'll not be so far off, Paul: you'll come to see us in the holidays, you know.' 'To be sure he will,' said Harold; 'or if he don't, I shall go and fetch him.' 'Of course he will,' said Ellen, with her hand on Paul's chair, and speaking low and affectionately to console him, as she saw him so downcast; 'don't you know how poor Alfy says he's come to be instead of a son to Mother, and a brother to us? I must go up and tell Alf and mother. They'll be so pleased.' Paul felt very differently about the plan now. All the house congratulated him upon it, and Matilda evidently thought more of him now that she found he was to have something to do. But such things as these were out of sight beside that which was going on in the room above. Alfred slept better that night, and woke so much revived, that they thought him better: and Harold, greatly comforted about him, stood tolerably quietly by his side, listening to one or two things that Alfred had longed for months past to say to him. 'Promise me, Harold dear, that you'll be a good son to Mother: you'll be the only one now.' Harold made a bend of his head like a promise. 'O Harold, be good to her!' went on Alfred earnestly; 'she's had so much trouble! I do hope God will leave you to her--if you are steady and good. Do, Harold! She's not like some, as don't care what their lads get to. And don't take after me, and be idle! Be right-down good, Harold, as Paul is; and when you come to be ill--oh! it won't be so bad for you as it was for me!' 'I do want to be good,' sighed Harold. 'If I'd only been confirmed; but 'twas all along of them merries last summer!' 'And I was such a plague to you--I drove you out,' said Alfred. 'No, no, I was a brute to you! Oh! Alfy, Alfy, if I could only get back the time!' He was getting to the sobs that hurt his brother; and his sister was going to interfere; but Alfred said: 'Never mind, Harold dear, we've been very happy together, and we'll always love each other. You'll not forget Alf, and you'll be Mother's good son to take care of her! Won't you?' So Harold gave that promise, and went away with his tears. Poor fellow, now was his punishment for having slighted the Confirmation. Like Esau, an exceeding bitter cry could not bring back what he had lightly thrown away. Well was it for him that this great sorrow came in time, and that it was not altogether his birthright that he had parted with. He found he could not go out to his potato-planting and forget all about it, as he would have liked to have done--something would not let him; and there he was sitting crouched up and sorrowful on the steps of the stairs, when Mr. Cope and all the rest were gathered in Alfred's room, a church for the time. Matilda and Ellen had set out the low table with the fair white cloth, and Mr. Cope brought the small cups and paten, which were doubly precious to him for having belonged to his father, and because the last time he had seen them used had been for his father's last Communion. Now was the time to feel that a change had really passed over the young pastor in the time of his absence. Before, he could only lead Alfred in his prayers, and give him counsel, tell him to hope in his repentance, and on what that hope was founded. Now that he had bent beneath the hand of the Bishop, he had received, straight down from the Twelve, the Power from on High. It was not Mr. Cope, but the Lord Who had purchased that Pardon by His own most Precious Blood, Who by him now declared to Alfred that the sins and errors of which he had so long repented, were pardoned and taken away. The Voice of Authority now assured him of what he had been only told to hope and trust before. And to make the promise all the more close and certain, here was the means of becoming a partaker of the Sacrifice--here was that Bread and that Cup which shew forth the Lord's Death till He come. It was very great rest and peace, the hush that was over the quiet room, with only Alfred's hurried breath to be heard beside Mr. Cope's voice as he spoke the blessed words, and the low responses of the little congregation. Paul was close beside Alfred--he would have him there between his mother and the wall--and the two whose first Communion it was, were the last to whom Mr. Cope came. To one it was to be the Food for the passage into the unseen world; to the other might it be the first partaking of the Manna to support him through the wilderness of this life. 'From the highways and hedges,' here was one brought into the foretaste of the Marriage Supper. Ah! there was one outside, who had loved idle pleasure when the summons had been sent to him. Perhaps the misery he was feeling now might be the means of sparing him from missing other calls, and being shut out at last. It seemed to fulfil all that Alfred had wished. He lay still between waking and sleeping for a long time afterwards, and then begged for Paul to read to him the last chapters of the Book of Revelation. Matilda wished to read them for him; but he said, 'Paul, please.' Paul's voice was fuller and softer when it was low; his accent helped the sense, and Alfred was more used to them than to his visitor sister. Perhaps there was still another reason, for when Paul came to the end, and was turning the leaves for one of Alfred's favourite bits, he saw Alfred's eyes on him, as if he wanted to speak. It was to say, 'Brothers quite now, Paul! Thank you. I think God must have sent you to help me.' Alfred seemed better all the evening, and they went to bed in good spirits; but at midnight, Mr. Cope, who was very deeply studying and praying, the better to fit himself for his new office in the ministry, was just going to shut his book, and go up to bed, when he heard a tremulous ring at the bell. It was Harold, his face looking very white in the light from Mr. Cope's candle. 'Oh! please, Sir,' he said, 'Alfred is worse; and Mother said, if your light wasn't out, you'd like to know.' 'I am very grateful to her,' said Mr. Cope; and taking up his plaid, he wrapped one end round the boy, and put his arm round him, as he felt him quaking as Paul had done before, but not crying--too much awe-struck for that. He said that his mother thought something had broken in the lungs, and that he would be choked. Mr. Cope made the more haste, that he might judge if the doctor would be of any use. Paul was sitting up in his bed--they had not let him get up--but his eyes were wide open with distress, as he plainly heard the loud sob that each breath had become. Mrs. King was holding Alfred up in her arms; Matilda was trying to chafe his feet; Ellen was kneeling with her face hidden. The light of sense and meaning was not gone from Alfred's eyes, though the last struggle had come. He gave a look as though he were glad to see Mr. Cope, and then gazed on his brother. Mrs. King signed to Harold to come nearer, and whispered, 'Kiss him.' His sisters had done so, and he had missed Harold. Then Mr. Cope prayed, and Alfred's eyes at first owned the sounds; but soon they were closed, and the long struggling breaths were all that shewed that the spirit was still there. 'He shall swallow up death in victory, and the Lord God shall wipe away tears from all eyes.' One moment, and the blue eyes they knew so well were opened and smiling on his mother, and then-- It was over; and through affliction and pain, the young spirit had gone to rest! The funeral day was a very sore one to Paul Blackthorn. He would have given the world to be there, and have heard the beautiful words of hope which received his friend to his resting-place, but he could not get so far. He had tried to carry a message to a house not half so far off as the church, but his knees seemed to give way under him, and his legs ached so much that he could hardly get home. Somehow, a black suit, just such as Harold's, had come home for him at the same time; but this could not hinder him from feeling that he was but a stranger, and one who had no real place in the home where he lived. There was the house full of people, who would only make their remarks on him--Miss Hardman (who was very critical of the coffin-plate), the school-master, and some of the upper-servants of the house--and poor Mrs. King and Matilda, who could not help being gratified at the attention to their darling, were obliged to go down and be civil to them; while Ellen, less used to restraint, was shut into her own room crying; and Harold was standing on the stairs, very red, but a good deal engaged with his long hat-band. Poor Paul! he had not even his usual refuge--his own bed to lie upon and hide his face--for that had been taken away to make room for the coffin to be carried down. There, they were going at last, when it had seemed as if the bustle and confusion would never cease. There was Alfred leaving the door where he had so often played, carried upon the shoulders of six lads in white frocks, his old school-fellows and Paul's Confirmation friends. How Paul envied them for doing him that last service! There was his mother, always patient and composed, holding Harold's arm--Harold, who must be her stay and help, but looking so slight, so boyish, and so young, then the two girls, Ellen so overpowered with crying that her sister had to lead her; Mrs. Crabbe with Betsey Hardman, who held up a great white handkerchief, for other people's visible grief always upset her, as she said; and besides, she felt it a duty to cry at such a time; and the rest two and two, quite a train, in their black suits: how unlike the dreary pauper funerals Paul had watched away at Upperscote! That respectable look seemed to make him further off and more desolate, like one cut off, whom no one would follow, no one would weep for. Alfred, who had called him a brother, was gone, and here he was alone! The others were taking their dear one once more to the church where they had so often prayed that he might have a happy issue out of all his afflictions. They were met by Mr. Cope, ending his loving intercourse with Alfred by reading out the blessed promise of Resurrection--the assurance that the body they were sowing in weakness would be raised in power; so that the noble boy, whom they had seen fade away like a drooping flower, would rise again blossoming forth in glory, after the Image of the Incorruptible--that Image, thought Mr. Cope, as he read on, which he faithfully strove to copy even through the sufferings due to the corruptible. His voice often shook and faltered. He had never before read that Service; and perhaps, except for those of his own kin, it could never be a greater effort to him, going along with Alfred as he had done, holding up the rod and staff that bore him through the dark valley. And each trembling of his tone seemed to answer something that the mother was feeling in her peaceful, hopeful, thankful grief--yes, thankful that she could lay her once high-spirited and thoughtless boy in his grave, with the same sure and certain hope of a joyful Resurrection, as that ripe and earnest-minded Christian his father, or his little innocent brother. It was peace--awful peace, indeed, but soothing even to Ellen and Harold, new as they were to grief. But to poor Paul at home, out of hearing of the words of hope, only listening to the melancholy toll of the knell, and quite alone in the disarranged forlorn house, there seemed nothing to take off the edge of misery. He was not wanted to keep Alfred company now, nor to read to him--no one needed him, no one cared for him. He wandered up to where Alfred had lain so long, as if to look for the pale quiet face that used to smile to him. There was nothing but the bed-frame and mattress! He threw himself down on it and cried. He did not well know why--perhaps the chief feeling was that Alfred was gone away to rest and bliss, and he was left alone to be weary and without a friend. At last the crying began to spend itself, and he turned and looked up. There was Alfred's little picture of the Crucified still on the wall, and the words under it, 'For us!' Paul's eye fell on it; and somehow it brought to mind what Alfred had said to him on Christmas Day. There was One Who had no home on earth; there was One Who had made Himself an outcast and a wanderer, and Who had not where to lay His Head. Was not He touched with a fellow-feeling for the lonely boy? Would He not help him to bear his friendless lot as a share of His own Cross? Nay, had He not raised him up friends already in his utmost need? 'There is a Friend Who sticketh closer than a brother.' He was the Friend that Paul need never lose, and in Whom he could still meet his dear Alfred. These thoughts, not quite formed, but something like them, came gently as balm to the poor boy, and though they brought tears even thicker than the first burst of lonely sorrow, they were as peaceful as those shed beside the grave. Though Paul was absent in the body, this was a very different shutting out from Harold's on last Tuesday. Paul must have cried himself to sleep, for he did not hear the funeral- party return, and was first roused by Mrs. King coming up-stairs. He had been so much used to think of this as Alfred's room, that he had never recollected that it was hers; and now that she was come up for a moment's breathing-time, he started up ashamed and shocked at being so caught. But good motherly Mrs. King saw it all, and how he had been weeping where her child had so long rested. Indeed, his face was swelled with crying, and his voice all unsteady. 'Poor lad! poor lad!' she said kindly, 'you were as fond of him as any of them; and if we wanted anything else to make you one of us, that would do it.' 'O Mother,' said Paul, as she kindly put her hand on him, 'I could not bear it--I was so lost--till I looked at _that_,' pointing to the little print. 'Ay,' said Mrs. King, as she wiped her quiet tears, 'that Cross was Alfred's great comfort, and so it is to us all, my boy, whatever way we have to carry it, till we come to where he is gone. No cross, no crown, they say.' Perhaps it was not bad for any one that this forlorn day had given Paul a fresh chill, which kept him in bed for nearly a week, so as gently to break the change from her life of nursing to Mrs. King, and make him very happy and peaceful in her care. And when at last on a warm sunny Sunday, Paul Blackthorn returned thanks in church for his recovery--ay, and for a great deal besides--he had no reason to think that he was a stranger cared for by no one. CHAPTER XIII--SIX YEARS LATER It is a beautiful morning in Easter week. The sun is shining on the gilded weathercock, which flashes every time it veers from south to west; the snowdrops are getting quite out of date, and the buttercups and primroses have it all their own way; the grass is making a start, and getting quite long upon the graves in Friarswood churchyard. 'Really, I should have sent in the Saxon monarch to tidy us up!' says to himself the tall young Rector, as he stepped over the stile with one long stride; 'but I suppose he is better engaged.' That tall young Rector is the Reverend Marcus Cope, six years older, but young still. The poor old Rector, Mr. John Selby, died four years ago abroad; and Lady Jane and Miss Selby's other guardians gave the living to Mr. Cope, to the great joy of all the parish, except the Shepherds, who have never forgiven him for their own usage of their farming boy, nor for the sermon he neither wrote nor preached. The Saxon monarch means one Harold King, who looks after the Rectory garden and horse, as well as the post-office and other small matters. The clerk is unlocking the church, and shaking out the surplice, and Mr. Cope goes into the vestry, takes out two big books covered with green parchment, and sees to the pen. It is a very good one, judging by the writing of the last names in that book. They are Francis Mowbray and Jane Arabella Selby. 'Captain and Mrs. Mowbray will be a great blessing to the place, if they go on as they have begun,' thinks Mr. Cope. 'How happy they are making old Lady Jane, and how much more Mrs. Mowbray goes among the cottages now that she does more as she pleases.' Then Mr. Cope goes to the porch and looks out. He sees two men getting over the stile. One is a small slight person, in very good black clothes, not at all as if they were meant to ape a gentleman, and therefore thoroughly respectable. He has a thin face, rather pointed as to the chin and nose, and the eyes dark and keen, so that it would be over-sharp but that the mouth looks so gentle and subdued, and the whole countenance is grave and thoughtful. You could not feel half so sure that he is a certificated school-master, as you can that his very brisk- looking companion is so. 'Good morning, Mr. Brown.--Good morning, Paul,' said Mr. Cope. 'I did not expect to see you arrive in this way.' The grave face glitters up in a merry look of amusement, while, with a little colouring, he answers: 'Why, Sir, Matilda said it was the proper thing, and so we supposed she knew best.' There are not so many people who _do_ talk of Paul now. Most people know him as Mr. Blackthorn, late school-master at Berryton, where the boys liked him for his bright and gentle yet very firm ways; the parents, for getting their children on, and helping them to be steady; and the clergyman, for being so perfectly to be trusted, so anxious to do right, and, while efficient and well informed, perfectly humble and free from conceit. Now he has just got an appointment to Hazleford school, in another diocese, with a salary of fifty pounds a year; but, as Charles Hayward would tell you, 'he hasn't got one bit of pride, no more than when he lived up in the hay-loft.' There is not long to wait. There is another party getting over the stile. There is a very fine tall youth first. As Betsey Hardman tells her mother, 'she never saw such a one for being fine-growed and stately to look at, since poor Charles King when he wore his best wig.' A very nice open honest face, and as merry a pair of blue eyes as any in the parish, does Harold wear, nearly enough to tell you that, if in these six years it would be too much to say he has never done _anything_ to vex his mother, yet in the main his heart is in the right place--he is a very good son, very tender to her, and steady and right-minded. Whom is he helping over the stile? Oh, that is Mrs. Mowbray's pretty little maid! a very good young thing, whom she has read with and taught; and here, lady-like and delicate-looking as ever, is Matilda. Bridemaids before the bride! that's quite wrong; but the bride has a shy fit, and would not get over first, and Matilda and Harold are, the one encouraging her, the other laughing at her; and Mr. Blackthorn turns very red, and goes down the path to meet her, and she takes his arm, and Harold takes Lucy, and Mr. Brown Miss King. Very nice that bride looks, with her hair so glossy under her straw bonnet trimmed with white, her pretty white shawl, and quiet purple silk dress, her face rather flushed, but quiet-looking, as if she were growing more like her mother, with something of her sense and calmness. How Mr. Blackthorn ever came to ask her that question, nobody can guess, and Harold believes he does not know himself. However, it got an answer two years ago, and Mrs. King gave her consent with all her heart, though she knew Betsey Hardman would talk of picking a husband up out of the gutter, and that my Lady would look severe, and say something of silly girls. Yes--and though the rich widower bailiff had said sundry civil things of Miss Ellen being well brought up and notable--'For,' as Mrs. King wrote to Matilda, 'I had rather see Ellen married to a good religious man than to any one, and I do not know one I can be so sure of as Paul, nor one that is so like a son to me; and if he has no friends belonging to him, that is better than bad friends.' And Ellen herself, from looking on him as a mere boy, as she had done at their first acquaintance, had come to thinking no one ever had been so wise or so clever, far less so good, certainly not so fond of her--so her answer was no great wonder. Then they were to be prudent, and wait for some dependence; and so they did till Mr. Shaw recommended Paul Blackthorn for Hazleford school, where there is a beautiful new house for the master, so that he will have no longer to live in lodgings, and be 'done for,' as the saying is. Harold tells Ellen that he is afraid that without her he won't wash above once in four months; but however that may be, she is convinced that the new school-house will be lost on him, and that in spite of all his fine arithmetic, his fifty pounds will never go so far for one as for two; and so she did not turn a deaf ear to his entreaties that she would not send him alone to Hazleford. They wanted very much to get 'Mother' to come and live with them, give up the post-office, and let Harold live in Mr. Cope's house; but Mother has a certain notion that Harold's stately looks and perfect health might not last, if she were not always on the watch to put him into dry clothes if he comes in damp, and such like 'little fidgets,' as he calls them, which he would not attend to from any one but Mother. So she will keep on the shop and the post-office, and try to break in that uncouth girl of John Farden's to be a tidy little maid; and Mr. and Mrs. Blackthorn will spend their holidays with her and Harold. She may come to them yet in time, if, as Paul predicts, Master Harold takes up with Lucy at the Grange--but there's time enough to think of that; and even if he should, it would take many years to make Lucy into such a Mrs. King as she who is now very busy over the dinner at home, but thinking about a good deal besides the dinner. There! Paul and Ellen have stood and knelt in an earnest reverent spirit, making their vows to one another and before God, and His blessing has been spoken upon them to keep them all their lives through. It is with a good heart of hope that Mr. Cope speaks that blessing, knowing that, as far as human eye can judge, here stands a man who truly feareth the Lord, and beside him a woman with the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit. They are leaving the church now, the bridegroom and his bride, arm in arm, but they turn from the path to the wicket, and Harold will not let even Matilda follow them. Just by the south wall of the church there are three graves, one a very long one, one quite short, one of middle length. The large one has a head-stone, with the names of Charles King, aged forty years, and Charles King, aged seven years. The middle-sized one has a stone cross, and below it 'Alfred King, aged sixteen years,' and the words, 'In all their afflictions He was afflicted.' It was Matilda who paid the cost of that stone, Miss Selby who drew the pattern of it, and 'Mother' who chose the words, as what Alfred himself loved best. At the bottom of Ellen's best work-box is a copy of verses about that very cross. She thinks they ought to have been carved out upon it, but Paul knows a great deal better, so all she could do was to write them out on a sheet of note-paper with a wide lace border, and keep them as her greatest treasure. Perhaps she prizes them even more than the handsome watch that Mr. Shaw gave Paul, though less, of course, than the great Bible and Prayer-book, in which Mr. Cope has waited till this morning to write the names of Paul and Ellen Blackthorn. So they stand beside the cross, and read the words, and they neither of them can say anything, though the white sweet face is before the eyes of their mind at the same time, and Ellen thinks she loves Paul twice as much for having been one of his great comforts. 'Good-bye, Alfred dear,' she whispers at last. 'No, not good-bye,' says Paul. 'He is as much with us as ever, wherever we are. Remember how we were together, Ellen. I have always thought of him at every Holy Communion since, and have felt that if till now, no one living--at least one at rest, were mine by right.' Ellen pressed his arm. 'Yes,' said Paul; 'the months I spent with Alfred were the great help and blessing of my life. I don't believe any recollection has so assisted to guard me in all the frets and temptations there are in a life like mine.' 
52782	----	[Illustration: MR. COON INSISTED ON GADDING ABOUT. (Page 46)] Aaron in the Wildwoods BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS AUTHOR OF "UNCLE REMUS," ETC. _ILLUSTRATED BY OLIVER HERFORD_ [Illustration] BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1897 COPYRIGHT, 1897 BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS AND HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CONTENTS. PAGE PRELUDE 1 I. THE LITTLE MASTER 23 II. THE SECRETS OF THE SWAMP 38 III. WHAT CHUNKY RILEY SAW AND HEARD 56 IV. BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND DAWN 74 V. THE HUNT BEGINS 92 VI. THE HUNT ENDS 111 VII. AARON SEES THE SIGNAL 129 VIII. THE HAPPENINGS OF A NIGHT 148 IX. THE UPSETTING OF MR. GOSSETT 166 X. CHUNKY RILEY SEES A QUEER SIGHT 185 XI. THE PROBLEM THAT TIMOLEON PRESENTED 202 XII. WHAT THE PATROLLERS SAW AND HEARD 219 XIII. THE APPARITION THE FOX HUNTERS SAW 237 XIV. THE LITTLE MASTER SAYS GOOD NIGHT 253 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE MR. COON INSISTED ON GADDING ABOUT _Frontispiece_. IT WAS A SWAMP 8 THAT'S RANDALL'S SONG 32 MR. RED FOX MEETS MR. GRAY FOX 40 A-STRADDLE OF THE GRUNTER'S BACK 48 THE HORSES WERE RIGHT AT HIS HEELS 72 THE GOBLIN PAIN 76 THE SPRING OF COOL REFRESHING WATER 80 BRINDLE AND AARON 104 IN THE SWAMP 124 RAMBLER'S FIGHT WITH THE MOCCASIN 132 HE STOOD AS STILL AS A STATUE 144 IT WAS THE WHITE-HAIRED MASTER 160 THEY TORE HIM ALL TO FLINDERS 172 THE EXCITED HORSE PLUNGED ALONG 180 HE EDGED AWAY AS FAR AS HE COULD 188 AARON AND LITTLE CROTCHET 212 BEHIND A TREE STOOD GEORGE GOSSETT 216 THE BLACK STALLION 224 IT WAS FINE FOR MR. FOX 238 THE PHANTOM HORSEMAN 242 AARON AND TIMOLEON 250 BIG SAL HOLDS THE LITTLE MASTER 262 THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE MASTER 268 AARON IN THE WILDWOODS. PRELUDE. I. Once upon a time there lived on a large plantation in Middle Georgia a boy who was known as Little Crotchet. It was a very queer name, to be sure, but it seemed to fit the lad to a T. When he was a wee bit of a chap he fell seriously ill, and when, many weeks afterwards, the doctors said the worst was over, it was found that he had lost the use of his legs, and that he would never be able to run about and play as other children do. When he was told about this he laughed, and said he had known all along that he would never be able to run about on his feet again; but he had plans of his own, and he told his father that he wanted a pair of crutches made. "But you can't use them, my son," said his father. "Anyhow, I can try," insisted the lad. The doctors were told of his desire, and these wise men put their heads together. "It is a crotchet," they declared, "but it will be no harm for him to try." "It is a little crotchet," said his mother, "and he shall have the crutches." Thus it came about that the lad got both his name and his crutches, for his father insisted on calling him Little Crotchet after that, and he also insisted on sending all the way to Philadelphia for the crutches. They seemed to be a long time in coming, for in those days they had to be brought to Charleston in a sailing vessel, and then sent by way of Augusta in a stage-coach; but when they came they were very welcome, for Little Crotchet had been inquiring for them every day in the week, and Sunday too. And yet when they came, strange to say, he seemed to have lost his interest in them. His mother brought them in joyously, but there was not even a glad smile on the lad's face. He looked at them gravely, weighed them in his hands, laid them across the foot of the bed, and then turned his head on his pillow, as if he wanted to go to sleep. His mother was surprised, and not a little hurt, as mothers will be when they do not understand their children; but she respected his wishes, darkened the room, kissed her boy, and closed the door gently. When everything was still, Little Crotchet sat up in bed, seized his crutches, and proceeded to try them. He did this every day for a week, and at the end of that time surprised everybody in the house, and on the place as well, by marching out on his crutches, and going from room to room without so much as touching his feet to the floor. It seemed to be a most wonderful feat to perform, and so it was; but Providence, in depriving the lad of the use of his legs, had correspondingly strengthened the muscles of his chest and arms, so that within a month he could use his crutches almost as nimbly and quite as safely as other boys use their feet. He could go upstairs and downstairs and walk about the place with as much ease, apparently, as those not afflicted, and it was not strange that the negroes regarded the performance with wonder akin to awe, declaring among themselves that their young master was upheld and supported by "de sperits." And indeed it was a queer sight to see the frail lad going boldly about on crutches, his feet not touching the ground. The sight seemed to make the pet name of Little Crotchet more appropriate than ever. So his name stuck to him, even after he got his Gray Pony, and became a familiar figure in town and in country, as he went galloping about, his crutches strapped to the saddle, and dangling as gayly as the sword of some fine general. Thus it came to pass that no one was surprised when Little Crotchet went cantering along, his Gray Pony snorting fiercely, and seeming never to tire. Early or late, whenever the neighbors heard the short, sharp snort of the Gray Pony and the rattling of the crutches, they would turn to one another and say, "Little Crotchet!" and that would be explanation enough. There seemed to be some sort of understanding between him and his Gray Pony. Anybody could ride the Gray Pony in the pasture or in the grove around the house, but when it came to going out by the big gate, that was another matter. He could neither be led nor driven beyond that boundary by any one except Little Crotchet. It was the same when it came to crossing water. The Gray Pony would not cross over the smallest running brook for any one but Little Crotchet; but with the lad on his back he would plunge into the deepest stream, and, if need be, swim across it. All this deepened and confirmed in the minds of the negroes the idea that Little Crotchet was upheld and protected by "de sperits." They had heard him talking to the Gray Pony, and they had heard the Gray Pony whinny in reply. They had seen the Gray Pony with their little master on his back go gladly out at the big gate and rush with a snort through the plantation creek,--a bold and at times a dangerous stream. Seeing these things, and knowing the temper of the pony, they had no trouble in coming to the conclusion that something supernatural was behind it all. II. Thus it happened that Little Crotchet and his Gray Pony were pretty well known through all the country-side, for it seemed that he was never tired of riding, and that the pony was never tired of going. What was the rider's errand? Nobody knew. Why should he go skimming along the red road at day dawn? And why should he come whirling back at dusk,--a red cloud of dust rising beneath the Gray Pony's feet? Nobody could tell. This was almost as much of a puzzle to some of the whites as it was to the negroes; but this mystery, if it could be called such, was soon eclipsed by a phenomenon that worried some of the wisest dwellers in that region. This phenomenon, apparently very simple, began to manifest itself in early fall, and continued all through that season and during the winter and on through the spring, until warm weather set in. It was in the shape of a thin column of blue smoke that could be seen on any clear morning or late afternoon rising from the centre of Spivey's Canebrake. This place was called a canebrake because a thick, almost impenetrable, growth of canes fringed the edge of a mile-wide basin lying between the bluffs of the Oconee River and the uplands beyond. Instead of being a canebrake it was a vast swamp, the site of cool but apparently stagnant ponds and of treacherous quagmires, in which cows, and even horses, had been known to disappear and perish. The cowitch grew there, and the yellow plumes of the poison-oak vine glittered like small torches. There, too, the thunder-wood tree exuded its poisonous milk, and long serpent-like vines wound themselves around and through the trees, and helped to shut out the sunlight. It was a swamp, and a very dismal one. The night birds gathered there to sleep during the day, and all sorts of creatures that shunned the sunlight or hated man found a refuge there. If the negroes had made paths through its recesses to enable them to avoid the patrol, nobody knew it but themselves. Why, then, should a thin but steady stream of blue smoke be constantly rising upwards from the centre of Spivey's Canebrake? It was a mystery to those who first discovered it, and it soon grew to be a neighborhood mystery. During the summer the smoke could not be seen, but in the fall and winter its small thin volume went curling upward continually. Little Crotchet often watched it from the brow of Turner's Hill, the highest part of the uplands. Early in the morning or late in the afternoon the vapor would rise from the Oconee; but the vapor was white and heavy, and was blown about by the wind, while the smoke in the swamp was blue and thin, and rose straight in the air above the tops of the trees in spite of the wayward winds. Once when Little Crotchet was sitting on his pony watching the blue smoke rise from the swamp he saw two of the neighbor farmers coming along the highway. They stopped and shook hands with the lad, and then turned to watch the thin stream of blue smoke. The morning was clear and still, and the smoke rose straight in the air, until it seemed to mingle with the upper blue. The two farmers were father and son,--Jonathan Gadsby and his son Ben. They were both very well acquainted with Little Crotchet,--as, indeed, everybody in the county was,--and he was so bright and queer that they stood somewhat in awe of him. "I reckin if I had a pony that wasn't afeard of nothin' I'd go right straight and find out where that fire is, and what it is," remarked Ben Gadsby. This stirred his father's ire apparently. "Why, Benjamin! Why, what on the face of the earth do you mean? Ride into that swamp! Why, you must have lost what little sense you had when you was born! I remember, jest as well as if it was day before yesterday, when Uncle Jimmy Cosby's red steer got in that swamp, and we couldn't git him out. Git him out, did I say? We couldn't even git nigh him. We could hear him beller, but we never got where we could see ha'r nor hide of him. If I was thirty year younger I'd take my foot in my hand and wade in there and see where the smoke comes from." [Illustration: IT WAS A SWAMP] Little Crotchet laughed. "If I had two good legs," said he, "I'd soon see what the trouble is." This awoke Ben Gadsby's ambition. "I believe I'll go in there and see where the fire is." "Fire!" exclaimed old Mr. Gadsby, with some irritation. "Who said anything about fire? What living and moving creetur could build a fire in that thicket? I'd like mighty well to lay my eyes on him." "Well," said Ben Gadsby, "where you see smoke there's obliged to be fire. I've heard you say that yourself." "Me?" exclaimed Mr. Jonathan Gadsby, with a show of alarm in the midst of his indignation. "Did I say that? Well, it was when I wasn't so much as thinking that my two eyes were my own. What about foxfire? Suppose that some quagmire or other in that there swamp has gone and got up a ruction on its own hook? Smoke without fire? Why, I've seed it many a time. And maybe that smoke comes from an eruption in the ground. What then? Who's going to know where the fire is?" Little Crotchet laughed, but Ben Gadsby put on a very bold front. "Well," said he, "I can find bee-trees, and I'll find where that fire is." "Well, sir," remarked Mr. Jonathan Gadsby, looking at his son with an air of pride, "find out where the smoke comes from, and we'll not expect you to see the fire." "I wish I could go with you," said Little Crotchet. "I don't need any company," replied Ben Gadsby. "I've done made up my mind, and I a-going to show the folks around here that where there's so much smoke there's obliged to be some fire." The young man, knowing that he had some warm work before him, pulled off his coat, and tied the sleeves over his shoulder, sash fashion. Then he waved his hand to his father and to Little Crotchet, and went rapidly down the hill. He had undertaken the adventure in a spirit of bravado. He knew that a number of the neighbors had tried to solve the mystery of the smoke in the swamp and had failed. He thought, too, that he would fail; and yet he was urged on by the belief that if he should happen to succeed, all the boys and all the girls in the neighborhood would regard him as a wonderful young man. He had the same ambition that animated the knight of old, but on a smaller scale. III. Now it chanced that Little Crotchet himself was on his way to the smoke in the swamp. He had been watching it, and wondering whether he should go to it by the path he knew, or whether he should go by the road that Aaron, the runaway, had told him of. Ben Gadsby interfered with his plans somewhat; for quite by accident, young Gadsby as he went down the hill struck into the path that Little Crotchet knew. There was a chance to gallop along the brow of the hill, turn to the left, plunge through a shallow lagoon, and strike into the path ahead of Gadsby, and this chance Little Crotchet took. He waved his hand to Mr. Jonathan Gadsby, gave the Gray Pony the rein, and went galloping through the underbrush, his crutches rattling, and the rings of the bridle-bit jingling. To Mr. Jonathan Gadsby it seemed that the lad was riding recklessly, and he groaned and shook his head as he turned and went on his way. But Little Crotchet rode on. Turning sharply to the left as soon as he got out of sight, he went plunging through the lagoon, and was soon going along the blind path a quarter of a mile ahead of Ben Gadsby. This is why young Gadsby was so much disturbed that he lost his way. He was bold enough when he started out, but by the time he had descended the hill and struck into what he thought was a cattle-path his courage began to fail him. The tall canes seemed to bend above him in a threatening manner. The silence oppressed him. Everything was so still that the echo of his own movements as he brushed along the narrow path seemed to develop into ominous whispers, as if all the goblins he had ever heard of had congregated in front of him to bar his way. The silence, with its strange echoes, was bad enough, but when he heard the snorting of Little Crotchet's Gray Pony as it plunged through the lagoon, the rattle of the crutches and the jingling of the bridle-bit, he fell into a panic. What great beast could it be that went helter-skelter through this dark and silent swamp, swimming through the water and tearing through the quagmires? And yet, when Ben Gadsby would have turned back, the rank undergrowth and the trailing vines had quite obscured the track. The fear that impelled him to retrace his steps was equally powerful in impelling him to go forward. And this seemed the easiest plan. He felt that it would be just as safe to go on, having once made the venture, as to turn back. He had a presentiment that he would never find his way out anyhow, and the panic he was in nerved him to the point of desperation. So on he went, not always trying to follow the path, but plunging forward aimlessly. In half an hour he was calmer, and pretty soon he found the ground firm under his feet. His instincts as a bee-hunter came back to him. He had started in from the east side, and he paused to take his bearings. But it was hard to see the sun, and in the recesses of the swamp the mosses grew on all sides of the trees. And yet there was a difference, which Ben Gadsby did not fail to discover and take account of. They grew thicker and larger on the north side, and remembering this, he went forward with more confidence. He found that the middle of the swamp was comparatively dry. Huge poplar-trees stood ranged about, the largest he had ever seen. In the midst of a group of trees he found one that was hollow, and in this hollow he found the smouldering embers of a fire. But for the strange silence that surrounded him he would have given a whoop of triumph; but he restrained himself. Bee-hunter that he was, he took his coat from his shoulders and tied it around a small slim sapling standing near the big poplar where he had found the fire. It was his way when he found a bee-tree. It was a sort of guide. In returning he would take the general direction, and then hunt about until he found his coat; and it was much easier to find a tree tagged with a coat than it was to find one not similarly marked. Thus, instead of whooping triumphantly, Ben Gadsby simply tied his coat about the nearest sapling, nodding his head significantly as he did so. He had unearthed the secret and unraveled the mystery, and now he would go and call in such of the neighbors as were near at hand and show them what a simple thing the great mystery was. He knew that he had found the hiding-place of Aaron, the runaway. So he fixed his "landmark," and started out of the swamp with a lighter heart than he had when he came in. To make sure of his latitude and longitude, he turned in his tracks when he had gone a little distance and looked for the tree on which he had tied his coat. But it was not to be seen. He re-traced his steps, trying to find his coat. Looking about him cautiously, he saw the garment after a while, but it was in an entirely different direction from what he supposed it would be. It was tied to a sapling, and the sapling was near a big poplar. To satisfy himself, he returned to make a closer examination. Sure enough, there was the coat, but the poplar close by was not a hollow poplar, nor was it as large as the tree in which Ben Gadsby had found the smouldering embers of a fire. He sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and scratched his head, and discussed the matter in his mind the best he could. Finally he concluded that it would be a very easy matter, after he found his coat again, to find the hollow poplar. So he started home again. But he had not gone far when he turned around to take another view of his coat. It had disappeared. Ben Gadsby looked carefully around, and then a feeling of terror crept over his whole body--a feeling that nearly paralyzed his limbs. He tried to overcome this feeling, and did so to a certain degree. He plucked up sufficient courage to return and try to find his coat; but the task was indeed bewildering. He thought he had never seen so many large poplars with small slim saplings standing near them, and then he began to wander around almost aimlessly. IV. Suddenly he heard a scream that almost paralyzed him--a scream that was followed by the sound of a struggle going on in the thick undergrowth close at hand. He could see the muddy water splash above the bushes, and he could hear fierce growlings and gruntings. Before he could make up his mind what to do, a gigantic mulatto, with torn clothes and staring eyes, rushed out of the swamp and came rushing by, closely pursued by a big white boar with open mouth and fierce cries. The white boar was right at the mulatto's heels, and his yellow tusks gleamed viciously as he ran with open mouth. Pursuer and pursued disappeared in the bushes with a splash and a crash, and then all was as still as before. In fact, the silence seemed profounder for this uncanny and appalling disturbance. It was so unnatural that half a minute after it happened Ben Gadsby was not certain whether it had occurred at all. He was a pretty bold youth, having been used to the woods and fields all his life, but he had now beheld a spectacle so out of the ordinary, and of so startling a character, that he made haste to get out of the swamp as fast as his legs, weakened by fear, would carry him. More than once, as he made his way out of the swamp, he paused to listen; and it seemed that each time he paused an owl, or some other bird of noiseless wing, made a sudden swoop at his head. Beyond the exclamation he made when this happened the silence was unbroken. This experience was unusual enough to hasten his steps, even if he had had no other motive for haste. When nearly out of the swamp, he came upon a large poplar, by the side of which a small slim sapling was growing. Tied around this sapling was his coat, which he thought he had left in the middle of the swamp. The sight almost took his breath away. He examined the coat carefully, and found that the sleeves were tied around the tree just as he had tied them. He felt in the pockets. Everything was just as he had left it. He examined the poplar; it was hollow, and in the hollow was a pile of ashes. "Well!" exclaimed Ben Gadsby. "I'm the biggest fool that ever walked the earth. If I ain't been asleep and dreamed all this, I'm crazy; and if I've been asleep, I'm a fool." His experience had been so queer and so confusing that he promised himself he'd never tell it where any of the older people could hear it, for he knew that they would not only treat his tale with scorn and contempt, but would make him the butt of ridicule among the younger folks. "I know exactly what they'd say," he remarked to himself. "They'd declare that a skeer'd hog run across my path, and that I was skeer'der than the hog." So Ben Gadsby took his coat from the sapling, and went trudging along his way toward the big road. When he reached that point he turned and looked toward the swamp. Much to his surprise, the stream of blue smoke was still flowing upward. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but there was the smoke. His surprise was still greater when he saw Little Crotchet and the Gray Pony come ambling up the hill in the path he had just come over. "What did you find?" asked Little Crotchet, as he reined in the Gray Pony. "Nothing--nothing at all," replied Ben Gadsby, determined not to commit himself. "Nothing?" cried Little Crotchet. "Well, you ought to have been with me! Why, I saw sights! The birds flew in my face, and when I got in the middle of the swamp a big white hog came rushing out, and if this Gray Pony hadn't been the nimblest of his kind, you'd never have seen me any more." "Is that so?" asked Ben Gadsby, in a dazed way. "Well, I declare! 'Twas all quiet with me. I just went in and come out again, and that's all there is to it." "I wish I'd been with you," said Little Crotchet, with a curious laugh. "Good-by!" With that he wheeled the Gray Pony and rode off home. Ben Gadsby watched Little Crotchet out of sight, and then, with a gesture of despair, surprise, or indignation, flung his coat on the ground, crying, "Well, by jing!" V. That night there was so much laughter in the top story of the Abercrombie house that the Colonel himself came to the foot of the stairs and called out to know what the matter was. "It's nobody but me," replied Little Crotchet. "I was just laughing." Colonel Abercrombie paused, as if waiting for some further explanation, but hearing none, said, "Good-night, my son, and God bless you!" "Good-night, father dear," exclaimed the lad, flinging a kiss at the shadow his father's candle flung on the wall. Then he turned again into his own room, where Aaron the Arab (son of Ben Ali) sat leaning against the wall, as silent and as impassive as a block of tawny marble. Little Crotchet lay back in his bed, and the two were silent for a time. Finally Aaron said:-- "The White Grunter carried his play too far. He nipped a piece from my leg." "I never saw anything like it," remarked little Crotchet. "I thought the White Pig was angry. You did that to frighten Ben Gadsby." "Yes, Little Master," responded Aaron, "and I'm thinking the young man will never hunt for the smoke in the swamp any more." Little Crotchet laughed again, as he remembered how Ben Gadsby looked as Aaron and the White Pig went careening across the dry place in the swamp. There was a silence again, and then Aaron said he must be going. "And when are you going home to your master?" Little Crotchet asked. "Never!" replied Aaron the runaway, with emphasis. "Never! He is no master of mine. He is a bad man." Then he undressed Little Crotchet, tucked the cover about him,--for the nights were growing chill,--whispered good-night, and slipped from the window, letting down the sash gently as he went out. If any one had been watching, he would have seen the tall Arab steal along the roof until he came to the limb of an oak that touched the eaves. Along this he went nimbly, glided down the trunk to the ground, and disappeared in the darkness. I. THE LITTLE MASTER. If you imagine that the book called "The Story of Aaron (so-named), the Son of Ben Ali" tells all the adventures of the Arab while he was a fugitive in the wildwoods, you are very much mistaken. If you will go back to that book you will see that Timoleon the black stallion, Grunter the white pig, Gristle the gray pony, and Rambler the track dog, told only what they were asked to tell. And they were not anxious to tell even that. They would much rather have been left alone. What they did tell they told without any flourishes whatever, for they wanted to get through and be done with it. Story-telling was not in their line, and they knew it very well; so they said what they had to say and that was the end of it so far as they were concerned: setting a worthy example to men and women, and to children, too. It is natural, therefore, that a man such as Aaron was, full of courage and valuable to the man who had bought him from the speculator, should have many adventures that the animals knew nothing of, or, if they knew, had no occasion to relate. In the book you will find that Buster John and Sweetest Susan asked only about such things as they heard of incidentally. But some of the most interesting things were never mentioned by Aaron at all; consequently the children never asked about them. Little Crotchet, it will be remembered, who knew more about the matter than anybody except Aaron, was dead, and so there was nobody to give the children any hint or cue as to the questions they were to ask. You will say they had Aaron close at hand. That is true, but Aaron was busy, and besides that he was not fond of talking, especially about himself. And yet, the most of the adventures Aaron had in the wildwoods were no secret. They were well known to the people in the neighborhood, and for miles around. In fact, they were made the subject of a great deal of talk in Little Crotchet's day, and many men (and women too) who were old enough to be wise shook their heads over some of the events and declared that they had never heard of anything more mysterious. And it so happened that this idea of mystery deepened and grew until it made a very romantic figure of Aaron, and was a great help to him, not only when he was a fugitive in the wildwoods, but afterwards when he "settled down," as the saying is, and turned his attention to looking after affairs on the Abercrombie plantation. All this happened before Buster John and Sweetest Susan were born, while their mother was a girl in her teens. When Little Crotchet was alive things on the Abercrombie plantation were very different from what they were before or afterward. It is true the lad was a cripple and had to go on crutches, except when he was riding Gristle, the Gray Pony. But he was very active and nimble, and very restless, too, for he was here, there, and everywhere. More than that, he was always in a good humor, always cheerful, and most of the time laughing at his own thoughts or at something he had heard. For it was well understood on that plantation, and, indeed, wherever little Crotchet was familiarly known, that, as he was something of an invalid, and such a little bit of a fellow to boot, nothing unpleasant was to come to his ears. If he found out about trouble anywhere he was to find it out for himself, and without help from anybody else. But although little Crotchet was small and crippled, he had a very wise head on his shoulders. One of the first things he found out was that everybody was in a conspiracy to prevent unpleasant things from coming to his ears, and the idea that he was to be humbugged in this way made him laugh, it was so funny. He said to himself that if he could have troubles while everybody was trying to help him along and make life pleasant for him, surely other people who had nobody to look out for them must have much larger troubles. And he found it to be true, although he never said much about it. The truth is that while people thought they were humbugging little Crotchet, he was humbugging everybody except a few who knew what a shrewd little chap he was. These few had found out that little Crotchet knew a great deal more about the troubles that visit the unfortunate in this world than anybody knew about his troubles--and he had many. It was very peculiar. He would go galloping about the plantation on the Gray Pony, and no matter where he stopped there was always a negro ready to let down the bars or the fence. How could this be? Why, it was the simplest matter in the world. It made no difference where the field hands were working, nor what they were doing, they were always watching for their Little Master, as they called him. They were sure to know when he was coming--sure to see him; and no matter how high the fence was, down it would come whenever the Gray Pony was brought to a standstill. It was a sight to see the hoe hands or the plow hands when their Little Master went riding among them. It was hats off and "howdy, honey," with all, and that was something the White-Haired Master never saw unless he was riding with Little Crotchet, which sometimes happened. Once the White-Haired Master said to Little Crotchet, "They all love you because you are good, my son." But Little Crotchet was quick to reply:-- "Oh, no, father; it isn't that. It's because I am fond of them!" Now, wasn't he wise for his age? He had stumbled upon the great secret that makes all the happiness there is in this world. The negroes loved him because he was fond of them. He used to sit on the Gray Pony and watch the hands hoeing and plowing; and although they did their best when he was around, he never failed to find out the tired ones and send them on little errands that would rest them. To one it was "Get me a keen switch." To another, "See if you can find me any flowers." One of the worst negroes on the plantation was Big Sal, a mulatto woman. She had a tongue and a temper that nothing could conquer. Once Little Crotchet, sitting on the Gray Pony, saw her hoeing away with a rag tied around her forehead under her head handkerchief. So he called her out of the gang, and she came with no very good grace, and only then because some of the other negroes shamed her into it. No doubt Little Crotchet heard her disputing with them, but he paid no attention to it. When Big Sal came up, he simply said:-- "Help me off the horse. I have a headache sometimes, and I feel it coming on now. I want you to sit here and rub my head for me if you are not too tired." "What wid?" cried big Sal. "My han's too dirty." "You get the headache out, and I'll get the dirt off," said Little Crotchet, laughing. Big Sal laughed too, cleaned her hands the best she could, and rubbed the youngster's head for him, while the Gray Pony nibbled the crabgrass growing near. But presently, when Little Crotchet opened his eyes, he found that Big Sal was crying. She was making no fuss about it, but as she sat with the child's head in her lap the tears were streaming down her face like water. "What are you crying about?" Little Crotchet asked. "God A'mighty knows, honey. I'm des a-cryin', an' ef de angels fum heav'm wuz ter come down an' ax me, I couldn't tell um no mo' dan dat." This was true enough. The lonely heart had been touched without knowing why. But Little Crotchet knew. "I reckon it's because you had the headache," he said. "I speck so," answered Big Sal. "It looked like my head'd bust when you hollered at me, but de pain all done gone now." "I'm glad," replied Little Crotchet. "I hope my head will quit aching presently. Sometimes it aches all night long." "Well, suh!" exclaimed Big Sal. It was all she could say. Finally, when she had lifted Little Crotchet to his saddle (which was easy enough to do, he was so small and frail) and returned, Uncle Turin, foreman of the hoe hands, remarked:-- "You'll be feelin' mighty biggity now, I speck." "Who? Me?" cried Big Sal. "God knows, I feel so little an' mean I could t'ar my ha'r out by de han'ful." Uncle Turin, simple and kindly old soul, never knew then nor later what Big Sal meant, but ever afterwards, whenever the woman had one of her tantrums, she went straight to her Little Master, and if she sometimes came away from him crying it was not his fault. If she was crying it was because she was comforted, and it all seemed so simple and natural to her that she never failed to express a deep desire to tear her hair out if anybody asked her where she had been or where she was going. It was not such an easy matter to reach the plow hands. The fields were wide and the furrows were long on that plantation, and some of the mules were nimbler than the others, and some of the hands were quicker. So that it rarely happened that they all came down the furrows abreast. But what difference did that make? Let them come one by one, or two by two, or twenty abreast, it was all the same when the Little Master was in sight. It was hats off and "howdy," with "Gee, Beck!" and "Haw, Rhody!" and "Whar you been, Little Marster, dat we ain't seed you sence day 'fo' yistiddy?" And so until they had all saluted the child on the Gray Pony. And why did Susy's Sam hang back and want to turn his mule around before he had finished the furrow? It was easy to see. Susy's Sam, though he was the most expert plowman in the gang, had only one good hand, the other being a mere stump, and he disliked to be singled out from the rest on that account. But it was useless for him to hang back. Little Crotchet always called for Susy's Sam. Sometimes Sam would say that his mule was frisky and wouldn't stand. But the word would come, "Well, drive the mule out in the bushes," and then Susy's Sam would have a long resting spell that did him good, and there would be nobody to complain. And so it was with the rest. Whoever was sick or tired was sure to catch the Little Master's eye. How did he know? Well, don't ask too many questions about that. You might ask how the Gray Pony knew the poison vines and grasses. It was a case of just knowing, without knowing where the knowledge came from. But it was not only the plow hands and the hoe hands that Little Crotchet knew about. At the close of summer there were the cotton pickers and the reapers to be looked after. In fact, this was Little Crotchet's busiest time, for many of the negro children were set to picking cotton, and the lad felt called on to look after these more carefully than he looked after the grown hands. Many a time he had half a dozen holding the Gray Pony at once. This made the older negroes shake their heads, and say that the Little Master was spoiling the children, but you may be sure that they thought none the less of him on that account. [Illustration: THAT'S RANDALL'S SONG] And then there were the reapers, the men who cut the oats and the wheat, and the binders that followed after. At the head of the reapers was Randall, tall, black, and powerful. It was fun to see the blade of his cradle flashing in the sun, and hear it swing with a swish through the golden grain. He led the reapers always by many yards, but when he was making the pace too hot for them he had a way of stopping to sharpen his scythe and starting up a song which spread from mouth to mouth until it could be heard for miles. Aaron, hiding in the wildwoods, could hear it, and at such times he would turn to one of his companions--the White Pig, or Rambler, or that gay joker, the Fox Squirrel--and say: "That's Randall's song. He sees the Little Master coming." The White Pig would grunt, and Rambler would say he'd rather hear a horn; but the Red Squirrel would chatter like mad and declare that he lost one of his ears by sitting on a limb of the live oak and singing when he saw a man coming. But the reapers knew nothing about the experience of the Fox Squirrel, and so they went on singing whenever Randall gave the word. And Little Crotchet was glad to hear them, for he used to sit on the Gray Pony and listen, sometimes feeling happy, and at other times feeling lonely indeed. It may have been the quaint melody that gave him a lonely feeling, or it may have been his sympathy for those who suffer the pains of disease or the pangs of trouble. The negroes used to watch him as they sang and worked, and say in the pauses of their song:-- "Little marster mighty funny!" That was the word,--"funny,"--and yet it had a deeper meaning for the negroes than the white people ever gave it. Funny!--when the lad leaned his pale cheek on the frail hand, and allowed his thoughts (were they thoughts or fleeting aspirations or momentary longings?) to follow the swift, sweet echoes of the song. For the echoes had a thousand nimble feet, and with these they fled away, away,--away beyond the river and its bordering hills; for the echoes had twangling wings, like those of a turtle-dove, and on these they lifted themselves heavenward, and floated above the world, and above the toil and trouble and sorrow and pain that dwell therein. Funny!--when the voice of some singer, sweeter and more powerful than the rest, rose suddenly from the pauses of the song, and gave words, as it seemed, to all the suffering that the Little Master had ever known. Aye! so funny that at such times Little Crotchet would suddenly wave his hand to the singing reapers, and turn the Gray Pony's head toward the river. Was he following the rolling echoes? He could never hope to overtake them. Once when this happened Uncle Fountain stopped singing to say:-- "I wish I wuz a runaway nigger!" "No, you don't!" exclaimed Randall. "Yes, I does," Uncle Fountain insisted. "How come?" "Kaze den I'd have little Marster runnin' atter me ev'y chance he got." "Go 'way, nigger man! You'd have Jim Simmons's nigger dogs atter you, an' den what'd you do?" "Dat ar Aaron had um atter 'im, an' what'd he do?" "De Lord, He knows,--I don't! But don't you git de consate in yo' min' dat you kin do what Aaron done done, kaze you'll fool yo'se'f, sho!" "What Aaron done done?" Fountain was persistent. "He done fool dem ar nigger dogs; dat what he done done." "Den how come I can't fool dem ar dogs?" "How come? Well, you des try um one time, mo' speshully dat ar col'-nose dog, which he name Soun'." "Well, I ain't bleege ter try it when de white folks treat me right," remarked Uncle Fountain, after thinking the matter over. "Dat what make I say what I does," asserted Randall. "When you know 'zactly what you got, an' when you got mighty nigh what you want, dat's de time ter lay low an' say nothin'. Hit's some trouble ter git de corn off'n de cob, but spozen dey want no corn on de cob, what den?" "Honey, ain't it de trufe?" exclaimed Uncle Fountain. Thus the negroes talked. They knew a great deal more about Aaron than the white people did, but even the negroes didn't know as much as the Little Master, and for a very good reason. They had no time to find out things, except at night, and at night--well, you may believe it or not, just as you please, but at night the door of the Swamp was closed and locked--locked hard and fast. The owls, the night hawks, the whippoorwills, and the chuck-will's widows could fly over. Yes, and the Willis Whistlers could creep through or crawl under when they returned home from their wild serenades. But everything else--even that red joker, the Fox Squirrel--must have a key. Aaron had one, and the White Grunter, and Rambler, and all the four-footed creatures that walk on horn sandals or in velvet slippers each had a key. The Little Master might have had one for the asking, but always when night came he was glad to lie on his sofa and read, or, better still, go to bed and sleep, so that he never had the need of a key to open the door of the Swamp after it was closed and locked at night. II. THE SECRETS OF THE SWAMP. However hard and fast the door of the Swamp may be locked at night, however tightly it may be shut, it opens quickly enough to whomsoever carries the key. There is no creaking of its vast and heavy hinges; there is not the faintest flutter of a leaf, nor the softest whisper of a blade of grass. That is the bargain the bearer of the key must make:-- _That which sleeps, disturb not its slumber. That which moves, let it swiftly pass._ Else the Swamp will never reveal itself. The sound of one alien footfall is enough. It is the signal for each secret to hide itself, and for all the mysteries to vanish into mystery. The Swamp calls them all in, covers them as with a mantle, and puts on its every-day disguise,--the disguise that the eyes of few mortals have ever penetrated. But those who stand by the bargain that all key-bearers must make--whether they go on two legs or on four, whether they fly or crawl or creep or swim--find the Swamp more friendly. There is no disguise anywhere. The secrets come swarming forth from all possible or impossible places; and the mysteries, led by their torch-bearer Jack-o'-the-Lantern, glide through the tall canes and move about among the tall trees. The unfathomable blackness of night never sets foot here. It is an alien and is shut out. And this is one of the mysteries. If, when the door of the Swamp is opened to a key-bearer the black night seems to have crept in, wait a moment,--have patience. It is a delusion. Underneath this leafy covering, in the midst of this dense growth of vines and saw-grass and reeds and canes, there is always a wonderful hint of dawn--a shadowy, shimmering hint, elusive and indescribable, but yet sufficient to give dim shape to that which is near at hand. Not far away the frightened squeak of some small bird breaks sharply on the ear of the Swamp. This is no alien note, and Jack-o'-the-Lantern dances up and down, and all the mysteries whisper in concert:-- "We wish you well, Mr. Fox. Don't choke yourself with the feathers. Good-night, Mr. Fox, good-night!" Two minute globules of incandescent light come into sight and disappear, and the mysteries whisper:-- "Too late, Mr. Mink, too late! Better luck next time. Good-night!" A rippling sound is heard in the lagoon as the Leander of the Swamp slips into the water. Jack-o'-the-Lantern flits to the level shore of the pool, and the mysteries come sweeping after, sighing:-- "Farewell, Mr. Muskrat! Good luck and good-night!" Surely there is an alien sound on the knoll yonder,--snapping, growling, and fighting. Have stray dogs crept under the door? Oh, no! The Swamp smiles, and all the mysteries go trooping thither to see the fun. It is a wonderful frolic! Mr. Red Fox has met Mr. Gray Fox face to face. Something tells Mr. Red Fox "Here's your father's enemy." Something whispers to Mr. Gray, "Here's your mother's murderer." And so they fall to, screaming and gnawing and panting and snarling. Mr. Gray Fox is the strongest, but his heart is the weakest. Without warning he turns tail and flies, with Mr. Red Fox after him, and with all the mysteries keeping them company. They run until they are past the boundary line,--the place where the trumpet flower tried to marry the black-jack tree,--and then, of course, the Swamp has no further concern with them. And the mysteries and their torch-bearers come trooping home. [Illustration: MR. RED FOX MEETS MR. GRAY FOX] It is fun when Mr. Red Fox and Mr. Gray Fox meet on the knoll, but the Swamp will never have such a frolic as it had one night when a strange bird came flying in over the door. It is known that the birds that sleep while the Swamp is awake have been taught to hide their heads under their wings. It is not intended that they should see what is going on. Even the Buzzard, that sleeps in the loblolly pine, and the wild turkey, that sleeps in the live oak, conform to this custom. They are only on the edge of the Swamp, but they feel that it would be rude not to put their heads under their wings while the Swamp is awake. But this strange bird--of a family of night birds not hitherto known to that region--was amazed when he beheld the spectacle. "Oho!" he cried; "what queer country is this, where all the birds are headless? If I'm to live here in peace, I must do as the brethren do." So he went off in search of advice. As he went along he saw the Bull-Frog near the lagoon. "Queerer still," exclaimed the stranger. "Here is a bird that has no head, and he can sing." This satisfied him, and he went farther until he saw Mr. Wildcat trying to catch little Mr. Flying-Squirrel. "Good-evening, sir," said the stranger. "I see that the birds in this country have no heads." Mr. Wildcat smiled and bowed and licked his mouth. "I presume, sir, that I ought to get rid of my head if I am to stay here, and I have nowhere else to go. How am I to do it?" "Easy enough," responded Mr. Wildcat, smiling and bowing and licking his mouth. "Birds that are so unfortunate as to have heads frequently come to me for relief. May I examine your neck to see what can be done?" The strange bird fully intended to say, "Why, certainly, sir!" He had the words all made up, but his head was off before he could speak. Being a large bird, he fluttered and shook his wings and jumped about a good deal. As the noise was not alien, the Swamp and all its mysteries came forth to investigate, and oh, what a frolic there was when Mr. Wildcat related the facts! The torch-bearers danced up and down with glee, and the mysteries waltzed to the quick piping of the Willis-Whistlers. Although the Swamp was not a day older when Aaron, the Son of Ben Ali, became a key-bearer, the frolic over the headless bird was far back of Aaron's time. Older! The Swamp was even younger, for it was not a Swamp until old age had overtaken it--until centuries had made it fresh and green and strong. The Indians had camped round about, had tried to run its mysteries down, and had failed. Then came a band of wandering Spaniards, with ragged clothes, and tarnished helmets, and rusty shields, and neighing horses--the first the Swamp had ever seen. The Spaniards floundered in at one side--where the trumpet vine tried to marry the black-jack tree--and floundered out on the other side more bedraggled than ever. This was a great victory for the Swamp, and about that time it came to know and understand itself. For centuries it had been "organizing," and when it pulled De Soto's company of Spaniards in at one side and flung them out at the other, considerably the worse for wear, it felt that the "organization" was complete. And so it was and had been for years and years, and so it remained thereafter--a quiet place when the sun was above the trees, but wonderfully alert and alive when night had fallen. The Swamp that Aaron knew was the same that the Indians and Spaniards had known. The loblolly pine had grown, and the big poplars on the knoll had expanded a trifle with the passing centuries, but otherwise the Swamp was the same. And yet how different! The Indians had not found it friendly, and the Spaniards regarded it as an enemy; but to Aaron it gave shelter, and sometimes food, and its mysteries were his companions. Jack-o'-the-Lantern showed him the hidden paths when the mists of night fell darker than usual. He became as much a part of the Swamp as the mysteries were, entering into its life, and becoming native to all its moods and conditions. And his presence there seemed to give the Swamp new responsibilities. Its thousand eyes were always watching for his enemies, and its thousand tongues were always ready to whisper the news of the coming of an alien. The turkey buzzard, soaring thousands of feet above the top of the great pine, the blue falcon, suspended in the air a mile away, the crow, flapping lazily across the fields, stood sentinel during the day, and the Swamp understood the messages they sent. At night the Willis-Whistlers were on guard, and their lines extended for miles in all directions, and the Swamp itself was awake, and needed no warning message. Sometimes at night the sound of Randall's trumpet fell on the ear of the Swamp, or the voice of Uncle Fountain was heard lifted up in song, as he went over the hills to his fish-baskets in the river; and these were restful and pleasing sounds. Sometimes the trailing cry of hounds was heard. If in the day, Rambler, the track dog, would listen until he knew whether the cry came from Jim Simmons's "nigger dogs," from the Gossett hounds, or from some other pack. If at night, the Swamp cared little about it, for it was used to these things after the sun went down. Mr. Coon insisted on gadding about, and it served him right, the Swamp insisted, when the hounds picked up his drag--as the huntsmen say--and brought him home with a whirl. He was safe when he got there, for let the hounds bay at the door of his house as long as they might, no hunter with torch and axe would venture into the Swamp. They had tried it--oh, many times. _But the door was locked, and the key Was safely kid in a hollow tree._ If it was merely Cousin Coon who lived up the river, well and good. It would teach the incurable vagrant a lesson, and the Swamp enjoyed the fun. The Willis-Whistlers stopped to listen, the mysteries hid behind the trees, and Jack-o'-the-Lantern extinguished his torch as the hounds came nearer with their quavering cries. Was it Mr. Coon or Cousin Coon? Why, Cousin Coon, of course. How did the Swamp know? It was the simplest thing in the world. Wasn't there a splash and a splutter as he ran into the quagmire? Wasn't there a snap and a snarl when the partridge-pea vine caught his foot? Did he know the paths? Didn't he double and turn and go back the way he came, to be caught and killed on dry land? Would Mr. Coon of the Swamp ever be caught on dry land? Don't you believe it! If cut off from home, he would run to the nearest pond and plunge in. Once there, was there a hound that would venture to take a bath with him? The Swamp laughed at the thought of such a thing. Aaron smiled, the White Pig grunted, and Rambler grinned. Cousin Coon is no more, but Mr. Coon is safe at home and the Swamp knows it. _Good luck to all who know the way, By crooked path and clinging vine! For them Night's messengers shall stay, For them the laggard moon shall shine._ But it was not always that aliens and strangers were unwelcome. Occasionally in the still hours between midnight and dawn the Swamp would open its doors to Gossett's Riley. He had no key and he had never come to know and feel that the Swamp was something more than a mixture of mud and water, trees, canes, vines, and all manner of flying, creeping, and crawling things. To him the Swamp was merely a place and not a Thing, but this was ignorance, and the Swamp forgave it for various reasons, forgave it and pitied him as he deserved to be pitied. And yet he had qualities out of the common, and for these the Swamp admired him. He was little more than a dwarf, being "bow-legged and chuckle-headed," as Susy's Sam used to say, and was called Chunky Riley, but he was very much of a man for all that. At a log-rolling there was not a negro for miles around who could pull him down with the handstick. Aaron could do it, but Aaron was not a negro, but an Arab, and that is different. Chunky Riley was even stronger in limb and body than Aaron, but Aaron used his head, as well as body and limb--and that also is different. Riley was not swift of foot, but he could run far, as Gossett's hounds well knew. More than that, he could go on all-fours almost as fast as he could run on two legs, and that was something difficult to do. The Swamp found Chunky Riley out in a very curious way. The first time he came to bring a message to Aaron he waited for no introduction whatever. The Willis-Whistlers warned him, but he paid no attention to their warning; the mysteries whispered to him, but his ears were closed. He searched for no path, and was blind to all the signals. He blundered into the Swamp and floundered toward the knoll as the Spaniards did. He floundered out of the quagmire near where the White Pig lay. He had the scent and all the signs of an alien, and the White Grunter rushed at him with open mouth. The Swamp was now angry from centre to circumference, and poor Chunky Riley's ending would have been swift and sudden but for the fact that he bore some undeveloped kinship to the elements that surrounded him. [Illustration: A-STRADDLE OF THE GRUNTER'S BACK] As the White Pig rushed forward with open mouth, Chunky Riley caught a vague glimpse of him in the darkness, gave one wild yell, leaped into the air, and came down a-straddle of the Grunter's back. This was more than the White Pig had bargained for. He answered Riley's yell with a loud squeal, and went tearing through the swamp to the place where Aaron dwelt. The big owl hooted, Rambler howled, and Jack-o'-the-Lantern threw down his torch and fled. The Swamp that had been angry was amazed and frightened. What demon was this that had seized the White Grunter and was carrying him off? What could the rest hope for if so fierce a creature as the White Pig could be disposed of in this fashion? Even Aaron was alarmed at the uproar, for Chunky Riley continued to yell, and the White Pig kept up its squealing. It was well that the Grunter, when he came to Aaron's place, ran close enough to a tree to rub Chunky Riley off his back, otherwise there is no telling what would have happened. It was well, too, that Chunky Riley called loudly for Aaron when he fell, otherwise he would have been made mincemeat of; for as soon as the White Pig was relieved of his strange burden, his anger rose fiercer than ever, and he came charging at Chunky Riley, who was lying prone on the ground, too frightened to do anything more than try to run to a tree on all-fours. Aaron spoke sharply to the White Pig. "Shall I use a club on you, White Grunter? Shall I make bacon of you? You heard him call my name." The White Pig paused. His small eyes glittered in the dark, and Chunky Riley heard his tusks grate ominously. He knew the creature was foaming with rage. "Ooft! Your name, Son of Ben Ali?" said the White Pig in language that Chunky Riley thought was merely a series of angry grunts and snorts. "Ooft! I heard him call for Aaron, and how long has it been since I heard you say to the Red Chatterer in the hickory-tree that there were a thousand Aarons, but only one Son of Ben Ali? Ooft-Gooft! Am I a horse to be ridden? Humph! No man could ride me--it is what you call a Thing. Umph! let it ride you and then talk about clubs. Ooft!" "Is dat Aaron?" Chunky Riley ventured to inquire. "Ef 't is, I wish you'd be good enough ter run dat ar creetur 'way fum here, kaze I ain't got no knack fer bein' chaw'd up an' spit out, an' trompled on, an' teetotally ruint right 'fo' my own face." "What's your name?" inquired Aaron. "You ought ter know me, but I dunner whedder you does er not. I'm name Riley--dey calls me Chunky Riley fer short." Aaron was silent for a moment, as if trying to remember the name. Presently he laughed and said: "Why, yes; I know you pretty well. Come, we'll kindle a fire." "No suh--not me! Not less'n you'll run dat ar wil' hog off. He mo' servigrous dan a pant'er. Ef I hadn't er straddled 'im des now he'd 'a' e't me bodaciously up an' dey wouldn't 'a' been nothin' lef' but de buttons on my cloze, an' nobody in de roun' worl' would 'a' know'd dey wuz buttons." Aaron laughed while speaking to the White Pig: "Get to bed, Grunter. It is the Lifter--the man that is as strong in the back as a horse." "Gooft-ooft! Let him ride you out as he rode me in--ooft! He's no man! Gooft! No bed for me. When a horse is ridden, he must eat, as I've heard you say, Son of Ben Ali. Gooft-ooft!" The White Pig, still grinding his tusks together, turned and trotted off into the darkness, and presently Aaron and Chunky Riley heard him crashing through the canes and reeds. Then Aaron kindled his fire. "Why did you come?" inquired the Son of Ben Ali when the two had made themselves comfortable. "Des ter fetch word dat Marster wuz layin' off ter git atter you wid Simmons's nigger-dogs 'fo' long." "All the way through the dark for that? When did you come to like me so well?" "Oh, 't ain't 'zackly dat," replied Chunky Riley frankly. "I hear um talkin' 'bout it when marster an' dat ar Mr. Simmons wuz walkin' out in de hoss lot. I wuz in de corn crib, an' dey didn't know it, an' I des sot dar an' lis'n at um. An' den dis mornin' I seed dat ar little Marse Abercrombie, an' he say, 'Go tell Aaron quick ez you kin.'" "The child with the crutches?" queried Aaron. "De ve'y same," replied Chunky Riley. He paused awhile and then added: "I'd walk many a long mile fer dat white chil', day er night, rain er shine." He gazed in the flickering fire a long time, waiting for Aaron to make some comment. Hearing none, he finally turned his eyes on his companion. Aaron was looking skyward, where one small star could be seen twinkling through the ascending smoke from the fire, and his lips were moving, though they framed no words that Chunky Riley could hear. Something in the attitude of the Son of Ben Ali disturbed the negro. "Well, I done what I come ter do," he said, making a pretense of stretching himself and yawning, "an' I speck I'd better be gwine." The Son of Ben Ali still kept his eye fixed on the twinkling star. "What pesters me," Chunky Riley went on, "is de idee dat dat ar wil' hog went 'zackly de way I got ter go. I don't want ter hatter ride 'im no mo' less'n I got a saddle an' bridle." "Come!" exclaimed Aaron suddenly, "I'll go with you. I want to see the Little Master." "De dogs'll fin' yo' track sho, ef dey start out to-morrer," suggested Chunky Riley. The only response the Son of Ben Ali made to this suggestion was to say: "Take the end of my cane in your hand and follow it. We'll take a short cut." Chunky Riley had queer thoughts as he followed his tall conductor, being led as if he were a blind man; but he said nothing. Presently (it seemed but a few minutes to Chunky Riley) they stood on the top of a hill. "Look yonder!" said Aaron. Away to the left a red light glimmered faintly. "What dat?" asked the superstitious negro. "The light in the Little Master's window." "How came it so red, den?" inquired Chunky Riley. "Red curtain," replied Aaron curtly. "Well, de Lord he'p us! Is we dat close?" cried Chunky Riley. "Your way is there," said the Son of Ben Ali; "this is mine." The negro stood watching Aaron until his tall form was lost in the darkness. III. WHAT CHUNKY RILEY SAW AND HEARD Left alone, Chunky Riley stood still and tried to trace in his mind the route he and Aaron had followed in coming from the Swamp. But he could make no mental map--and he knew every "nigh-cut" and by-path for miles around--that would fit in with the time it had taken them to reach the spot where he now stood. He looked back toward the Swamp, but the night covered it, and he could see nothing. Then he looked around him, to see if he knew his present whereabouts. Oh, yes, that was easy; every foot of ground was familiar. The hill on which he had stood had been given over to scrub pines. The hill itself sloped away to the Turner old fields. But still he was puzzled, and still he scratched his head, for he knew that the Swamp was a good four miles away--nearly five--and it seemed to him that he and Aaron had been only a few minutes in making the journey. So he scratched his head and wondered to himself whether Aaron was really a "conjur' man." It was perhaps very lucky for Chunky Riley that he stopped when he did. If he had kept on he would have run into the arms of three men who were going along the plantation path that led from Gossett's negro quarters to the Abercrombie Place. The delay that Chunky Riley made prevented him from meeting them, but it did not prevent him from hearing the murmur of their voices as he struck into the path. They were too far off for Chunky Riley to know whether they were white or black, but just as he turned into the path to go to Gossett's the scent of a cigar floated to his nostrils. He paused and scratched his head again. He knew by the scent of the cigar that the voices he heard belonged to white men: but who were they? If they were the "patterollers" they'd catch Aaron beyond all question; it would be impossible for him to escape. So thought Chunky Riley, and so thinking, he turned and followed the path towards the Abercrombie Place. He moved rapidly but cautiously. The scent of the cigar grew stronger, the sound of men's voices fell more distinctly on his ear. Chunky Riley left the path and skirted through the low pines until he came to the fence that inclosed the spring lot. He knew that if he was heard, the men would think he was a calf, or, mayhap, a mule; for the hill on which Aaron had left him was now a part of a great pasture, in which the calves and dry cattle and (between seasons) the mules were allowed to roam at will. Coming to the fence, Chunky Riley would have crossed it, but the voices were louder now, and he caught a glimpse of the red sparks of lighted cigars. Creeping closer and closer, but ever ready to drop on the ground and run away on all-fours, Chunky Riley was soon able to hear what the men were saying. He knew the voices of his master and young master, Mr. Gossett--Old Grizzle, as he was called--and George, and he rightly judged that the strange voice mingling with theirs belonged to Mr. Jim Simmons, who, with a trained pack of hounds,--"nigger dogs" they were called,--held himself at the service of owners of runaway negroes. Mr. Simmons's average fee was $15--that is to say when he was "called in time." But in special cases his charge was $30. When Chunky Riley arrived within earshot of the group, Mr. Gossett was just concluding a protest that he had made against the charge of $30, which he had reluctantly agreed to pay for the capture of Aaron. "You stayed at my house to-day, you'll stay there to-night, and maybe you'll come back to dinner to-morrow. There's the feeding of you and your dogs. You don't take any account of that at all." Mr. Gossett's voice was sharp and emphatic. His stinginess was notorious in that region, and gave rise to the saying that Gossett loved a dollar better than he did his wife. But he was no more ashamed of his stinginess than he was of the shabbiness of his hat. "But, Colonel," remonstrated Mr. Jim Simmons, "didn't you send for me? Didn't you say, 'Glad to see you, Simmons; walk right in and make yourself at home'? You did, fer a fact." He spoke with a drawl that irritated the snappy and emphatic Mr. Gossett. "Why, certainly, Simmons; certainly I did. I mentioned the matter to show you that your charges are out of all reason in this case. All you have to do is to come here with your dogs in the morning, skirt around the place, pick up his trail, and there you are." "But, Colonel!" insisted Mr. Jim Simmons with his careless, irritating drawl, "ain't it a plum' fact that this nigger's been in the woods a month or sech a matter? Ain't it a plum' fact that you've tracked him and trailed him with your own dogs?--and good dogs they are, and I'll tell anybody so. Now what do you pay me fer? Fer catching the nigger? No, sirree! The nigger's as good as caught now--when it comes to that. You pay me fer knowing how to catch him--that's what you pay me fer. You send fer the doctor. He comes and fumbles around a little, and you have to pay the bill whether he kills or cures. You don't pay him fer killing or curing; you pay him fer knowing how to fumble around. It's some different with me. If I don't catch your nigger, you button up your pocket. If I do catch him you pay me $30 down, not fer catching him, but fer knowing how to fumble around and catch him." The logic of this argument, which was altogether lost on Chunky Riley, silenced Mr. Gossett, but did not convince him. There was a long pause, as if all three of the men were wrestling with peculiar thoughts. Finally Mr. Gossett spoke:-- "It ain't so much the nigger I'm after, but I want to show Abercrombie that I can't be outdone. He's laughing in his sleeve because I can't keep the nigger at home, and I'll be blamed"--here his voice sank to a confidential tone--"I'll be blamed if I don't believe that, between him and that son of his, they are harboring the nigger. Yes, sir, harboring is the word." Mr. Jim Simmons threw down his lighted cigar with such energy as to cause the sparks to fly in all directions. A cigar was an unfamiliar luxury to Mr. Simmons, and he had had enough of it. "Addison Abercrombie harboring a nigger!" exclaimed Mr. Simmons. "Why, Colonel, if every man, woman, and child in the United States was to tell me that I wouldn't believe it. Addison Abercrombie! Why, Colonel, though you're his next-door neighbor, as you may say, you don't know him half as well as I do. You ought to get acquainted with that man." "Humph! I know him well enough, I reckon," responded Mr. Gossett. "I went to school with him. Folks get to know one another at school. He was always stuck up, trying to hold his head higher than anybody else because his daddy had money and a big plantation. I made my prop'ty myself; I earned every dollar; and I know how it came." "But, Colonel!" Mr. Jim Simmons insisted, "Addison Abercrombie would hold his head high if he never seen a dollar, and he'd have the right to do it. Him harbor niggers? Shucks, Colonel! You might as well tell me that the moon ain't nothing but a tater pudding." "What do you see in the man?" Mr. Gossett asked with some irritation in the tones of his voice. There was a pause, as though Mr. Simmons was engaged in getting his thoughts together. Finally he said:-- "Well, Colonel, I don't reckon I can make it plain to you, because when I come to talk about it I can't grab the identical idee that would fit what I've got in my mind. But I'll tell you what's the honest truth, in my opinion--and I'm not by myself, by a long shot--Addison Abercrombie is as fine a man as ever trod shoe leather. That's what." "Humph!" grunted Mr. Gossett. "Yes, sirree!" persisted Mr. Simmons, warming up a little. "It makes no difference where you see him, nor when you see him, nor how you see him, you can up and say: 'The Lord has made many men of many minds, and many men of many kinds, but not sence Adam has he made a better man than Addison Abercrombie.' That's the way I look at it, Colonel. I may be wrong, but if I am I'll never find it out in this world." Plainly, Mr. Gossett was not prepared to hear such a tribute as this paid to Addison Abercrombie, and he winced under it. He hemmed and hawed, as the saying is, and changed his position on the fence. He was thoroughly disgusted. Now there was no disagreement between Mr. Gossett and Mr. Abercrombie,--no quarrel, that is to say,--but Gossett knew that Abercrombie regarded him with a feeling akin to contempt. He treasured in his mind a remark that Abercrombie had made about him the day he bought Aaron from the negro speculator. He never forgot nor forgave it, for it was an insinuation that Mr. Gossett, in spite of his money and his thrifty ways, was not much of a gentleman. On this particular subject Mr. Gossett was somewhat sensitive, as men are who have doubts in their own minds as to their standing. Mr. Gossett had an idea that money and "prop'ty," as he called it, made a gentleman; but it was a very vague idea, and queer doubts sometimes pestered him. It was these doubts that made him "touchy" on this subject. "What has this great man ever done for you, Simmons?" Mr. Gossett asked, with a contemptuous snort. "Not anything, Colonel, on the top of the green globe. I went to him once to borrow some money, and he wanted to lend it to me without taking my note and without charging me any interest. I says to him, says I, 'You'll have to excuse me.'" "That was right; you did perfectly right, Simmons. The man was trying to insult you." "But, Colonel, he didn't go about it that way. Don't you reckon you could tell when anybody was trying to insult you? That was the time I come to you." "I charged you interest, didn't I, Simmons?" "You did, Colonel, fer a fact." "I'm this kind of a man, Simmons," remarked Mr. Gossett, with a touch of sincere pride and gratification in his voice. "When I do business with a man I do business. When I do him a favor it must be outside of business. It's mixing the two things up that keeps so many people poor." "What two things, Colonel?" gravely inquired Simmons. "Why the doing of business and--er--the doing of favors." "Oh, I see," said Mr. Simmons, as if a great light had been turned on the matter. Then he laughed and continued: "Yes, Colonel, I borrowed the money from you and just about that time the fever taken me down, and if it hadn't 'a' been fer Addison Abercrombie the note I give you would have swallowed my house and land." "Is that so?" inquired Mr. Gossett. "Ask my wife," replied Mr. Simmons. "One day while I was out of my head with the fever, Addison Abercrombie, he rid by and saw my wife setting on the front steps, jest a-boohooing,--you know how wimmen will do, Colonel; if they ain't a-jawing they're a-cryin'. So Addison Abercrombie, he ups and asks her what's the matter, and Jennie, she tells him. He got right off his hoss and come in, and set by my bed the better part of the morning. And all that time there I was a-running on about notes and a-firing off my troubles in the air. So the upshot of the business was that Addison Abercrombie left the money there to pay the note and left word for me to pay him back when I got good and ready; and Jennie hadn't hardly dried her eyes before here come a nigger on horseback with a basket on his arm, and in the basket was four bottles of wine. Wine! Why, Colonel, it was worse 'n wine. Jennie says that if arry one of the bottles had 'a' had a load of buckshot in it, the roof would 'a' been blow'd off when the stopper flew out. And, Colonel! if ever you feel like taking a right smart of exercise, jest pass my house some day and stick your head over the palings and tell Jennie that Addison Abercrombie's got a streak of meanness in him." "Have you ever paid Abercrombie?" Mr. Gossett inquired. His voice was harsh and businesslike. "I was laying off to catch this nigger of yours and pay him some on account," replied Mr. Simmons. "Why, it has been three years since you paid me," suggested Mr. Gossett. "Two years or sech a matter," remarked Mr. Simmons complacently. "Then that's the reason you think Abercrombie ain't harboring my nigger?" inquired Mr. Gossett scornfully. "But, Colonel," drawled Mr. Simmons, "what under the sun ever got the idee in your head that Addison Abercrombie _is_ harboring your nigger?" "It's as simple as a-b ab," Mr. Gossett replied with energy. "He tried to buy the nigger off the block and couldn't, and now he thinks I'll sell if the nigger'll stay in the woods long enough. That's the reason he's harboring the nigger. And more than that: don't I know from my own niggers that the yaller rapscallion comes here every chance he gets? He comes, but he don't go in the nigger quarters. Now, where does he go?" "Yes, where?" said Mr. Gossett's son George, who up to that moment had taken no part in the conversation. "Three times this month I've dealt out an extra rasher of bacon to two of our hands, and they tell the same tale." "It looks quare," Mr. Simmons admitted, "but as sure as you're born Addison Abercrombie ain't the man to harbor a runaway nigger. If he's ever had a nigger in the woods, it's more'n I know, and when that's the case you may set it down fer a fact that he don't believe in runaway niggers." This was a lame argument, but it was the best that Mr. Simmons could muster at the moment. "No," remarked Mr. Gossett sarcastically, "his niggers don't take to the woods because they do as they blamed please at home. It sets my teeth on edge to see the way things are run on this plantation. Why, I could take the stuff that's flung away here and get rich on it in five years. It's a scandal." "I believe you!" assented his son George dutifully. Chunky Riley heard this conversation by snatches, but he caught the drift of it. What he remembered of it was that some of his fellow servants were ready to tell all they knew for an extra "rasher" of meat, and that the hunt for Aaron would begin the next morning,--and it was now getting along toward dawn. He wanted to warn Aaron again. He wanted especially to tell Aaron that three men were sitting on the fence waiting for him. But this was impossible. The hour was approaching when Chunky Riley must be in his cabin on the Gossett plantation ready to go to work with the rest of the hands. He had slept soundly the first half of the night, and he would be as fresh in the field when the sun rose as those who had slept the night through. As he turned away from the fence a dog in the path leading from the spring to the stile suddenly began to bay. The men tried to drive him away, and one of them threw a stick at him, but the dog refused to be intimidated. He bayed them more fiercely, but finally retreated toward the spring, stopping occasionally to bark at the men on the fence. "If I'm not mistaken," remarked Mr. Gossett, "that's my dog Rambler. I know his voice, and he's been missing ever since that nigger went to the woods. I wonder if he's taken up over here? George, I wish you'd make it convenient to come over here as soon as you can, and find out whether Rambler is here. Now, there's a dog, Simmons, that's away ahead of anything you've got in the shape of a nigger dog,--nose as cold as ice, and as much sense as the common run of folks." "He ain't doing you much good," responded Mr. Simmons. "That's a fact," said Mr. Gossett. "Till I heard that dog barking I thought Rambler had been killed by that nigger." Chunky Riley struck into the plantation path leading to Gossett's, at the point where the three men had tied their horses. They had ridden as far as they thought prudent, considering the errand they were on, and then they dismounted and made their horses fast to the overhanging limbs of a clump of oaks, which, for some reason or other, had been left standing in the field. One of the horses whinnied when Chunky Riley came near, and the negro paused. Aaron would have known that the horse said, "Please take me home, and be quick about it; I'm hungry;" but Chunky Riley could only guess. And as he guessed a thought struck him--a thought that made him scratch his head and chuckle. He turned in his tracks, went back along the path a little way, and listened. Then he returned, and the horse whinnied again. The creature was growing impatient. Once more Chunky Riley indulged in a hearty laugh, slapping himself softly on the leg. Then he went to the horses one by one, pulled down the swinging limbs to which their bridle reins were fastened, and untied them. This done, he proceeded to make himself "mighty skace," as he expressed it. He started toward home at a rapid trot, without pausing to listen. But even without listening, he could hear the horses coming after him, Mr. Simmons's horse with the others. The faster he trotted the faster the horses trotted; and when Chunky Riley began to run the horses broke into a gallop, and came clattering along the path after him, their stirrups flying wildly about and making a clamor that Chunky Riley had not bargained for. The faster he ran the faster the horses galloped, until at last it seemed to him that the creatures were trying to run him down. This idea took possession of his mind, and at once his fears magnified the situation. He imagined the horses were right at his heels. He could feel the hot breath of one of them on the back of his neck. Fortunately for Chunky Riley there was a fence at the point where the path developed into a lane. Over this he climbed and fell exhausted, fully expecting the horses to climb over or break through and trample him under their feet. But his expectations were not realized; the horses galloped along the lane, and presently he could hear them clattering along the big road toward Gossett's. Chunky Riley was exhausted as well as terror-stricken. The perspiration rolled from his face, and he could hear his heart beat. He lay in the soft grass in the fence corner until he had recovered somewhat from his exertions and his fright. Finally he rose, looked back along the way he had come, then toward the big road, and shook his head. [Illustration: THE HORSES WERE RIGHT AT HIS HEELS] "Is anybody ever see de beat er dat?" he exclaimed. Whereupon he went through the woods instead of going by the road, and was soon in his cabin frying his ration of bacon. IV. BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND DAWN. When Aaron parted from Chunky Riley on the hill after they had come from the Swamp, he went along the path to the spring, stooped on his hands and knees and took a long draught of the cool water. Then he went to the rear of the negro quarters, crossed the orchard fence, and passed thence to the flower garden in front of the great house. At one corner of the house a large oak reared its head above the second story. Some of its limbs when swayed by the wind swept the dormer window that jutted out from Little Crotchet's room. Behind the red curtain of this dormer window a light shone, although it was now past midnight. It shone there at night whenever Little Crotchet was restless and sleepless and wanted to see Aaron. And this was often, for the youngster, with all his activity, rarely knew what it was to be free from pain. But for his journeys hither and yonder on the Gray Pony he would have been very unhappy indeed. All day long he could make some excuse for putting his aches aside; he could even forget them. But at night when everything was quiet, Pain would rap at the door and insist on coming in and getting in bed with him. Little Crotchet had many quaint thoughts and queer imaginings, and one of these was that Pain was a sure-enough something or other that could come in at the door and go out when it chose--a little goblin dressed in red flannel, with a green hat running to a sharp peak at the top, and a yellow tassel dangling from the peak--a red flannel goblin always smelling of camphor and spirits of turpentine. Sometimes--and those were rare nights--the red goblin remained away, and then Little Crotchet could sleep and dream the most beautiful dreams. But usually, as soon as night had fallen on the plantation and there was no longer any noise in the house, the little red goblin, with his peaked green hat, would open the door gently and peep in to see whether the lad was asleep--and he knew at a glance whether Little Crotchet was sleeping or only feigning sleep. Sometimes the youngster would shut his eyes ever so tight, and lie as still as a mouse, hoping that the red goblin would go away. But the trick never succeeded. The red goblin was too smart for that. If there was a blaze in the fireplace he would wink at it very solemnly; if not, he'd wink at the candle. And he never was in any hurry. He'd sit squat on the floor for many long moments. Sometimes he'd run and jump in the bed with Little Crotchet and then jump out again. Sometimes he'd pretend he was going to jump in the bed, when suddenly another notion would strike him, and he'd turn and run out at the door, and not come back again for days. But this was unusual. Night in and night out, the year round, the red goblin rarely failed to show himself in little Crotchet's room, and crawl under the cover with the lad. There was but one person in all that region whom the red goblin was afraid of, and that was Aaron. But he was an obstinate goblin. Frequently he'd stay after Aaron came, and try his best to fight it out with the Son of Ben Ali; but in the end he would have to go. There were times, however, when Aaron could not respond to Little Crotchet's signal of distress,--the light in the dormer window,--and at such times the red goblin would have everything his own way. He would stay till all the world was awake, and then sneak off to his hiding-place, leaving Little Crotchet weak and exhausted. [Illustration: THE GOBLIN PAIN] Thus it happened that, while Chunky Riley was taking an unexpected ride on the White Pig, and afterward while the three men were sitting on the pasture fence beyond the spring, the red goblin was giving Little Crotchet a good deal of trouble. No matter which way he turned in bed, the red goblin was there. He was there when Aaron came into the flower garden. He was there when Aaron stood at the foot of the great oak at the corner of the house. He was there when Aaron put forth his hand, felt for and found one of the iron spikes that had been driven into the body of the oak. The red goblin was in bed with Little Crotchet and tugging at his back and legs when Aaron pulled himself upward by means of the iron spike; when he found another iron spike; when, standing on and holding to these spikes, he walked up the trunk of the tree as if it were a ladder; and when he went into Little Crotchet's room by way of the dormer window. The real name of the red goblin with the green hat was Pain, as we know, and he was very busy with Little Crotchet this night; and though the lad had fallen into a doze, he was moving restlessly about when Aaron entered the room. The Son of Ben Ali stepped to the low bed, and knelt by it, placing his hand that the night winds had cooled on Little Crotchet's brow, touching it with firm but gentle strokes. The lad awoke with a start, saw that Aaron was near, and then closed his eyes again. "It's a long way for you to come," he said. "There's a lot of things for you in the basket there." "If twice as long, it would be short for me," replied Aaron. Then, still stroking Little Crotchet's brow with one hand, and gently rubbing his body with the other, the Son of Ben Ali told of Chunky Riley's ride on the White Pig. With his eyes closed, the lad could see the whole performance, and he laughed with so much heartiness that Aaron laughed in sympathy. This was such a rare event that Little Crotchet opened his eyes to see it, but soon closed them again, for now he felt that the red goblin was preparing to go. "I sent Chunky Riley," said Little Crotchet, after a while. "They're after you to-morrow--Jim Simmons and his hounds. And he has his catch-dog with him. I saw the dog to-day. He's named Pluto. He's big and black, and bob-tailed, and his ears have been cropped. Oh, I'm afraid they'll get you this time, Aaron. Why not stay here with me to-morrow, and the next day?" "Here?" There was a note of surprise in Aaron's voice. "Yes. What's to hinder you? I can keep everybody out of the room, except"-- "Except somebody," said Aaron, smiling. "No, no! The White-Haired Master is a good man. Good to all. He'd shake his head and say, 'Runaway hiding in my house! That's bad, bad!' No, Little Master, they'll not get Aaron. You sleep. To-morrow night I'll come. My clothes will be ripped and snagged. Have me a big needle and some coarse thread. I'll mend 'em here and while I'm mending I may tell a tale. I don't know. Maybe. You sleep." Aaron was no mesmerist, but somehow, the red goblin being gone, Little Crotchet was soon in the land of dreams. Aaron remained by the bed to make sure the sleep was sound, then he rose, tucked the cover about the lad's shoulders (for the morning air was cool), blew out the candle, went out on the roof, closing the window sash after him, and in a moment was standing in the flower garden. There he found Rambler, the track dog, awaiting him, and together they passed out into the lot and went by the spring, where Aaron stooped and took another draught of the cool, refreshing water. All this time the three men had been sitting on the pasture fence at the point where it intersected the path leading from the spring, and they were sitting there still. As Aaron started along this path, after leaving the spring, Rambler trotted on before, and his keen nose soon detected the presence of strangers. With a whine that was more than half a whistle, Rambler gave Aaron the signal to stop, and then went toward the fence. The situation became clear to him at once, and it was then that Chunky Riley and the three men had heard him bark. They called it barking, but it was a message to Aaron saying:-- "Lookout! lookout! Son of Ben Ali, look sharp! I see three--Grizzlies two, and another." [Illustration: THE SPRING OF COOL REFRESHING WATER] There was nothing alarming in the situation. In fact, Aaron might have gone within hailing distance of the three men without discovery, for the spring lot was well wooded. If Mr. Addison Abercrombie had any peculiarity it was his fondness for trees. He could find something to admire in the crookedest scrub oak and in the scraggiest elm. He not only allowed the trees in the spring lot to stand, but planted others. Where Aaron stood a clump of black-jacks, covering a quarter of an acre, had sprung up some years before. They were now well-grown saplings and stood as close together, according to the saying of the negroes, as hairs on a hog's back. Through these Aaron slowly edged his way, moving very carefully, until he reached a point close enough to the three men to see and hear what was going on. Standing in the black shadow of these saplings he made an important discovery. Chunky Riley, it will be remembered, suspected that the two Gossetts and Mr. Simmons were intent on capturing Aaron; but this was far from their purpose. They had no such idea. While Aaron stood listening, watching, he saw a tall shadow steal along the path. He heard the swish of a dress and knew it was a woman. The shadow stole along the path until it came to the three men on the fence and then it stopped. "Well?" said Mr. Gossett sharply. "What did you see? Where did the nigger go? Don't stand there like you are deaf and dumb. Talk out!" "I seed him come fum de spring, Marster, an' go up by de nigger cabins. But atter dat I ain't lay eyes on 'im." "Did he go into the cabins?" "I lis'n at eve'y one, Marster, an' I ain't hear no talkin' in but one." "Was he in that one?" "Ef he wuz, Marster, he wa'n't sayin' nothin'. Big Sal was talkin' wid Randall, suh." "What were they talking about?" "All de words I hear um say wuz 'bout der Little Marster--how good he is an' how he all de time thinkin' mo' 'bout yuther folks dan he do 'bout his own se'f." "Humph!" snorted Mr. Gossett. Mr. Simmons moved about uneasily. "Whyn't you go in an' see whether Aaron was in there?" asked George Gossett. "Bekaze, Marse George, dey'd 'a' know'd right pine-blank what I come fer. 'Sides dat, Big Sal is a mighty bad nigger 'oman when she git mad." "You're as big as she is," suggested Mr. Gossett. "Yes, suh; but I ain't got de ambition what Big Sal got," replied the woman humbly. "I'll tell you, Simmons, that runaway nigger is the imp of Satan," remarked Mr. Gossett. "But, Colonel, if he's that, what do you want him caught for?" inquired Mr. Simmons humorously. "Why, so much the more need for catching him. I want to get my hands on him. If I don't convert him, why, then you may go about among your friends and say that Gossett is a poor missionary. You may say that and welcome." "I believe you!" echoed George. "You may go home now," said Mr. Gossett to the woman. "Thanky, Marster." She paused a moment to wipe her face with her apron, and then climbed over the fence and went toward the Gossett plantation. Aaron slipped away from the neighborhood of the three men, crossed the fence near where Chunky Riley had been standing, went swiftly through the pasture for half a mile, struck into the plantation path some distance ahead of the woman, and then came back along the path to meet her. When he saw her coming he stopped, turned his back to her and stood motionless in the path. The woman was talking to herself as she came up; but when she saw Aaron she hesitated, advanced a step, and then stood still, breathing hard. All her superstitious fears were aroused. "Who is you? Who is dat? Name er de Lord! Can't you talk? Don't be foolin' wid me! Man, who is you?" "One!" replied Aaron. The sound of a human voice reassured her somewhat, but her knees shook so she could hardly stand. "What yo' name?" she asked again. "Too long a name to tell you." "What you doin'?" "Watching a child--looking hard at it." "Wuz you, sho nuff?" She came a step nearer. "How come any chil' out dis time er night?" "A black child," Aaron went on. "Its dress was afire. It went up and down the path here. It went across the hill. Crying and calling--calling and crying, 'Aaron! Aaron! Mammy's hunting for you! Aaron! Aaron! Mammy's telling on you.'" "My Lord fum heaven!" moaned the woman; "dat wuz my chil'--de one what got burnt up kaze I wuz off in de fiel'." She threw her apron over her head, fell on her knees, and moaned and shuddered. "Well, I'm Aaron. You hunted for me in the nigger cabins; you slipped to the fence yonder; you told three men you couldn't find me." "O Lord! I wuz bleege ter do it. It wuz dat er take ter de woods, an' dey ain't no place fer me in de woods. What'd I do out dar by myse'f at night? I know'd dey couldn't ketch you. Oh, dat wuz my chil'!" "Stand up!" Aaron commanded. "What you gwine ter do?" the woman asked, slowly rising to her feet, and holding herself ready to dodge an expected blow--for, as she herself said, she was not at all "ambitious." "Your breakfast is ready, and I've been waiting here to give it to you. Hold your apron." The woman did as she was told, and Aaron took from the basket which Little Crotchet had given him four biscuits and as many slices of ham. "I'll take um, an' thanky, too," said the woman; "but hongry as I is, I don't b'lieve I kin eat a mou'ful un um atter what I done. I'm too mean to live!" "Get home! get home and forget it," Aaron replied. "Oh, I can't go thoo dem woods atter what you tol' me!" cried the woman. "I'll go with you," said Aaron. "Come!" "You!" The woman lifted her voice until it sounded shrill on the moist air of the morning. "You gwine dar to Gossett's? Don't you know dey er gwine ter hunt you in de mornin'? Don't you know dey got de dogs dar? Don't you know some er de niggers'll see you--an' maybe de overseer? Don't you know you can't git away fum dem dogs fer ter save yo' life?" "Come!" said Aaron sharply. "It's late." "Min', now! ef dey ketch you, 't ain't me dat done it," the woman insisted. "Come!--I must be getting along," was Aaron's reply. He went forward along the path, and though he seemed to be walking easily, the woman had as much as she could do to keep near him. Though his body swayed slightly from side to side, he seemed to be gliding along rather than walking. Ahead of him, sometimes near, sometimes far, and frequently out of sight, a dark shadow moved and flitted. It was Rambler going in a canter. A hare jumped from behind a tussock and went skipping away. It was a tempting challenge. But Rambler hardly glanced at him. "Good-by, Mr. Rabbit! I'll see you another day!" Thus Aaron, the woman, and Rambler went to Gossett's. "Man, ain't you tired?" the woman asked when they came in sight of the negro quarters. "Me? I'll go twenty miles before sun-up," replied Aaron. "I'll never tell on you no mo'," said the woman; "not ef dey kills me." She turned to go to her cabin, when Aaron touched her on the shoulder. "Wait!" he whispered. "If it brings more meat for your young ones, tell! Fetch the men here; show 'em where I stood,--if it brings you more meat for your babies." "Sho nuff?" asked the woman, amazed. Aaron nodded his head. "What kind er folks is you?" she cried. "You ain't no nigger. Dey ain't no nigger on top er de groun' dat'd stan' up dar an' talk dat away. Will dey ketch you ef I tell?" The woman was thinking about the meat. Aaron lifted his right hand in the air, turned, and disappeared in the darkness, which was now changing to the gray of dawn. The woman remained where she was standing for some moments as if considering some serious problem. Then she shook her head. "I'd git de meat--but dey mout ketch 'im, an' den what'd I look like?" This remark seemed to please her, for she repeated it more than once before moving out of her tracks. When she did move, she went to her cabin, kindled a fire, cooked something for her children,--she had three,--placed a biscuit and a piece of ham for each, and, although she had not slept a wink, prepared to go to the field. It was almost time, too, for she heard the hog feeder in the horse lot talking angrily to the mules, as he parceled out their corn and forage. Presently she heard him calling the hogs to get a bite of corn,--the fattening hogs that were running about in the horse lot. Soon, too, she heard the sharp voice of Mr. Gossett, her master, calling to the hog feeder. And you may be sure the man went as fast as his legs could carry him. Get out of the way, dogs, chickens, wheelbarrows, woodpile, everything, and let the negro run to his master! Had he seen the horses? Oh, yes, Marster, that he had! They were standing at the lot gate, and they whickered and whinnied so that he was obliged to go and see what the trouble was. And there were the horses, Mr. Simmons's among the rest. Yes, Marster, and the hog feeder was just on the point of alarming the neighborhood, thinking something serious had happened, when the thought came to his mind that the horses had grown tired of waiting and had broken loose from their fastenings. Oh, yes, Marster, they would do that way sometimes, because horses have a heap of sense, especially Marster's horses. When one broke loose the others wanted to follow him, and then they broke loose too. And they were fed,--eating right now, and all fixed up. Saddle 'em by sun-up? Yes, Marster, and before that if you want 'em, for they've already had a right smart snack of corn and good clean fodder. As for Aaron, he had far to go. He had no fear of Mr. Gossett's hounds, but he knew that he would have some difficulty in getting away from those that Mr. Simmons had trained. If he could outmanoeuvre them, that would be the best plan. If not,--well, he would make a stand in the swamp. But there was the crop-eared, bob-tailed cur--the catch dog--that was the trouble. Aaron knew, too, that Mr. Simmons was a professional negro hunter, and that he naturally took some degree of pride in it. Being a professional, with a keen desire to be regarded as an expert, it was to be supposed that Mr. Simmons had made a study of the tactics of fugitive negroes. As a matter of fact, Mr. Simmons was a very shrewd man; he was also, in spite of his calling, a very kind-hearted man. In his soul he despised Mr. Gossett, whose negroes were constantly in the woods, and loved and admired Addison Abercrombie, whose negroes never ran away, and who, if every slave on his plantation were a fugitive, would never call on Mr. Simmons to catch them. Aaron was far afield when, as the sun rose, Mr. Gossett's hog feeder called the house girl and asked her to tell Mr. Gossett that the horses were saddled and ready at the front gate. Then Mr. Simmons's dogs, which had been shut up in the carriage house, were turned out and fed. The hounds were given half-cooked corn meal, but the catch dog, Pluto, must needs have a piece of raw meat, which he swallowed at one gulp. This done, Mr. Simmons blew one short, sharp note on his horn, and the hunt for Aaron began. V. THE HUNT BEGINS. When Aaron left the negro woman at Gossett's he went rapidly through the woods until he came to the old fields that had once been cultivated, but were now neglected for newer and better soil. These deserted fields had been dismally naked of vegetation for years, and where they undulated into hills the storms had cut deep red gashes. But these wounds were now gradually healing. A few years before a company of travelers had camped out one night at Curtwright's factory, not many miles away, and where they fed their horses a grass new to that region--new, in fact, to this country--made its appearance. It grew and spread for miles around and covered the red hills with the most beautiful mantle that the southern summers had ever seen. It refused to wither and parch under the hot sun, but flourished instead. It had crept from Curtwright's factory, and had already begun to carpet the discarded lands through which Aaron was now passing, and the turf felt as soft as velvet under his feet. The touch of it seemed to inspire his movements, for he began to trot; and he trotted until, at the end of half an hour, he struck into the plantation road leading to the Oconee. Aaron was making for the river. Having received fair warning, and guessing something of the character of Mr. Simmons, he had made up his mind that the best plan would be to get away from the dogs if possible. He hoped to find one of the Ward negroes at the river landing, and in this he was not disappointed. Old Uncle Andy, who was almost on the retired list, on account of his age and faithfulness, although he was still strong and vigorous, was just preparing to visit his set-hooks which were down the river. He was about to shove the boat into deep water and jump in when Aaron called him. "Ah-yi," he answered in a tone almost gay, for he had a good master, and he had no troubles except the few that old age had brought on him. "Up or down?" inquired Aaron. "Down, honey; down. All de time down. Den I'll lef' um down dar an' let Rowan Ward" (this was his master whom he talked about so familiarly) "sen' one er his triflin' no 'count nigners atter um wid de waggin'." "I want to go up," said Aaron. "I ain't henderin' you," replied old Uncle Andy. "Whar yo' huffs? Walk. I ain't gwine pull you in dis boat. No. I won't pull Rowan Ward yit, en he know it. I won't pull nobody up stream in his boat less'n it's Sally Ward" (his mistress), "en she'd do ez much fer me. What yo' name, honey?" "Aaron, I'm called." "Ah-yi!" exclaimed Old Uncle Andy, under his breath. "Dey are atter you. Oh, yes! En what's mo' dey'll git you. En mo' dan dat, dey oughter git you! Dem Gossetts is rank pizen, en der niggers is pizen. A nigger what ain't got no better sense dan ter b'long ter po' white trash ain't got no business ter git good treatment. Look at me! Dey ain't nobody dast ter lay de weight er der han' on me. Ef dey do, dey got ter whip Sally Ward en Rowan Ward. You ain't bad ez dem yuther Gossett niggers, kaze you been in de woods en you er dar yit. Kensecontly you got one chance, en it's de onliest chance. Cross dis river en go up dar ter de house, en wake up Sally Ward en tell 'er dat ole Andy say she mus' buy you. Ef she hum en haw, des put yo' foot down en tell her dat ole Andy say she des got ter buy you. She'll do it! She'll know better'n not ter do it. Ah-h-h-h!" Aaron would have laughed at this display of self-importance, but he knew that to laugh would be to defeat the object he had in view. So his reply was very serious. "She's good!" cried old Uncle Andy. "Dey's er heap er good wimmen, but dey ain't no 'oman like Sally Ward,--I don't keer ef she is got a temper. Ef folks is made out'n dus' dey wuz des nuff er de kin' she wuz made out'n fer ter make her. Dey wuz de greates' plenty fer ter make her, but dey wan't a pinch lef' over. How come you got ter go up de river?" "Wait a little while, and Simmons's dog'll tell you," replied Aaron. "Jim Simmons? I wish I had Rowan Ward here ter do my cussin'!" exclaimed old Uncle Andy, striking the edge of the bateau viciously. "Kin you handle dish yer paddle? Git in dis boat, den! Jim Simmons! Much he look like ketchin' anybody. Git in dis boat, I tell you! En take dis paddle en he'p me pull ef you want to go up de river." Aaron lost no time in getting in the bateau. Instead of sitting down he remained standing, and braced himself by placing one foot in advance of the other. In this position he leaned first on one side and then on the other as he swept the long, wide oar through the water. A few strokes carried him into the middle of the Oconee and nearly across. Then, out of the current and in the still water, Aaron headed the boat up stream. It was a long, heavy, unwieldy affair, built for carrying the field hands and the fruits of the harvest across the river, for the Ward plantation lay on both sides of the Oconee. The bateau was unwieldy, but propelled by Aaron's strong arms it moved swiftly and steadily up the stream. Old Uncle Andy had intended to help row the boat, but when he saw how easily Aaron managed it he made himself comfortable by holding his oar across his lap and talking. "I done year tell er you," he said. "Some folks say you er nigger, en some say you ain't no nigger. I'm wid dem what say you ain't no nigger, kaze you don't do like a nigger, en dey ain't no nigger in de roun' worl' what kin stan' up in dis boat an' shove it 'long like you doin'. Dey all weak-kneed en wobbly when dey git on de water. I wish Sally Ward could see you now. She'd buy you terreckly. Don't you want ter b'long ter Sally Ward?" "No,--Abercrombie," replied Aaron. "Yo' sho fly high," remarked old Uncle Andy. "Dey er good folks, dem Abercrombies. Ef dey's anybody anywheres 'roun' dat's mos' ez good ez Sally Ward en Rowan Ward it's de Abercrombies. I'll say dat much an' not begrudge it. Speshally dat ar cripple boy. Dey tells me dat dat chil' don't never git tired er doin' good. En dat's a mighty bad sign; it's de wust kinder sign. You watch. De Lord done put his han' on dat chil', en he gwine take 'im back up dar whar he b'longs at. When folks git good like dey say dat chil' is, dey are done ripe." To this Aaron made no reply. He had had the same or similar thoughts for some time. He simply gave the waters of the river a stronger backward sweep with the oar. The shadows were still heavy on the water, and the overhanging trees helped to make them heavier, but the reflection of dawn caught and became entangled in the ripples made by the boat, and far away in the east the red signal lights of the morning gave forth a dull glow. The fact that Aaron made no comment on his remarks had no effect on Uncle Andy. He continued to talk incessantly, and when he paused for a moment it was to take breath and not to hear what his companion had to say. "Jim Simmons. Huh. I wish Sally Ward could git de chance fer ter lay de law down ter dat man." (Uncle Andy had his wish later in the day). "She'd tell 'im de news. She'd make 'im 'shamed er hisse'f--gwine trollopin' roun' de country huntin' niggers en dem what ain't niggers, en all b'longin' ter Gossett. How come dey ain't no niggers but de Gossett niggers in de woods? Tell me dat. You may go all 'roun' here for forty mile, en holler at eve'y plantation gate en ax 'em how many niggers dey got in de woods, en dey'll tell you na'er one. Dey'll tell you ids twel you holler at de Gossett gate an' dar dey'll holler back: Forty-'leven in de woods an' spectin' mo' ter foller. Now, how come dat? When you stoop in de road fer ter git a drink er water you kin allers tell when dey's sump'n dead up de creek." Still Aaron swept the water back with his oar, and still the bateau went up stream. One mile--two miles--two miles and a half. At last Aaron headed the boat toward the shore. "What you gwine ter lan' on the same side wid Jim Simmons fer?" Uncle Andy inquired indignantly. "Ain't you got no sense? Don't you know he'll ketch you ef you do dat? You reckon he gwine ter foller you ter de landin' en den turn right 'roun' in his tracks en go back?" "I'll hide in the big swamp," replied Aaron. "Hide!" exclaimed Uncle Andy. "Don't you know dey done foun' out whar you stays at? A'er one er dem Gossett niggers'll swap der soul's salvation fer a bellyful er vittles. Ef dey wuz ter ketch you des dry so, I'd be sorry fer you, but ef you gwine ter run right in de trap, you'll hatter fin' some un else fer ter cry atter you. You put me in min' er de rabbit. Man come 'long wid his dogs, en jump de rabbit out er his warm bed, en he done gone. Dogs take atter him, but dey ain't nowhar. He done out er sight. Den dey trail 'im en trail 'im, but dat ain't do no good. Rabbit done gone. De man, he let de dogs trail. He take his stan' right at de place whar rabbit jump fum. He prime he gun, en wink he eye. De dogs trail, en trail, en trail, en it seem like dey gwine out er hearin'. Man stan' right still en wink de t'er eye. En, bless gracious! 'fo' you know it, _bang_ go de gun en down drap de rabbit. Stidder gwine on 'bout his business, he done come back en de man bag 'im. Dat 'zackly de way you gwine do--but go on, go on! De speckled pullet hollered shoo ter hawk, but what good did dat do?" By this time the bateau had floated under a tree that leaned from the river bank over the water. Aaron laid his oar in the boat and steadied it by holding to a limb. Then he turned to Uncle Andy. "Maybe some day I can help you. So long!" He lifted himself into the tree. As he did so a dog ran down the bank whining. "Wait!" cried Uncle Andy. "Wait, en look out! I hear a dog in de bushes dar. Ef it's a Simmons dog drap back in de boat en I'll take you right straight to Sally Ward." "It's my dog," said Aaron. "He's been waiting for me." It was Rambler. "Desso! I wish you mighty well, honey." With that Uncle Andy backed the boat out into the river, headed it down stream, and aided the current by an occasional stroke of his oar, which he knew well how to use. Standing on the hill above the river, Aaron saw that the red signal lights in the east had been put out, and it was now broad day. In the top of a pine a quarter of a mile away a faint shimmer of sunlight glowed a moment and then disappeared. Again it appeared and this time to stay. He stood listening, and it seemed to him that he could hear in the far-off distance the faint musical cry of hounds. Perhaps he was mistaken; perhaps it was a fox-hunting pack, or, perhaps-- He turned and moved rapidly to the Swamp, which he found wide awake and ready to receive him. So vigorous was the Swamp, and so jealous of its possessions, that it rarely permitted the summer sun to shine upon its secrets. If a stray beam came through, very well, but the Swamp never had a fair glimpse of the sun except in winter, when the glare was shorn of its heat, all the shadows pointing to the north, where the cold winds come from. At midday, in the season when the Swamp was ready for business, the shade was dense--dense enough to give the effect of twilight. At sunrise dawn had hardly made its way to the places where the mysteries wandered back and forth, led by Jack-o'-the-Lantern. But the Willis-Whistlers knew when dawn came in the outer world, and they hid their shrill pipes in the canes and disappeared; but the mysteries still had an hour to frolic--an hour in which they might dispense with the services of Jack-o'-the-Lantern. So Aaron found them there--all his old friends and a new one, the old brindle steer to whom he sometimes gave a handful of salt. The brindle steer was supposed to be superannuated, but he was not. He had the hollow horn, as the negroes called it, and this had made him thin and weak for a time, but he was now in fair trim, the Swamp proving to be a well-conducted hospital, stocked with an abundance of pleasant medicine. He was not of the Swamp, but he had been taken in out of charity, and he was the more welcome on that account. Moreover, he had introduced himself to the White Pig in a sugarcane patch, and they got on famously together--one making luscious cuds of the green blades and the other smacking his mouth over the sweets to be found in the stalks. Aaron was glad to see the Brindle Steer, and Brindle was so glad to see Aaron that he must needs hoist his tail in the air and lower his horns, which were remarkably long and sharp, and pretend that he was on the point of charging, pawing the ground and making a noise with his mouth that was something between a bleat and a bellow. It was such a queer sound that Aaron laughed, seeing which Brindle shook his head and capered around the Son of Ben Ali as if trying to find some vulnerable point in his body that would offer small resistance to the long horns. "You are well, Brindle," said Aaron. "No, Son of Ben Ali, not well--only a great deal better," replied Brindle. "That is something, Brindle; be glad, as I am," remarked Aaron. "You may have work to do to-day--with your horns." Brindle drew a long breath that sounded like a tremendous sigh. "It is well you say with my horns, Son of Ben Ali. No cart for me. When the time comes for the cart I shall have--what do you call it?" "The hollow horn," suggested Aaron. "Yes, two hollow horns, Son of Ben Ali. No cart for me. Though there is nothing the matter with my horns, the people shall believe that both are hollow. When I was sick, Son of Ben Ali, something was the matter with all nine of my stomachs." "Nine! You have but three, Brindle," said Aaron. "Only three, Son of Ben Ali? Well, when I was sick I thought there were nine of them. What am I to do to-day?" "Go not too far, Brindle. When you hear hounds running through the fields from the river come to the big poplar. There you will find me and the White Grunter." "I'm here, Son of Ben Ali, and here I stay. All night I have fed on the sprouts of the young cane, and once I waded too far in the quagmire. I'm tired. I'll lie here and chew my cud. But no yoke, Son of Ben Ali, and no cart." Whereupon old Brindle made himself comfortable by lying down and chewing his cud between short pauses. [Illustration: BRINDLE AND AARON] * * * * * Meanwhile Mr. Jim Simmons, accompanied only by George Gossett (the father had turned back in disgust soon after the chase began), was galloping across the country in a somewhat puzzled frame of mind. When Mr. Simmons had given one short blast on his horn to warn his dogs that a hunt was on the programme, the three men rode along the plantation path toward the Abercrombie place. "Now, Colonel," remarked Mr. Simmons as they started out, "I want you to keep your eyes on that red dog. It'll be worth your while." "Is that Sound?" George Gossett asked. "Well, sometimes I call him Sound on account of his voice, and sometimes I call him Sandy on account of his color, but just you watch his motions." Pride was in the tone of Mr. Simmons's voice. The dog was trotting in the path ahead of the horse. Suddenly he put his nose to the ground and seemed to be so delighted at what he found there that his tail began to wag. He lifted his head, and ran along the path for fifty yards or more. Then he put his nose to the ground again, and kept it there as he cantered along the narrow trail. Then he began to trot, and finally, with something of a snort, turned and ran back the way he had come. He had not given voice to so much as a whimper. "Don't he open on track?" asked George Gossett. "He'll cry loud enough and long enough when he gets down to business," Mr. Simmons explained. "Just you keep your eyes on him." "Fiddlesticks. He's tracking us," exclaimed Mr. Gossett contemptuously. "But, Colonel, if he is, I'm willing to take him out and kill him, and, as he stands, I would take no man's hundred dollars for him. I'll see what he's up to." Suiting the action to the word, Mr. Simmons turned his horse's head and galloped after Sound, who was now moving rapidly, followed by all the expectant dogs. Nothing was left for the two Gossetts to do but to follow Mr. Simmons, though the elder plainly showed his indignation, not only by his actions, but by the use of a few words that are either too choice or too emphatic to be found in a school dictionary. Sound ran to the point where Aaron and the woman had stopped. He followed the woman's scent to her cabin; but this not proving satisfactory, he turned and came back to where the two had stood. There he picked up Aaron's scent, ran around in a small circle, and then, with a loud, wailing cry, as if he had been hit with a cudgel, he was off, the rest of the dogs joining in, their cries making a musical chorus that fell on the ear with a lusty, pleasant twang as it echoed through the woods. "Wait," said Mr. Gossett, as Mr. Simmons made a movement to follow the dogs. "This is a fool's errand you are starting on. The nigger we're after wouldn't come in a mile of this place. It's one of the Spivey niggers the dogs are tracking. Or one of the Ward niggers. I'm too old to go galloping about the country just to see the dogs run. George, you can go if you want to, but I'd advise you to go in the house and go to bed. That's what I'll do. Simmons, if you catch the right nigger, well and good. If I thought the dogs were on his track, I'd ride behind them the balance of the week. But it's out of reason. We know where the nigger goes, and the dogs haven't been there." "I'll risk all that, Colonel. If we don't come up with the nigger, why, it costs nobody nothing," remarked Mr. Simmons. "I'll go along and see the fun, pap," said George. "Well, be back by dinner time. I want you to do something for me." Mr. Gossett called a negro and had his horse taken, while George and Mr. Simmons galloped after the hounds, which were now going out of the woods into the old, worn-out fields beyond. As Mr. Simmons put it, they were "running pretty smooth." They were not going as swiftly as the modern hounds go, but they were going rapidly enough to give the horses as much work as they wanted to do. The hounds were really after Aaron. Mr. Simmons suspected it, but he didn't know it. He was simply taking the chances. But his hopes fell as the dogs struck into the plantation road leading to the river. "If they were after the runaway, what on earth did he mean by going in this direction?" Mr. Simmons asked himself. He knew the dogs were following the scent of a negro, and he knew the negro had been to the Abercrombie place, but more than this he did not know. Then it occurred to him that a runaway with some sense and judgment might be expected to go to the river, steal a bateau, and float down stream to avoid the hounds. He had heard of such tricks in his day and time, and his hopes began to rise. But they fell again, for he suddenly remembered that the negro who left the scent which the hounds were following could not possibly have known that he was to be hunted with dogs, consequently he would not be going to the river to steal a boat. But wait! Another thought struck Mr. Simmons. Didn't the Colonel send one of his nigger women to the quarters on the Abercrombie plantation? He surely did. Didn't the woman say she had seen the runaway? Of course she did. Weren't the chances ten to one that when she saw him she told him that Simmons would be after him in the morning? Exactly so! The result of this rapid summing up of the situation was so satisfactory to Mr. Simmons that he slapped the pommel of his saddle and cried:-- "By jing, I've got him!" "Got who?" inquired George Gossett, who was riding close up. "Wait and see!" replied Mr. Simmons. "Oh, I'll wait," said young Gossett, "and so will you." VI. THE HUNT ENDS. It will be seen that Mr. Jim Simmons, in his crude way, was a very shrewd reasoner. He didn't "guess;" he "reckoned," and it cannot be denied that he came very near the truth. You will remember that when we children play hide-the-switch the one that hides it guides those who are hunting for it by making certain remarks. When they are near where the switch is hid, the hider says, "You burn; you are afire," but when they get further away from the hiding-place the word is, "You are cold; you are freezing." In hunting for Aaron, Mr. Jim Simmons was burning, for he had come very close to solving the problem that the fugitive had set for him. Mr. Simmons was so sure he was right in his reasoning that he cheered his dogs on lustily and touched up his horse. George Gossett did the same, and dogs, horses, and men went careering along the plantation road to the river landing. The sun was now above the treetops, and the chill air of the morning was beginning to surrender to its influence. The course of the river was marked out in mid-air by a thin line of white mist that hung wavering above the stream. The dogs ran crying to the landing, and there they stopped. One of the younger hounds was for wading across; but Sound, the leader, knew better than that. He ran down the river bank a hundred yards and then circled back across the field until he reached a point some distance above the landing. Then he returned, his keen nose always to the ground. At the landing he looked across the river and whined eagerly. Mr. Simmons seemed to be very lucky that morning, for just as he and George Gossett galloped to the landing a boatload of field hands started across from the other side, old Uncle Andy coming with it to row it back. On the other side, too, Mr. Simmons saw a lady standing,--a trim figure dressed in black,--and near her a negro boy was holding a horse that she had evidently ridden to the landing. This was the lady to whom Uncle Andy sometimes referred as Sally Ward, and for whom he had a sincere affection. The river was not wide at the landing, and the boatload of field hands, propelled by four muscular arms, was not long in crossing. As the negroes jumped ashore Sound went among them and examined each one with his nose, but he returned to the landing and looked across and whined. They saluted Mr. Simmons and George Gossett politely, and then went on their way, whistling, singing, and cracking jokes, and laughing loudly. "Was a bateau missing from this side this morning?" Mr. Simmons asked Uncle Andy. "Suh?" Uncle Andy put his hand to his ear, affecting to be very anxious to hear what Mr. Simmons had said. The question was repeated, whereat Uncle Andy laughed loudly. "You sho is a witch fer guessin', suh! How come you ter know 'bout de missin' boat?" Mr. Simmons smiled under this flattery. "I thought maybe a boat would be missing from this side this morning," he said. "Dey sho wuz, suh; but I dunner how de name er goodness you come ter know 'bout it, kaze I wuz on de bank cross dar 'fo' 't wuz light, en I ain't see you on dis side. Yes, suh! De boat wuz gone. Dey foun' it 'bout a mile down de river, en on account er de shoals down dar, dey had ter take it out'n de water en fetch it back yer in de waggin. Yes, suh! dish yer de very boat." "Where's the ford?" Mr. Simmons inquired. "I used to know, but I've forgotten." "Right below yer, suh!" replied Uncle Andy. "You'll see de paff whar de stock cross at. B'ar down stream, suh, twel you halfway cross, den b'ar up. Ef you do dat you won't git yo' stirrup wet." The ford was easily found, but the crossing was not at all comfortable. In fact, Uncle Andy had maliciously given Mr. Simmons the wrong directions. The two men rode into the water, bore down the stream, and their horses were soon floundering in deep water. They soon touched bottom again, and in a few moments they were safe on the opposite bank,--safe, but dripping wet and in no very good humor. Mr. Simmons's dogs, obedient to his call, followed his horse into the water and swam across. Sound clambered out, shook himself, and ran back to the landing where the lady was waiting for the boat to return. It had been Mr. Simmons's intention to proceed at once down the river to the point where the boat had been found, and where he was sure the dogs would pick up the scent of the runaway; but he found that the way was impossible for horses. He must needs go to the landing and inquire the way. Uncle Andy had just made the middle seat in the bateau more comfortable for his mistress by placing his coat, neatly folded, on the hard plank, and Mrs. Ward was preparing to accept the old negro's invitation to "git aboard, mistiss," when Mr. Simmons and George Gossett rode up. Both raised their hats as the lady glanced toward them. They were hardly in a condition to present themselves, Mr. Simmons explained, and then he inquired, with as much politeness as he could command, how to reach the place where the missing boat had been found. "The missing boat? Why, I never heard of it till now. Was one of the bateaux missing this morning?" the lady asked Uncle Andy. "Yessum. When de fishin' good en de niggers put out der set-hooks, dey ain't many mornin's in de week dat one er de yuther er deze boats ain't missin'!" "I never heard of it before." "No, mistiss; de boys 'low you wouldn't keer nohow. Dey runs um over de shoals, en dar dey leaves um." "But both bateaux are here." "Yessum. We fetches um back 'roun' by de road in de waggin." "Who carried the bateau over the shoals this morning?" "Me, ma'am. Nobody ain't know nuttin' 'bout it but de two Elliks, en when dat ar gemmun dar ax me des now if dey wa'n't a boat missin' fum 'roun' yer dis mornin' hit sorter flung me back on myse'f. I 'low 'Yes, suh,' but he sho flung me back on myse'f." Uncle Andy began to chuckle so heartily that his mistress asked him what he was laughing at, though she well knew. "I hit myse'f on de funny bone, mistiss, en when dat's de case I bleege ter laugh." At this the lady laughed, and it was a genial, merry, and musical laugh. Mr. Simmons smiled, but so grimly that it had the appearance of a threat. "And so this is Mr. Simmons, the famous negro hunter?" said Mrs. Ward. "Well, Mr. Simmons, I'm glad to see you. I've long had something to say to you. Whenever you are sent for to catch one of my negroes I want you to come straight to the house on the hill yonder and set your dogs on me. When one of my negroes goes to the woods, you may know it's my fault." "Trufe, too!" remarked Uncle Andy, under his breath, but loud enough for all to hear. "That may be so, ma'am," replied Mr. Simmons; "but among a passel of niggers you'll find some bad ones. What little pleasure I get out of this business is in seeing and hearing my dogs run. Somebody's got to catch the runaways, and it might as well be me as anybody." "Why, certainly, Mr. Simmons. You have become celebrated. Your name is trumpeted about in all the counties round. You are better known than a great many of our rising young politicians." The lady's manner was very gracious, but there was a gleam of humor in her eye. Mr. Simmons didn't know whether she was laughing at him or paying him a compliment; but he thought it would be safe to change the subject. "May I ask the old man there a few questions?" he inquired. "Why, certainly," Mrs. Ward responded. "Cross-examine him to your heart's content. But be careful about it, Mr. Simmons. He's old and feeble, and his mind is not as good as it used to be. I heard him telling the house girl last night that he was losing his senses." "De lawsy massy, mistiss! You know I wuz des projickin' wid dat gal. Dey ain't any na'er nigger in de country got any mo' sense dan what I got. You know dat yo'se'f." "Was anybody with you in the bateau when you went down the river this morning?" "Yes, suh, dey wuz," replied Uncle Andy solemnly. "Who was it?" "Well, suh"-- "Don't get excited, now, Andrew," his mistress interrupted. "Tell Mr. Simmons the truth. You know your weakness." If Uncle Andy's skin had been white or even brown, Mr. Simmons would have seen him blushing violently. He knew his mistress was making fun of him, but he was not less embarrassed on that account. He looked at Mrs. Ward and laughed. "Speak right out," said the lady. "Who was with you in the bateau?" "Little Essek, ma'm,--my gran-chil'. I'm bleedge ter have some un long fer ter hol' de boat steady when I go ter look at my set-hooks. Little Essek wuz de fust one I see, en I holler'd at 'im." "Did anybody cross from the other side this morning?" asked Mr. Simmons. "Not dat I knows un, less'n it wuz Criddle's Jerry. He's got a wife at de Abercrombie place. He fotch Marse Criddle's buggy to be worked on at our blacksmif shop, en he rid de mule home dis mornin'. Little Essek had 'er down yer 'bout daylight waitin' fer Jerry, kaze he say he got ter be home soon ef not befo'." Uncle Andy had an imagination. Jerry had brought the buggy and had ridden the mule home. He also had a wife at the Abercrombie place, but his master had given him no "pass" to visit her, thinking it might delay his return. For that reason Jerry did not cross the river the night before. "And here we've been chasing Criddle's Jerry all the morning," remarked George Gossett to Mr. Simmons. "Pap was right." "But what was the nigger doing at your place?" Mr. Simmons was still arguing the matter in his mind. "Don't ask me," replied George Gossett. "Dey ain't no 'countin' fer a nigger, suh," remarked Uncle Andy affably. "Dey ain't no 'countin' fer 'em when dey ol' ez I is, much less when dey young en soople like Criddle's Jerry." Under the circumstances there was nothing for Mr. Simmons and young Gossett to do but to turn short about and recross the river. It was fortunate for them that a negro boy was waiting to take Mrs. Ward's horse across the river. They followed him into the ford, and made the crossing without difficulty. Then the two men held a council of war. Uncle Andy had another name for it. "I wish you'd look at um jugglin'," he said to his mistress, as he helped her from the bateau. George Gossett was wet, tired, and disgusted, and he would not hear to Mr. Simmons's proposition to "beat about the bushes" in the hope that the dogs would strike Aaron's trail. "We started wrong," he said. "Let's go home, and when we try for the nigger again, let's start right." "Well, tell your father I'll be back the day after to-morrow if I don't catch his nigger. I'm obliged to go home now and change my duds if I don't strike a trail. It's a true saying that there's more mud than water in the Oconee. I'll take a short cut. I'll go up the river a mile or such a matter and ride across to Dawson's old mill road. That will take me home by dinner time." As it happened, Mr. Simmons didn't take dinner at home that day, nor did he return to Gossett's at the time he appointed. He called his dogs and turned his horse's head up stream. He followed the course of the river for a mile or more, and then bore away from it. While he was riding along, lost in his reflections, he suddenly heard Sound giving tongue far ahead. That sagacious dog had unexpectedly hit on Aaron's trail, and he lost no time in announcing the fact as loudly as he could. Mr. Simmons was very much surprised. "If that blamed dog is fooling me this time I'll feel like killing him," he remarked to himself. The rest of the dogs joined in, and they were all soon footing it merrily in the direction of the big swamp. The blue falcon, circling high in the air, suddenly closed her wings and dropped into the leafy bosom of the Swamp. This was the first messenger. That red joker, the Fox Squirrel, had heard the wailing cry of the hounds, and scampered down the big pine. Halfway down he made a flying leap into the live oak, and then from tree to tree he went running, scrambling, jumping. But let him go never so fast, the blue falcon was before him, and let the blue falcon swoop never so swiftly, the message was before her. For the White Grunter had ears. Ooft! he had heard the same wailing sound when the hounds were after him before he was old enough to know what his tusks were for. And Rambler had ears. In fact, the Swamp itself had ears, and for a few moments it held its breath (as the saying is) and listened. Listened intently,--and then quietly, cautiously, and serenely began to dispose of its forces. Near the big poplar Aaron had a pile of stones. They had been selected to fit his hand; they were not too large nor too small; they were not too light nor too heavy. This pile of stones was Aaron's ammunition, and he took his stand by it. The White Pig rose slowly from his bed of mud, where he had been wallowing, and shook himself. Then he scratched himself by rubbing his side against a beech-tree. The Brindle Steer slowly dragged himself through the canes and tall grass, and came to Aaron's tree, where he paused with such a loud sigh that Rambler jumped away. "It is the track dogs," he said. "Yes; I'm sorry," replied Aaron. "When the big black dog comes stand aside and leave him to me." "Gooft! not if it's the one that chewed my ear," remarked the White Pig. "I came this morning by the thunder-wood tree," said Aaron. "Hide in the grass near there, and when they pass come charging after them." The dogs came nearer and nearer, and the Swamp could hear Mr. Simmons cheering them on. As for Mr. Simmons, he was sure of one thing--the dogs were trailing either a wildcat or a runaway. He had never trained them not to follow the scent of a wildcat, and he now regretted it; for his keen ear, alive to differences that would not attract the attention of those who had never made a study of the temperament of dogs, detected a more savage note in their cry than he was accustomed to hear. Nor did his ear deceive him. Sound was following the scent of Aaron, but his companions were trailing Rambler, who had accompanied Aaron, and this fact gave a fiercer twang to their cry. When Aaron was going from Gossett's to the river landing, Rambler was not trotting at his heels, but scenting ahead, sometimes far to the right and at other times far to the left. But in going from the river to the Swamp it was otherwise. Rambler had to hold his head high to prevent Aaron's heel from striking him on the under jaw. His scent lay with that of the Son of Ben Ali. For that reason Mr. Simmons was puzzled by the peculiar cry of the dogs. He had trained them not to follow the scent of hares, coons, and foxes, and if they were not trailing a runaway he knew, or thought he knew, that they must be chasing a wildcat. Pluto, the crop-eared catch dog, galloped by his master's horse. He was a fierce-looking brute, but Mr. Simmons knew that he would be no match for a wildcat. [Illustration: IN THE SWAMP] When the dogs entered the Swamp Mr. Simmons tried to follow, but he soon found his way barred by the undergrowth, by the trailing vines, the bending trees, the rank canes. He must needs leave his horse or lead it when he entered the Swamp. He chose to do neither, but sat in his saddle and waited, Pluto waiting with him, ready to go in when the word was given. When the hounds entered the Swamp they were in full cry. They struggled through the vines, the briers, and the canes, and splashed through the spreading arms of the lagoon. Suddenly they ceased to cry. Then Mr. Simmons heard a strange snarling and snapping, an ominous crashing, fierce snorting, and then howls and screams of pain from his hounds. "A cat, by jing!" he exclaimed aloud. Intent on saving his hounds if possible, he gave Pluto the word, and that savage brute plunged into the Swamp with gleaming red jaws and eager eyes. Mr. Simmons never really knew what happened to his hounds, but the Swamp knew. When they splashed past the White Pig that fierce guardian of the Swamp sprang from his lair and rushed after them. They tried hard to escape, but the hindmost was caught. The White Pig ran by his side for the space of three full seconds, then, lowering his head, he raised it again with a toss sidewise, and the hound was done for--ripped from flank to backbone as neatly as a butcher could have done it. Another was caught on the horn of the red steer and flung sheer into the lagoon. Sound, the leader, fell into Rambler's jaws, and some old scores were settled there and then. Pluto came charging blindly in. He saw the White Pig and made for him, experience telling him that a hog will run when a dog is after it; but experience did him small service here. The White Pig charged to meet him, seeing which Pluto swerved to one side, but he was not nimble enough. With a downward swoop and an upward sweep of his snout the White Pig caught Pluto under the shoulder with his tusk and gave him a taste of warfare in the Swamp. Another dog would have left the field, but Pluto had a temper. He turned and rushed at the White Pig, and the Swamp prepared to witness a battle royal. But just then there was a whizzing, zooning sound in the air, a thud, and Pluto tumbled over and fell in a heap. Aaron had ended the cur's career as suddenly as if he had been blown to pieces by a cannon. There was one stone missing from the store of ammunition at the foot of the big poplar. Meanwhile, Rambler was worrying Sound, and the White Pig, seeing no other enemy in sight, went running to the scene of that fray. His onslaught was so furious that Rambler thought it good manners to get out of Grunter's way. So he loosed his hold on Sound, and jumped aside. Sound was still able to do some jumping on his own account, and he turned tail and ran, just as the White Pig was about to trample him under foot. But he was not quick enough to escape with a whole skin. The tusk of the White Pig touched him on the hind leg, and where it touched it tore. Mr. Simmons had five dogs when he came to the Swamp. Sound came out to him after the morning's adventure, but had to be carried home across the saddle bow. Two days later another of the dogs went limping home. Three dogs were left in the Swamp. Mr. Simmons blew his horn, and called for some time, and then he slowly went his way. He had a great tale to tell when he got home. His dogs had jumped a wildcat at the river, chased him to the Swamp, and there they found a den of wildcats. There was a great fight, but three of the dogs were killed, and the cats were so fierce that it was as much as Mr. Simmons could do to escape with his life. Indeed, according to his tale, the biggest cat followed him to the edge of the Swamp. And he told this moving tale so often that he really believed it, and felt that he was a sort of hero. As for the Swamp, it had a rare frolic that night. All the mysteries came forth and danced, and the Willis-Whistlers piped as they had never piped before, and old Mr. Bullfrog joined in with his fine bass voice. And the next morning Mr. Buzzard, who roosted in the loblolly pine, called his sanitary committee together, and soon there was nothing left of Pluto and his companions to pester the Swamp. VII. AARON SEES THE SIGNAL. The Swamp had a fine frolic on the night of the day that it routed Mr. Simmons's dogs, but Aaron was not there to see it. He knew that, for some days at least, he would be free from active pursuit. The only danger he would have to encounter would come from the patrollers,--the negroes called them "patterollers,"--who visited the various plantations at uncertain intervals. If he began to go about with too much confidence it was entirely possible he would run into the arms of the patrollers, and he would have small opportunity to escape. Therefore, while he knew that he would not be hunted by dogs for some time to come, he also knew he must be constantly on the alert to guard against surprises. The most active member of the patrol was George Gossett himself; and after he and his companions had visited Mr. Fullalove's distillery, which they never failed to do when they went patrolling, they were not in a condition to be entirely responsible for their actions. They had nothing to restrain them on such occasions except the knowledge that some of the owners of the negroes would jump at an excuse to hold them to personal account. And this was not a pleasant result to contemplate, especially after a night's spree. For these reasons Aaron was much more anxious to elude George Gossett and the patrollers than he was to escape from Mr. Jim Simmons's hounds. He knew he must avoid the negro cabins, which were traps for the unwary when the patrollers were around, and he knew he must keep off the public road--the "big road," as it was called--and not venture too often on the frequently traveled plantation paths. Young Gossett and his companions had a way of dismounting from their horses out of sight and hearing of the negro quarters on the plantations that lay on their "beat." Leaving the animals in charge of one man, they would cautiously post themselves at the various fence crossings and paths frequented by the negroes, and in this way capture all who were going to the negro quarters or coming away. If a negro had a "pass" or a permit from his master, well and good. If he had none--well, it would be a sorry night's frolic for him. But Aaron had one great advantage over all the slaves who went to and fro between the plantations after nightfall. He had Rambler to warn him; and yet, after an experience that he had on one occasion, he felt that he must be more cautious than ever. It happened not many weeks before he was hunted by Mr. Simmons's hounds. In trying to kill a moccasin, Rambler had the misfortune to be bitten by the serpent. The wound was on his jowl, and in spite of all that Aaron could do the poor dog's head and neck swelled fearfully. When night came the Son of Ben Ali made Rambler as comfortable as possible, bruising herbs and barks and binding them to the wound, and making him a soft bed. On that particular night Aaron felt that he ought to visit the Little Master, and yet he was doubtful about it. He finally concluded to wait until late, and then go to the hill where, a few weeks later, he parted from Chunky Riley. If a light was shining behind the Little Master's curtain he would go and drive the red goblin, Pain, from the room. He went to the hill, and the light was shining. The little red goblin was up to his old tricks. As he went along Aaron fell to thinking about the Little Master, and wondering why the child should be constantly given over to suffering. He forgot all about himself in trying to solve this problem, forgot to be cautious, forgot that he was a fugitive, and went blindly along the path to the fence above the spring lot. There, without warning, he found himself face to face with George Gossett. The rest of the patrollers were posted about at various points. Perhaps George Gossett was as much surprised as Aaron. At any rate, he said nothing. He took a half-consumed cigar from his lips, and flipped the ashes from it. No doubt he intended to say something, yet he was in no hurry. His pistol was in his coat pocket, his hand grasped the handle, and his finger was on the trigger. He felt that he was prepared for any emergency--and so he was, except for the particular emergency that Aaron then and there invented. [Illustration: RAMBLER'S FIGHT WITH THE MOCCASIN] The Son of Ben Ali took off his hat, to show how polite he was in the dark, advanced a step, and then suddenly plunged at young Gossett headforemost. Struck fairly in the pit of the stomach by this battering ram, the young man, who was not too sober to begin with, went down like a log, and Aaron ran away like a deer. The worst of it was that when George Gossett recovered consciousness and was able to call his nearest companion to his assistance, that individual simply laughed at the amazing story. "Why, it don't stand to reason," he said. "There ain't a living nigger that'd dast to do sech a thing, and the dead ones couldn't." "Didn't you hear him when he butted me?" inquired young Gossett feebly. "I heard you when you fell off the fence," replied the other. "I allowed that you had jumped down to let the blood git in your feet." "I tell you," insisted the young man, "he come up so close I could 'a' put my hand on him. He took off his hat as polite as you please, and the next thing I know'd I didn't know nothing." "Shucks!" exclaimed his companion as loudly as he dared to talk; "you jest about set up on the fence there and went to sleep, and fell off. I told you about them low-wines at the still; I told you when you was a-swilling 'em, same as a fattening hog, that if you didn't look out you'd have to be toted home. And here you are!" Young Gossett had to go home, and as he was the leading spirit the rest had to go with him. He managed to sit his horse after a fashion, but it was as much as he could do. Once in the big road, his companions made many rough jokes at his expense, and they advised him never to tell such another tale as that if he didn't want the public at large to "hoot at him." The adventure taught Aaron a new lesson in caution; and even now, after Mr. Simmons's famous pack of "nigger-dogs" had been all but destroyed, he felt that it was necessary to be more cautious than ever, even when Rambler accompanied him. He had no idea that Mr. Simmons thought his dogs had been attacked by wildcats. In fact, he thought that Mr. Simmons had full knowledge of his movements, and he was prepared any day to see Mr. Gossett gather his neighbors together, especially the young men, surround the swamp armed with shotguns, and try in that way to capture him. But when night fell on the day of his experience with Mr. Simmons's dogs, he resolved to visit Little Crotchet. He was tired; he had traveled many miles, and had had little sleep, but sleep could be called at any time, and would come at the call. Only at night could he visit the Little Master. In the daytime he could stretch himself on a bed of fragrant pine-needles, with odorous heart-leaves for his pillow, and take his ease. So now, after all the turmoil and confusion he had experienced in field and wood, he went to the hill from which he could see the light in Little Crotchet's window. Usually it was late before Aaron would venture to climb to the window, but there was one signal that made it urgent for him to go. When the light was suddenly extinguished and as suddenly relit, it was a signal that Aaron must come as soon as he could. This was Little Crotchet's invention and he thought a great deal of it. And it must be admitted that it was very simple and complete. Sitting on the hill, Aaron saw the light shining through the red curtain. Then it disappeared and the window remained dark for a minute. Then the light suddenly shone out again. The Arab glanced at the two stars that revolve around the north star, and judged it was not more than nine o'clock. What could the Little Master want at this early hour? No need to ask that question; Little Crotchet had a great deal of business on hand. In the first place, while Mr. Simmons's hounds were hunting Aaron, Timoleon, the Black Stallion, had escaped from his stable, and he created a great uproar on the place. When the negro who usually fed and groomed him went into the lot to catch the horse, he found that the catcher is sometimes caught. For Timoleon, made furious by his freedom from the confinement of the halter and the four walls of the stable, seized the man by the shoulder and came near inflicting a fatal injury. Nothing saved the unfortunate negro but the fact that Randall, who chanced to be walking about the lot, made a pretense of attacking the horse with a wagon whip. Timoleon dropped the negro and made a furious rush at Randall; but Randall was in reach of the fence, and so made his escape, while the wounded negro took advantage of the opportunity to stagger, stumble, and crawl to a place of safety. This done, he lay as one dead. He was carried to his cabin, and a messenger was sent, hot-foot, for the doctor, who lived in the neighborhood not far away. Little Crotchet witnessed a part of the scene, and, oh! he was angry. It was outrageous, wicked, horrible, that a horse should be so cruel. He sat on the Gray Pony and shook his fist impotently at the Black Stallion. "Oh, if I had you where I could put the lash on you, I'd make you pay for this, you mean, cruel creature!" Singular to say, Timoleon whinnied when he heard the Little Master's voice, and came galloping to the fence where the Gray Pony stood, and put his head over the top rail. "Blest ef I don't b'lieve he know you, honey," said Randall. This somewhat mollified Little Crotchet, but he was still angry. "Why are you so mean and cruel! Oh, I'll make somebody lash you well for this!" The Black Stallion whinnied again in the friendliest way. "Is anybody ever see de beat er dat!" exclaimed Randall. Nothing could be done, and so the Black Stallion roamed about the lot at will, and that night when the mules came in from the field they had to be fed and housed under the ginhouse shelter. The White-Haired Master was away from home on business, but the whole plantation knew that he prized Timoleon above all the other horses on the place, and so neither Turin nor Randall would take harsh measures to recapture the horse. They were careful enough, however, to have the high fence strengthened where they found it weak. This was one of the reasons why Little Crotchet wanted to see Aaron. But there was also another reason. The lad wanted to introduce the runaway to a new friend of his, Mr. Richard Hudspeth, his tutor, who had been employed to come all the way from Massachusetts to take charge of the lad's education, which was already fair for his age. In fact, what Little Crotchet knew about books was astonishing when it is remembered that he never went to school. He had been taught to read and write and cipher by his mother, and this opened the door of his father's library, which was as large as it was well selected. Mr. Hudspeth had been recommended by an old friend who had served two years in Congress with Mr. Abercrombie, and there was no trouble in coming to an agreement, for Mr. Hudspeth had reasons of his own for desiring to visit the South. He belonged to the anti-slavery society, and was an aggressive abolitionist. He was a fair-skinned young man, with a silk-like yellow beard, active in his movements, and had a voice singularly sweet and well modulated. He talked with great nicety of expression, and had a certain daintiness of manner which, in so far as it suggested femininity, was calculated to give the casual observer a wrong idea of Mr. Hudspeth's disposition and temperament. He had been installed as Little Crotchet's tutor for more than a week. The lad did not like him at first. His preciseness seemed to smack too much of method and discipline,--the terror of childhood and youth. And there was a queer inflection to his sentences, and his pronunciation had a strange and an unfamiliar twang. But these things soon became familiar to the lad, as Mr. Hudspeth, little by little, won his attention and commanded his interest. The Teacher (for he was emphatically a Teacher in the best sense, and not a Tutor in any sense) saw at the beginning that the dull routine of the text-books would be disastrous here, both to health and spirits. And so he fell back on his own experience, and became himself the mouthpiece of all good books he had ever read, and of all great thoughts that had ever planted themselves in his mind. And he entered with real enthusiasm into all Little Crotchet's thoughts, and drew him out until the soul of the lad would have been no more clearly defined had every detail been painted on canvas and hung on the wall before the Teacher's eyes. It was this Teacher that Little Crotchet wanted Aaron to see, a fact which, taken by itself, was sufficient evidence that the lad had grown fond of Mr. Hudspeth. Little Crotchet was very cunning about it, too. He invited the Teacher to come to his room after tea, and when Mr. Hudspeth came the lad, lying upon his bed, put the question plumply:-- "Do you want to see my runaway?" "Your runaway? I don't understand you." "Don't you know what a runaway is? Why, of course you do. A runaway negro." "Ah! a fugitive slave. Yes; I have seen a few." "But you've never seen my runaway at all. He isn't a negro. He's an Arab. I'll let you see him if you promise never to tell. It's a great secret. I'm so small, and--and so crippled, you know, nobody would ever think I had a runaway?" "Never fear me. Do you keep him in a box and permit only your best friends to peep at him occasionally?" "Oh, no," said Little Crotchet, laughing at the idea. "He's a sure-enough runaway. He's been advertised in the newspapers. And they had the funniest picture of him you ever saw. They made him look like all the rest of the runaways that have their pictures in the Milledgeville papers,--a little bit of a man, bare-headed and stooped over, carrying a cane on his shoulder with a bundle hanging on the end of it. Sister cut it out for me. I'll show it to you to-morrow." Mr. Hudspeth was very much interested in the runaway, and said he would be glad to see him. "Well, you must do as I tell you. If I could jump up and jump about I wouldn't ask you, you know. Take the candle in your hand, go out on the stair landing, close the door after you, and stand there until you hear me call." Mr. Hudspeth couldn't understand what all this meant, but he concluded to humor the joke. So he did as he was bid. He carried the candle from the room, closed the door, and stood on the landing until he heard Little Crotchet calling. When he reëntered the room he held the candle above his head and looked about him. He evidently expected to see the runaway. "This is equal to joining a secret society," he said. "Where is your runaway? Has he escaped?" "I just wanted to make the window dark a moment and then bright again. That is my signal. If he sees it, he'll come. Don't you think it's cunning?" "I shall certainly think so if the runaway comes," replied Mr. Hudspeth somewhat doubtfully. "He has never failed yet," said Little Crotchet. "If he fails now, it will be because Jim Simmons's hounds have caught him, or else he is too tired to come out on the hill and watch for the signal." "Were the bloodhounds after him?" inquired Mr. Hudspeth, with a frown. "Bloodhounds!" exclaimed Little Crotchet. "I never saw a bloodhound, and I never heard of one around here. If my runaway is caught, the dog that did it could be put in the pocket of that big overcoat you had strapped on your trunk." The lad paused and held up his finger. His ear had caught the sound of Aaron's feet on the shingles. There was a faint grating sound, as the window sash was softly raised and lowered, and then the Son of Ben Ali stepped from behind the curtain. He stood still as a statue when his eye fell on the stranger, and his attitude was one of simple dignity when he turned to the Little Master. He saw the lad laughing and he smiled in sympathy. "He's one of us," said Little Crotchet, "and I wanted him to see you. He's my teacher. Mr. Hudspeth, this is Aaron." Mr. Hudspeth grasped Aaron's hand and shook it warmly, and they talked for some time, the Son of Ben Ali sitting on the side of Little Crotchet's bed, holding the lad's hand in one of his. Aaron told of his day's experiences, and his description of the affair in the Swamp was so vivid and realistic that Mr. Hudspeth exclaimed:-- "If that were put in print, the world would declare it to be pure fiction." "Fiction," said Little Crotchet to Aaron, with an air of great solemnity, "fiction is a story put in a book. A story is sometimes called a fib, but when it is printed it is called fiction." Mr. Hudspeth laughed and so did Aaron, but Aaron's laugh had a good deal of pride in it. "He's crippled here," remarked Aaron, touching Little Crotchet's legs, "but not here,"--touching the boy's head. "But all this is not what I called you for," said Little Crotchet after a while. "Timoleon tore his stable door down to-day and came near killing one of the hands. He is out now. Father will be angry when he comes home and hears about it. Can't you put him in his stable?" "Me? I can lead the grandson of Abdallah all around the plantation by a yarn string," Aaron declared. [Illustration: HE STOOD AS STILL AS A STATUE] "Well, if you had been here to-day you'd have found out different. You don't know that horse," Little Crotchet insisted. "He is certainly as vicious a creature as I ever saw," remarked the Teacher, who had been an amazed witness of the horse's performances. "I'll show you," Aaron declared. "Oh, no!" protested Little Crotchet. "Don't try any tricks on that horse. He's too mean and cruel. If you can get him in his stable, and fasten him in, I'll be glad. But don't go near him; he'll bite your head off." Aaron laughed and then he seemed to be considering something. "I wish"--He paused and looked at Little Crotchet. "You wish what?" asked the lad. "I wish you might go with me. But it is dark. The moon is a day moon. I could tote you to the fence." "And then what?" asked Little Crotchet. "You could see a tame horse--the grandson of Abdallah." "I'll go to the fence if you'll carry me," said Little Crotchet. "The air is not cold--no wind is blowing." "Shall I go too?" asked Mr. Hudspeth. "I'd be glad," said Aaron. So, although the night was not cold, Aaron took a shawl from the bed and wrapped it about Little Crotchet, lifted the lad in his arms, and went softly down the stairway, Mr. Hudspeth following. The night was not so dark after all. Once away from the light, various familiar objects began to materialize. The oaks ceased to be huge shadows. There was a thin, milk-white haze in the sky that seemed to shed a reflection of light on the earth below. A negro passed along the beaten way leading to the cabins, whistling a tune. It was Randall. He heard the others and paused. "It's your turn to tote," said Aaron. "Who?" exclaimed Randall. "The Little Master," replied Aaron. Randall laughed. Who talked of turns where the Little Master was concerned? When it came to carrying that kind of burden, Randall was the man to do it, and it was "Don't le' me hurt you, honey. Ef I squeeze too tight, des say de word;" and then, "Whar we gwine, honey? A'on gwine in dar en put dat ar hoss up? Well, 'fo' he go in dar less all shake han's wid 'im, kaze when we nex' lay eyes on 'im he won't hear us, not ef we stoop down and holler good-by in his year." But following Aaron, they went toward the lot where the Black Stallion had shown his savage temper during the day. VIII. THE HAPPENINGS OF A NIGHT. When Aaron and those who were with him reached the lot fence, which had been made high and strong to keep old Jule, the jumping mule, within bounds, not a sound was heard on the other side. "You er takin' yo' life in yo' han', mon," said Randall in a warning tone, as Aaron placed one foot on the third rail and vaulted over. The warning would have come too late in any event, for by the time the words were off Randall's tongue Aaron was over the fence. Those who were left behind waited in breathless suspense for some sound--some movement--from Timoleon, or some word from the Arab, to guide them. But for a little while (and it seemed to be a long, long while to Little Crotchet) nothing could be heard. Then suddenly there fell on their strained ears the noise that is made by a rushing horse, followed by a sharp exclamation from Aaron. "What a pity if he is hurt!" exclaimed the Teacher. Before anything else could be said, there came a whinnying sound from Timoleon, such as horses make when they greet those they are fond of, or when they are hungry and see some one bringing their food. But Timoleon's whinnying was more prolonged, and in the midst of it they could hear Aaron talking. "Ef horses could talk," remarked Randall, "I'd up 'n' say dey wuz ca'n on a big confab in dar." Little Crotchet said nothing. He had often heard Aaron say that he knew the language of animals, but the matter had never been pressed on the lad's attention as it was years afterwards on the attention of Buster John and Sweetest Susan. Finally Aaron came to the fence, closely followed by the Black Stallion. "Man, what you think?" said the Son of Ben Ali to Randall; "no water, no corn, no fodder since night before last." "De Lord 'a' mercy!" exclaimed Randall. "Is anybody ever hear de beat er dat? No wonder he kotch dat ar nigger an' bit 'im! When de rascal git well I'm gwine ter ax Marster ter le' me take 'im out an' gi' 'im a paddlin'--an' I'll do it right, mon." Mr. Hudspeth made a mental note of this speech, and resolved to find out if Randall meant what he said, or was merely joking. "Man, give me the Little Master," said Aaron from the top of the fence, "and run and fetch two buckets of water from the spring." "Dey's water in de lot dar," Randall explained. "It is dirty," replied Aaron. "The grandson of Abdallah would die before he would drink it." He leaned down and took Little Crotchet in his arms. The muzzle of Timoleon was so near that the lad could feel the hot breath from his nostrils. Involuntarily the Little Master shuddered and shrank closer to Aaron. "He'll not hurt you," said Aaron. He made a queer sound with his lips, and the horse whinnied. "Now you may put your hand on him--so." The Arab took the Little Master's hand and placed it gently on the smooth, sensitive muzzle of the horse. The lad could feel the nervous working of Timoleon's strong upper lip. Then he stroked the horse's head and rubbed the velvety ears, and in less time than it takes to write it down he felt very much at home with the Black Stallion, and had no fear of him then or afterwards. Randall soon returned with cool, fresh water from the spring. The Black Stallion drank all that was brought and wanted more, but Aaron said no. He had placed the Little Master on Randall's shoulder, and Timoleon, when he finished drinking, was taken to his stable and fed, and the broken door propped in such a manner that it could not be forced open from the inside. This done, Aaron returned to the others, relieved Randall of Little Crotchet, though the frail body was not much of a burden, and the three started back to the big house. "You are still anxious to punish the poor man who was hurt by the horse?" asked the Teacher, as Randall bade them good-night. "I is dat, suh. I'm des ez sho ter raise welks on his hide ez de sun is ter shine--leas'ways ef breff stay in his body. Ef I'd 'a' been dat ar hoss an' he'd done me dat away, I'd 'a' trompled de gizzard out 'n 'im. Ef dey's anything dat I do 'spise, suh, it's a low-down, triflin', good-fer-nothin' nigger." Mr. Hudspeth knew enough about human nature to be able to catch the tone of downright sincerity in the negro's voice, and the fact not only amazed him at the time, but worried him no little when he recalled it afterward; for his memory seized upon it and made it more important than it really was. And he saw and noted other things on that plantation that puzzled him no little, and destroyed in his own mind the efficiency of some of his strongest anti-slavery arguments; but it did not, for it could not, reach the essence of the matter as he had conceived it, that human slavery, let it be national or sectional, or paternal and patriarchal, was an infliction on the master as well as an injustice to the negro. So far so good. But Mr. Hudspeth could not see then what he saw and acknowledged when American slavery was happily a thing of the past, namely: That in the beginning, the slaves who were brought here were redeemed from a slavery in their own country worse than the bondage of death; that though they came here as savages, they were brought in close and stimulating contact with Christian civilization, and so lifted up that in two centuries they were able to bear the promotion to citizenship which awaited them; and that, although this end was reached in the midst of confusion and doubt, tumult and bloodshed, it was given to human intelligence to perceive in slavery, as well as in the freedom of the slaves, the hand of an All-wise Providence, and to behold in their bondage here the scheme of a vast university in which they were prepared to enjoy the full benefits of all the blessings which have been conferred on them, and which, though they seem to have been long delayed, have come to them earlier than to any other branch of the human race. The Teacher who played his little part in the adventures of Aaron played a large part in national affairs at a later day. He saw slavery pass away, and he lived long enough after that event to put on record this declaration: "Looking back on the history of the human race, let us hasten to acknowledge, while the acknowledgment may be worth making, that two hundred and odd years of slavery, as it existed in the American republic, is a small price to pay for participation in the inestimable blessings and benefits of American freedom and American citizenship." And as he spoke, the great audience he was addressing seemed to fade before his eyes, and he found himself wandering again on the old plantation with Little Crotchet, or walking under the starlit skies talking to Aaron. And he heard again the genial voice of the gentleman whose guest he was, and lived again through the pleasures and perils of that wonderful year on the Abercrombie place. But all this was twenty-five years in the future, and Mr. Hudspeth had not even a dream of what that future was to bring forth. Indeed, as he followed Aaron and Little Crotchet from the horse lot to the house he was less interested in what the years might hold for him than he was in one incident that occurred while Aaron was preparing to take the Black Stallion back to his stall. He was puzzled and wanted information. How did Aaron know that the horse had gone without water and food? He observed that neither Little Crotchet nor Randall questioned the statement when it was made, but treated it as a declaration beyond dispute. And yet the runaway had been in the woods, and a part of the time was pursued by hounds. He had no means of knowing whether or not the Black Stallion had been attended to. The matter weighed on the Teacher's mind to such an extent that when he and his companions were safe in Little Crotchet's room he put a question to Aaron. "By what means did you know that the horse had been left without food and water?" Aaron glanced at Little Crotchet and smiled. "Well, sir, to tell you would be not to tell you. You wouldn't believe me." "Oh, you go too far,--indeed you do. Why should I doubt your word?" "It don't fit in with things you know." "Try me." "The grandson of Abdallah told me," replied Aaron simply. The Teacher looked from Aaron to Little Crotchet. "You must be joking," he remarked. "Oh, no, he isn't," protested Little Crotchet. "I know he can talk with the animals. He has promised to teach me, but I always forget it when I go to the Swamp; there are so many other things to think about." "Would you teach me?" Mr. Hudspeth asked. His face was solemn, and yet there was doubt in the tone of his voice. Aaron shook his head. "Too old," he explained. "Too old, and know too much." "It's another case of having a child's faith," suggested the Teacher. "Most, but not quite," answered Aaron. "It is like this: The why must be very big, or you must be touched." The Teacher pondered over this reply for some moments, and then said: "There must be some real reason why I should desire to learn the language of animals. Is that it?" "Most, but not quite," Aaron responded. "You must have the sure-enough feeling." "I see. But what is it to be touched? What does that mean?" "You must be touched by the people who live next door to the world." The Teacher shook his head slowly and stroked his beard thoughtfully. He tried to treat the whole matter with due solemnity, so as to keep his footing, and he succeeded. "Where is this country that is next door to the world?" he asked, turning to Little Crotchet. "Under the spring," the lad replied promptly. "Have you ever visited that country?" the Teacher asked. His tone was serious enough now. "No," replied Little Crotchet, with a wistful sigh. "I'm crippled, you know, and walk only on my crutches. It is far to go, and I can't take my pony. But Aaron has told me about it, and I have seen Little Mr. Thimblefinger--once--and he told me about Mrs. Meadows and the rest and brought me a message from old Mr. Rabbit. They all live in the country next door to the world." For several minutes the Teacher sat and gazed into the pale flame of the candle. The wax or tallow had run down on one side, and formed a figure in the semblance of a wee man hanging to the brass mouth of the candlestick with both hands. Glazing thus, queer thoughts came to the Teacher's mind. He tugged at his beard to see whether he was awake or dreaming. Could it be that by some noiseless shifting of the scenery he was even now in the country next door to the world? He rose suddenly, shook hands with Aaron, and, swayed by some sudden impulse, stooped and pressed his lips to the pale brow of the patient lad. Then he went to his room, threw open the window, and sat for an hour, wondering what influence his strange experiences would have on his life. And his reflections were not amiss, for years afterwards his experiences of this night were responsible for his intimacy with the greatest American of our time,--Abraham Lincoln. It was in the early part of the war that Mr. Hudspeth, one of a group of congressmen in consultation with the President, let fall some chance remarks about the country next door to the world. Mr. Lincoln had been telling a humorous story, and was on the point of telling another, when Mr. Hudspeth's chance remark struck his ear. "Whereabouts is that country?" he asked. "Not far from Georgia," replied Mr. Hudspeth. "Who lives there?" "Little Crotchet, Aaron the Arab, Little Mr. Thimblefinger, Mrs. Meadows, and old Mr. Rabbit." Mr. Hudspeth counted them off on his fingers in a humorous manner. Mr. Lincoln, who had been laughing before, suddenly grew serious--melancholy, indeed. He talked with the congressmen awhile longer, but they knew by his manner that they were dismissed. As they were leaving, the President remarked:-- "Wait till your hurry's over, Hudspeth; I want to talk to you." And sitting before the fire in his private office, Mr. Lincoln recalled Mr. Hudspeth's chance remark, and questioned him with great particularity about Aaron and Little Crotchet and all the rest. "Of course you believed in the country next door to the world?" Mr. Lincoln suggested. "To tell you the truth, Mr. President, I felt queerly that night. It seemed as real to me as anything I ever heard of and never saw." "Get the feeling back, Hudspeth; get it back. I can believe everything you told me about it." And after that, when Mr. Hudspeth called on the President, and found him in a mood between extreme mirth and downright melancholy, he would say: "I was with Aaron last night," or "I'm just from the country next door to the world," or "I hope Sherman won't get lost in the country that is next door to the world." But all this was in the future, and, as we all know, Mr. Hudspeth, sitting at his window and gazing at the stars that hung sparkling over the Abercrombie place, could not read the future. If it was too late for him to learn the language of the animals, how could he hope to interpret the prophecies of the constellations? Aaron sat with Little Crotchet until there was no danger that the red goblin, Pain, would put in an appearance, and then he slipped through the window, and was soon at the foot of the oak, where Rambler was taking a nap. He gave the dog some of the food that Little Crotchet had put by for him, ate heartily himself, and then went toward the Swamp. On the hill he turned and looked back in the direction of Little Crotchet's window. As he paused he heard a voice cry "Hello!" Aaron was not startled, for the sound came from a distance, and fell but faintly on his ears. He listened and heard it again:-- [Illustration: IT WAS THE WHITE-HAIRED MASTER] "Hello! Hello!" It seemed to come from the road, half a mile away, and Aaron knew that there was no house in that direction for a traveler or a passer-by to hail. There was something in the tone that suggested distress. Without waiting to listen again, the Arab started for the road in a rapid trot. He thought he heard it again as he ran, and this caused him to run the faster. He climbed the fence that marked the line of the road, and sat there a moment; but all was silence, save the soft clamor of insects and frogs that is a feature of the first half of the night. Aaron had now come to a point from which he could reach the Swamp more conveniently by following the road for half a mile, though he would have another hill to climb. As he jumped from the fence into the road the cry came to his ears again, and this time with startling distinctness: "Hello! Hello! Oh, isn't there some one to hear me?" It was so plainly the call of some one in distress that Aaron shouted an answer of encouragement, and ran as fast as he could in the direction from which the sound came. The situation was so new to Rambler that, instead of making ahead to investigate and report, he stuck to Aaron, whining uneasily. As the Son of Ben Ali ran he saw dimly outlined at the foot of the hill a short distance beyond him a huge something that refused to take a recognizable shape until he stood beside it, and even then it was startling enough. It was the Gray Mare, Timoleon's sister, lying at full length by the side of the road, and underneath her the Son of Ben Ali knew he would find the White-Haired Master. But it was not as bad as it might have been. "Hurt much, Master?" said Aaron, leaning over Mr. Abercrombie and touching him on the shoulder. "Not seriously," replied the White-Haired Master. "But the leg that is under the mare is numb." The Gray Mare, after falling, had done nothing more than whinny. If she had struggled to rise, the White-Haired Master's leg would have needed a doctor: and if she had risen to her feet and started home the doctor would have been unnecessary, for the imprisoned foot was caught in the stirrup. Well for Mr. Abercrombie that Aaron knew the Gray Mare, and that the Gray Mare knew Aaron. She whinnied when the runaway spoke to her. She raised her head and gathered her forefeet under her, and then suddenly, at a word from Aaron, lifted her weight from the leg, while the foot was taken from the stirrup. Again the word was given and the Gray Mare rose easily to her feet and shook herself. "Can you walk, Master?" Aaron asked. "I think so--certainly." Yet it was not an easy thing to do. Though the limb was not broken, owing to the fact that the ground was damp and soft where the Gray Mare fell, yet it had been imprisoned for some time, and it was both numb and bruised. The numbness was in evidence now, as the White-Haired Master rose to his feet and tried to walk; the bruises would speak for themselves to-morrow. "What is your name?" Mr. Abercrombie asked. "I am called Aaron, Master." "I thought so, and I'm glad of it. Some day I'll thank you; but now--pins and needles!" The blood was beginning to circulate in the numb leg, and this was not by any means a pleasant experience. Aaron shortened it somewhat by rubbing the limb vigorously. "Are you still in the woods, Aaron?" "Yes, Master." "Well, I'm sorry. I wish you belonged to me." "I'm wishing harder than you, Master." "What a pity--what a pity!" "Don't get too sorry, Master." "No; it would do no good." "And don't blame the Gray Mare for stumbling, Master. The saddle too high on her shoulders, the belly-band too tight, and her shoes nailed on in the dark." Aaron helped Mr. Abercrombie to mount. "Good-night, Master!" "Good-night, Aaron!" The Arab watched the Gray Mare and her rider until the darkness hid them from view. And no wonder! He was the only man, living or dead, that the Son of Ben Ali had ever called "Master." Why? Aaron tried to make the matter clear to his own mind, and while he was doing his best to unravel the problem he heard buggy wheels rattle on the hilltop. The horse must have shied at something just then, for a harsh voice cried out, followed by the sound of a whip falling cruelly on the creature's back. The wheels rattled louder as the creature leaped frantically from under the whip. The harsh voice cried "Whoa!" three times, twice in anger, and the third time in mortal fear. And then Aaron knew that he had another adventure on his hands. IX. THE UPSETTING OF MR. GOSSETT. If Aaron had known it was Mr. Gossett's voice he heard and Mr. Gossett's hand that brought the buggy whip down on the poor horse's back with such cruel energy, the probability is that he would have taken to his heels; and yet it is impossible to say with certainty. The Son of Ben Ali was such a curious compound that his actions depended entirely on the mood he chanced to be in. He was full of courage, and yet was terribly afraid at times. He was dignified and proud, and yet no stranger to humility. His whole nature resented the idea of serving as a slave, yet he would have asked nothing better than to be Little Crotchet's slave: and he was glad to call Mr. Abercrombie master. So that, after all, it may be that he would have stood his ground, knowing that the voice and hand were Mr. Gossett's when his ears told him, as they now did, that the horse, made furious by the cruel stroke of the whip, was running away, coming down the hill at breakneck speed. Mr. Gossett had been on a fruitless errand. When his son George reached home that morning and told him that Mr. Jim Simmons's dogs had followed the trail to the river and there lost it, Mr. Gossett remarked that he was glad he did not go on a fool's errand, and he made various statements about Mr. Simmons and his dogs that were not at all polite. Later in the day, however (though the hour was still early), when Mr. Gossett was making the customary round of his plantation, he fell in with a negro who had been hunting for some stray sheep. The negro, after giving an account of his movements, made this further remark:-- "I sholy 'spected you'd be over yander wid Mr. Jim Simmons, Marster. His dogs done struck a track leadin' inter de swamp, an' dey sho went a callyhootin'." "When was that?" Mr. Gossett inquired. "Not mo' dan two hours ago, ef dat," responded the negro. "I lis'n at um, I did, an' dey went right spang tor'ds de Swamp. I know'd de dogs, kaze I done hear um soon' dis mornin'." Giving the negro some instructions that would keep him busy the rest of the day if he carried them out, Mr. Gossett turned his horse's head in the direction of the Swamp, and rode slowly thither. The blue falcon soared high in the air and paid no attention to Mr. Gossett. For various reasons that the Swamp knew about the Turkey Buzzard was not in sight. The Swamp itself was full of the reposeful silence that daylight usually brought to it. Mr. Gossett rode about and listened; but if all the dogs in the world had suddenly disappeared, the region round about could not have been freer of their barking and baying than it was at that moment. All that Mr. Gossett could do was to turn about and ride back home. But he was very much puzzled. If Mr. Simmons had trailed a runaway into the Swamp and caught him, or if he had made two failures in one morning, Mr. Gossett would like very much to know it. In point of fact, he was such a practical business man that he felt it was Mr. Simmons's duty to make some sort of report to him. In matters of this kind Mr. Gossett was very precise. But after dinner he felt in a more jocular mood. He informed his son George that he thought he would go over and worry Mr. Simmons a little over his failure to catch Aaron, and he had his horse put to the buggy, and rode six or seven miles to Mr. Simmons's home, smiling grimly as he went along. Mr. Simmons was at home, but was not feeling very well, as his wife informed Mr. Gossett. Mrs. Simmons herself was in no very amiable mood, as Mr. Gossett very soon observed. But she asked him in politely enough, and said she'd go and tell Jimmy that company had come. She went to the garden gate not very far from the house and called out to her husband in a shrill voice:-- "Jimmy! Oh, Jimmy! That old buzzard of a Gossett is in the house. Come see what he wants. And do put on your coat before you come in the house. And wash your hands. They're dirtier than sin. And hit that shock of yours one lick with the comb and brush. Come right on now. If I have to sit in there and talk to the old rascal long I'll have a fit. Ain't you coming? I'll run back before he ransacks the whole house." Mr. Simmons came sauntering in after a while, and his wife made that the excuse for disappearing, though she went no further than the other side of the door, where she listened with all her ears, being filled with a consuming curiosity to know what business brought Mr. Gossett to that house. She had not long to wait, for the visitor plunged into the subject at once. "You may know I was anxious about you, Simmons, or I wouldn't be here." ("The old hypocrite!" remarked Mrs. Simmons, on the other side of the door.) "You didn't come by when your hunt ended, and I allowed maybe that you had caught the nigger and either killed or crippled him, and--ahem!--felt a sort of backwardness in telling me about it. So I thought I would come over and see you, if only to say that whether you caught the nigger or killed him, he's responsible for it and not you." "No, Colonel, I'm not in the practice of killing niggers nor crippling 'em. I've caught a many of 'em, but I've never hurt one yet. But, Colonel! If you'd 'a' gone through with what I've been through this day, you'd 'a' done exactly what I done. You'd 'a' went right straight home without stopping to ask questions or to answer 'em--much less tell tales." Thereupon Mr. Simmons told the story of his adventure in the Swamp, varnishing up the facts as he thought he knew them, and adding some details calculated to make the episode much more interesting from his point of view. It will be remembered that Mr. Simmons was in total ignorance of what really happened in the Swamp. He had conceived the theory that his dogs had hit upon the trail of a wildcat going from the river to its den in the Swamp, and that, when the dogs had followed it there, they had been attacked, not by one wildcat, but by the whole "caboodle" of wildcats, to use Mr. Simmons's expression. Having conceived this theory, Mr. Simmons not only stuck to it, but added various incidents that did credit to his imagination. For instance, he made this statement in reply to a question from Mr. Gossett:-- "What did I think when I heard all the racket and saw Sound come out mangled? Well, I'll tell you, Colonel, I didn't know what to think. I never heard such a terrible racket in all my born days. I says to myself, 'I'll just ride in and see what the trouble is, and if there ain't but one wildcat, why, I'll soon put an end to him.' So I spurred my hoss up, and started in; but before we went anyways, hardly, the hoss give a snort and tried to whirl around and run out. "It made me mad at the time," Mr. Simmons went on, his inventive faculty rising to the emergency, "but, Colonel, it's a mighty good thing that hoss had more sense than I did, because if he hadn't I'd 'a' never been setting here telling you about it. I tried to make the hoss stand, but he wouldn't, and, just then, what should I see but two great big wildcats trying to sneak up on me? And all the time, Colonel, the racket in the Swamp was getting louder and louder. Pluto was in there somewheres, and I know'd he was attending to his business, so I just give the hoss the reins and he went like he was shot out of a gun. "I pulled him in, and turned him around, and then I saw Pluto trying to come out. Now, Colonel, you may know if it was too hot for him it was lots too warm for me. Pluto tried to come, and he was a-fighting like fury; but it was no go. The two cats that had been sneaking up on me lit on him, and right then and there they tore him all to flinders! Colonel, they didn't leave a piece of that dog's hide big enough to make a woman's glove if it had been tanned. And as if that wouldn't do 'em, they made another sally and come at me, tush and claw. And I just clapped spurs to the hoss and cleaned up from there. Do you blame me, Colonel?" [Illustration: THEY TORE HIM ALL TO FLINDERS] "As I understand it, Simmons," remarked Mr. Gossett, after pulling his beard and reflecting a while, "you didn't catch the nigger." ("The nasty old buzzard!" remarked Mrs. Simmons, on the other side of the door. "If I was Jimmy I'd hit him with a cheer.") "Do you think you'd 'a' caught him, Colonel, taking into account all the circumstances and things?" inquired Mr. Simmons, with his irritating drawl. "I didn't say I was going to catch him, did I?" replied Mr. Gossett. "I didn't say he couldn't get away from my dogs, did I?" "Supposing you had," suggested Mr. Simmons, "would you 'a' done it? I ain't never heard of you walking in amongst a drove of wildcats to catch a nigger." "And so you didn't catch him; and your fine dogs are finer now than they ever were?" Mr. Gossett remarked. ("My goodness! If Jimmy don't hit him, I'll go in and do it myself," said Mrs. Simmons, on the other side of the door.) "Well, Colonel, it's just like I tell you." Mr. Simmons would have said something else, but just then the door opened and Mrs. Simmons walked in, fire in her eye. "You've saved your $30, hain't you?" she said to Mr. Gossett. "Why--er--yes'm--but"-- "No buts about it," she snapped. "If you ain't changed mightily, you think a heap more of $30 in your pocket than you do of a nigger in the bushes. Jimmy don't owe you nothin', does he?" "Well--er--no'm." Mr. Gossett had been taken completely by surprise. "No, he don't, and if he did I'd quit him right now--this very minute," Mrs. Simmons declared, gesticulating ominously with her forefinger. "And what Jimmy wants to go trolloping about the country trying to catch the niggers you drive to the woods is more'n I can tell to save my life. Why, if he was to catch your runaway niggers they wouldn't stay at home no longer than the minute you took the ropes off 'em." Mr. Simmons cleared his throat, as if to say something, but his wife anticipated him. "Oh, hush up, Jimmy!" she cried. "You know I'm telling nothing but the truth. There ain't a living soul in this country that don't know a Gossett nigger as far as they can see him." "What are the ear-marks, ma'am?" inquired Mr. Gossett, trying hard to be jocular. In a moment he was heartily sorry he had asked the question. "Ear-marks? Ear-marks? Hide-marks, you better say. Why, they've been abused and half fed till they are ashamed to look folks in the face, and I don't blame 'em. They go sneaking and shambling along and look meaner than sin. And 't ain't their own meanness that shows in 'em. No! Not by a long sight. I'll say that much for the poor creeturs." There was something of a pause here, and Mr. Gossett promptly took advantage of it. He rose, bowed to Mrs. Simmons, who turned her back on him, and started for the door, saying:-- "Well, Simmons, I just called to see what luck you'd had this morning. My time's up. I must be going." Mr. Simmons followed him to the door and out to the gate. Before Mr. Gossett got in his buggy he turned and looked toward the house, remarking to Mr. Simmons in a confidential tone:-- "I say, Simmons! She's a scorcher, ain't she?" "A right warm one, Colonel, if I do say it myself," replied Mr. Simmons, with a touch of pride. "But, Colonel, before you get clean away, let's have a kind of understanding about this matter." "About what matter?" Mr. Gossett stood with one foot on his buggy step, ready to get in. "About this talk of Jenny's," said Mr. Simmons, nodding his head toward the house. "I'll go this far--I'll say that I'm mighty sorry it wasn't somebody else that done the talkin', and in somebody else's house. But sence it was Jenny, it can't be holp. If what she said makes you feel tired--sort of weary like--when you begin to think about it, jest bear in mind, Colonel, that I hold myself both personally and individually responsible for everything Jenny has said to-day, and everything she may say hereafter." Mr. Gossett lowered his eyebrows and looked through them at Mr. Simmons. "Why, of course, Simmons," he said a little stiffly, "we all have to stand by the women folks. I understand that. But blamed if I'd like to be in your shoes." "Well, Colonel, they fit me like a glove." Mr. Gossett seated himself in his buggy and drove away. Mrs. Simmons was standing in the door, her arms akimbo, when her husband returned to the house. "Jimmy, you didn't go and apologize to that old buzzard for what I said, did you?" Mr. Simmons laughed heartily at the idea, and when he repeated what he had said to Mr. Gossett his wife jumped at him, and kissed him, and then ran into the next room and cried a little. It's the one way that all women have of "cooling down," as Mr. Simmons would have expressed it. But it need not be supposed that Mr. Gossett was in a good humor. He felt that Mrs. Simmons, in speaking as she did, was merely the mouthpiece of public opinion, and the idea galled him. He called on a neighbor, on his way back home, to discuss a business matter; and he was in such a bad humor, so entirely out of sorts, as he described it, that the neighbor hastened to get a jug of dram out of the cupboard, and, soothed and stimulated by the contents of the jug, Mr. Gossett thawed out. By degrees his good humor, such as it was, returned, and by degrees he took more of the dram than was good for him. So that when he started home, which was not until after sundown, his toddies had begun to tell on him. His eyes informed him that his horse had two heads, and he realized that he was not in a condition to present himself at home, where his son George could see him. The example would be too much for George, who had already on various occasions shown a fondness for the bottle. What, then, was to be done? A very brilliant idea struck Mr. Gossett. He would not drive straight home; that would never do in the world. He'd go up the road that led to town until he came to Wesley Chapel, and there he'd take the other road that led by the Aikin plantation. This was a drive of about ten miles, and by that time the effects of the dram would be worn off. Mr. Gossett carried out this programme faithfully, and that was why the buggy was coming over the hill as Aaron was going along the road on his way to the Swamp. Contrary to Mr. Gossett's expectations the dram did not exhaust itself. He still felt its influences, but he was no longer good-humored. Instead, he was nervous and irritable. He began to brood over the unexpected tongue-lashing that Mrs. Simmons had given him, and succeeded in working himself into a very ugly frame of mind. When his horse came to the top of the hill, something the animal saw--a stray pig, or maybe a cow lying in the fence corner--caused it to swerve to one side. This was entirely too much for Mr. Gossett's unstrung nerves. He seized the whip and brought it down upon the animal's back with all his might. Maddened by the sudden and undeserved blow, the horse made a terrific lunge forward, causing Mr. Gossett to drop the reins and nearly throwing him from the buggy. Finding itself free, the excited horse plunged along the road. The grade of the hill was so heavy that the animal could not run at top speed, but made long jumps, flirting the buggy about as though it had been made of cork. The swinging and lurching of the buggy added to the animal's excitement, and the climax of its terror was reached when Aaron loomed up in the dark before it. The horse made one wild swerve to the side of the road, but failed to elude Aaron. The sudden swerve, however, threw Mr. Gossett out. He fell on the soft earth, and lay there limp, stunned, and frightened. Aaron, holding to the horse, ran by its side a little way, and soon had the animal under control. He soothed it a moment, talked to it until it whinnied, fastened the lines to a fence corner, and then went back to see about the man who had fallen from the buggy, little dreaming that it was his owner, Mr. Gossett. But just as he leaned over the man, Rambler told him the news; the keen nose of the dog had discovered it, though he stood some distance away. This caused Aaron to straighten himself again, and as he did so he saw something gleam in the starlight. It was Mr. Gossett's pistol, which had fallen from his pocket as he fell. Aaron picked up the weapon, handling it very gingerly, for he was unused to firearms, and placed it under the buggy seat. Then he returned with an easier mind and gave his attention to Mr. Gossett. [Illustration: THE EXCITED HORSE PLUNGED ALONG] "Hurt much?" he asked curtly, shaking the prostrate man by the shoulder. "More scared than hurt, I reckon," replied Mr. Gossett. "What was that dog barking at just now?" "He ain't used to seeing white folks in the dirt," Aaron explained. "Who are you?" Mr. Gossett inquired. "One," answered Aaron. "Well, if I'd seen you a half hour ago I'd 'a' sworn you were Two." Mr. Gossett made this joke at his own expense, but Aaron did not understand it, and therefore could not appreciate it. So he said nothing. "Put your hand under my shoulder here, and help me to sit up. I want to see if any bones are broken." Aided by Aaron Mr. Gossett assumed a sitting posture. While he was feeling of himself, searching for wounds and broken bones, he heard his horse snort. This reminded him (for he was still somewhat dazed) that he had started out with a horse and buggy. "That's your horse, I reckon. Mine's at home by this time with two buggy shafts swinging to him. Lord! what a fool a man can be!" "That's your horse," said Aaron. "Mine? Who stopped him?" "Me," Aaron answered. "You? Why, as near as I can remember, he was coming down this hill like the dogs were after him. Who are you, anyhow?" "One." "Well, you are worth a dozen common men. Give me your hand." Mr. Gossett slowly raised himself to his feet, shook first one leg and then the other, and appeared to be much relieved to find that his body and all of its members were intact. He walked about a little, and then went close to Aaron and peered in his face. "Blamed if I don't believe you are my runaway nigger!" Mr. Gossett exclaimed. "I smell whiskey," said Aaron. "Confound the stuff! I never will get rid of it." Mr. Gossett put his hands in his pocket and walked around again. "Your name is Aaron," he suggested. Receiving no reply, he said: "If your name is Aaron you belong to me; if you belong to me get in the buggy and let's go home. You've been in the woods long enough." "Too long," replied Aaron. "That's a fact," Mr. Gossett assented. "Come on and go home with me. If you're afeard of me you can put that idea out of your mind. I swear you shan't be hit a lick. You are the only nigger I ever had any respect for, and I'll be blamed if I know how I came to have any for you after the way you've treated me. But if you'll promise not to run off any more I'll treat you right. You're a good hand and a good man." Mr. Gossett paused and felt in his pockets, evidently searching for something. "Have you seen a pistol lying loose anywhere around here?" he asked. "It's all safe," replied Aaron. "You've got it. Very well. I was just going to pull it out and hand it to you. Come on; it's getting late." Seeing that Aaron made no movement, Mr. Gossett tried another scheme. "Well, if you won't go home," he said, "and I think I can promise that you'll be sorry if you don't, get in the buggy and drive part of the way for me. I'm afraid of that horse after his caper to-night." "Well, I'll do that," remarked Aaron. He helped Mr. Gossett into the buggy, untied the lines, took his seat by his owner, and the two were soon on their way home. X. CHUNKY RILEY SEES A QUEER SIGHT. There is no doubt that Mr. Gossett was sincere in what he said to Aaron. There is no doubt that he fully intended to carry out the promises he had made in the hope of inducing the runaway to return home with him. Nor can it be doubted that he had some sort of respect for a slave who, although a fugitive with a reward offered for his capture, was willing to go to the rescue of his owner at a very critical moment. Mr. Gossett was indeed a harsh, hard, calculating man, whose whole mind was bent on accumulating "prop'ty," as he called it, to the end that he might be looked up to as Addison Abercrombie and other planters were. But after all, he was a human being, and he admired strength, courage, audacity, and the suggestion of craftiness that he thought he discovered in Aaron. Moreover, he was not without a lurking fear of the runaway, for, at bottom, Mr. Gossett's was essentially a weak nature. This weakness constantly displayed itself in his hectoring, blustering, overbearing manner toward those over whom he had any authority. It was natural, therefore, that Mr. Gossett should have a secret dread of Aaron, as well as a lively desire to conciliate him up to a certain point. More than this, Mr. Gossett had been impressed by the neighborhood talk about the queer runaway. As long as such talk was confined to the negroes he paid no attention to it; but when such a sage as Mr. Jonathan Gadsby, a man of large experience and likewise a justice of the peace, was ready to agree to some of the most marvelous tales told about the agencies that Aaron was able to call to his aid, the superstitious fears of Mr. Gossett began to give him an uneasy feeling. The first proposition that Mr. Gadsby laid down was that Aaron was "not by no means a nigger, as anybody with eyes in their head could see." That fact was first to be considered. Admit it, and everything else that was said would follow as a matter of course. Mr. Gadsby's argument, judicially delivered to whomsoever wanted to hear it, was this: It was plain to be seen that the runaway was no more like a nigger than a donkey is like a race-horse. Now, if he wasn't a nigger what was he trying to play nigger for? What was he up to? Why couldn't the track dogs catch him? When some one said Mr. Simmons's dogs hadn't tried, Mr. Gadsby would answer that when Mr. Simmons's dogs did try they'd make a worse muddle of it than ever. Why? Because the runaway had on him the marks of the men that called the elements to help them. Mr. Gadsby knew it, because he had seen their pictures in the books, and the runaway looked just like them. Mr. Gadsby's memory was exact. The pictures he had seen were in a book called the "Arabian Nights." Mr. Gossett thought of what Mr. Gadsby had said, as he sat with Aaron in the buggy, and cold chills began to creep up his spine. He edged away as far as he could, but Aaron paid no attention to his movement. Once the horse turned its head sidewise and whinnied. Aaron made some sort of reply that was unintelligible to Mr. Gossett. The horse stopped still, Aaron jumped from the buggy, went to the animal's head, and presently came back with a part of the harness in his hand, which he threw on the bottom of the buggy. "What's that?" Mr. Gossett asked. "Bridle. Bit hurt horse's mouth." He then coolly pulled the reins in and placed them with the bridle. "Why, confound it, don't you know this horse is as wild as a buck? Are you fixing to have me killed? What are you doing now?" Aaron had taken the whip from its thimble, laid the lash gently on the horse's back, and held it there. In response to his chirrup the horse whinnied gratefully and shook its head playfully. When Mr. Gossett saw that the horse was going easily and that it seemed to be completely under Aaron's control, he remembered again what Mr. Gadsby had said about people who were able to call the elements to their aid, and it caused a big lump to rise in his throat. What was this going on right before his eyes? A runaway sitting by his side and driving a fractious and easily frightened horse without bit or bridle? And then another thought crossed Mr. Gossett's mind--a thought so direful that it caused a cold sweat to stand on his forehead. Was it the runaway's intention to jump suddenly from the buggy and strike the horse with the whip? But Aaron showed no such purpose or desire. Once he leaned forward, peering into the darkness, and said something to the horse. [Illustration: HE EDGED AWAY AS FAR AS HE COULD] "What is it?" Mr. Gossett asked nervously. "Some buggies coming along," replied Aaron. "Can you pass them here?" "If they give your wheels one inch to spare," replied Aaron. "Tell 'em to bear to the right." "Hello, there!" cried Mr. Gossett. "Hello, yourself!" answered a voice. "That you, Terrell?" "Yes, ain't that Gossett?" "The same. Bear to the right. Where've you been?" "Been to the lodge at Harmony." The attic of the schoolhouse at Harmony was used as a Masonic lodge. "Who's behind you?" Mr. Gossett inquired. "Denham, Aiken, Griffin, and Gatewood." There were, in fact, four buggies, Mr. Griffin being on horseback, and they were all close together. Mr. Gossett had but to seize Aaron, yell for help, and his neighbors would soon have the runaway tied hard and fast with the reins in the bottom of the buggy. That is, if Aaron couldn't call the elements to his aid--but suppose he could? What then? These thoughts passed through Mr. Gossett's mind, and he was strongly tempted to try the experiment; but he refrained. He said good-night, but Mr. Aiken hailed him. "You know that new school teacher at Abercrombie's?" "I haven't seen him," said Mr. Gossett. "Well, he's there. Keep an eye on him. He's a rank abolitionist." "Is that so?" exclaimed Mr. Gossett in a tone of amazement. "So I've heard. He'll bear watching." "Well, well, well!" Mr. Gossett ejaculated. "What's that?" Aaron asked in a low tone, as they passed the last of the four buggies. "What's what?" "Abolitioner." "Oh, that's one of these blamed new-fangled parties. You wouldn't know if I were to tell you." In a little while they began to draw near Mr. Gossett's home, and he renewed his efforts to prevail on Aaron to go to the cabin that had been assigned to him, and to remain as one of the hands. Finally as they came within hailing distance of the house, Mr. Gossett said:-- "If you've made up your mind to stay, you may take the horse and put it up. If you won't stay, don't let the other niggers see you. Stop the horse if you can." Aaron pressed the whip on the horse's flank, and instantly the buggy came to a standstill. The runaway jumped from the buggy, placed the whip in its thimble, and stood a moment as if reflecting. Then he raised his right arm in the air--a gesture that Mr. Gossett could not see, however--and said good-night. "Wait!" exclaimed Mr. Gossett. "Where's my pistol?" "Inside the buggy seat," replied Aaron, and disappeared in the darkness. Mr. Gossett called a negro to take the horse, and it seemed as if one sprang from the ground to answer the call, with "Yes, Marster!" on the end of his tongue. It was Chunky Riley. "How long have you been standing here?" asked Mr. Gossett suspiciously. "No time, Marster. Des come a-runnin' when I hear de buggy wheels scrunchin' on de gravel. I hear you talkin' to de hoss whiles I comin' froo de big gate down yander by de barn." "You're a mighty swift runner, then," remarked Mr. Gossett doubtfully. "Yasser, I'm a right peart nigger. I'm short, but soon." Thereupon Chunky Riley pretended to laugh. Then he made a discovery, and became very serious. "Marster, dey ain't no sign er no bridle on dish yer hoss. An' whar de lines? Is anybody ever see de beat er dat? Marster, how in de name er goodness kin you drive dish yer hoss widout bridle er lines?" "It's easy enough when you know how," replied Mr. Gossett complacently. He was flattered and soothed by the idea that Chunky Riley would believe him to be a greater man than ever. "Give the horse a good feed," commanded Mr. Gossett. "He has traveled far to-night, and he and I have seen some queer sights." "Well, suh!" exclaimed Chunky Riley, with well-affected amazement. He caught the horse by the forelock and led it carefully through the gate into the lot, thence to the buggy-shelter, where he proceeded to take off the harness. He shook his head and muttered to himself all the while, for he was wrestling with the most mysterious problem that had ever been presented to his mind. He had seen Aaron in the buggy with his master; he had heard his master begging Aaron not to stay in the woods; he had seen and heard these things with his own eyes and ears, and they were too mysterious for his simple mind to explain. Didn't Aaron belong to Chunky Riley's master? Wasn't he a runaway? Didn't his master try to catch him? Didn't he have the Simmons nigger-dogs after him that very day? Well, then, why didn't his master keep Aaron while he had him in the buggy? Why did he sit still and allow the runaway to go back to the woods? This was much more mysterious to Chunky Riley than anything he had ever heard of. He could make neither head nor tail of it. He knew that Aaron had some mysterious influence over the animals, both wild and tame. That could be accounted for on grounds that were entirely plausible and satisfactory to the suggestions of Chunky Riley's superstition. But did Aaron have the same power over his own master? It certainly seemed so, for he rode in the buggy with him, and went off into the woods again right before Mr. Gossett's eyes. But wait a minute! If Aaron really had any influence over his own master, why didn't he stay at home instead of going into the woods? This was a problem too complicated for Chunky Riley to work out. But it worried him so that he whispered it among the other negroes on the place, and so it spread through all that region. A fortnight afterwards it was nothing uncommon for negroes to come at night from plantations miles away so that they might hear from Chunky Riley's own lips what he had seen. The tale that Chunky Riley told was beyond belief, but it was all the more impressive on that account. And it was very fortunate for Aaron, too, in one respect. After the story that Chunky Riley told became bruited about, there was not a negro to be found who could be bribed or frightened into spying on Aaron's movements, or who could be induced to say that he had seen him. It was observed, too, by all the negroes, as well as by many of the white people, that Mr. Gossett seemed to lose interest in his fugitive slave. He made no more efforts to capture Aaron, and, when twitted about it by some of his near neighbors, his invariable remark was, "Oh, the nigger'll come home soon enough when cold weather sets in. A nigger can stand everything except cold weather." Yet Mr. Gossett's neighbors all knew that nothing was easier than for a runaway to make a fire in the woods and keep himself fairly comfortable. They wondered, therefore, why the well-known energy of Mr. Gossett in capturing his runaway negroes--and he had a remarkable experience in the matter of runaways--should suddenly cool down with respect to Aaron. But it must not be supposed that this made any real difference. On the contrary, as soon as George Gossett found that his father was willing to allow matters to take their course as far as Aaron was concerned, he took upon himself the task of capturing the fugitive, and in this business he was able to enlist the interest of the young men of the neighborhood, who, without asking anybody's advice, constituted themselves the patrol. George Gossett's explanation to his companions, in engaging their assistance, was, "Pap is getting old, and he ain't got time to be setting up late at night and galloping about all day trying to catch a runaway nigger." These young fellows were quite willing to pledge themselves to George Gossett's plans. They had arrived at the age when the vigor of youth seeks an outlet, and it was merely in the nature of a frolic for them to ride half the night patrolling, and sit out the other half watching for Aaron. But there was one peculiarity about the vigils that were kept on account of Aaron. They were carried on, for the most part, within tasting distance of the stillhouse run by Mr. Fullalove, which was on a small watercourse not far from the Abercrombie place. Mr. Fullalove was employed simply to superintend the distilling of peach and apple brandy and corn whiskey; and although it was his duty to taste of the low wines as they trickled from the spout of the "worm," he could truthfully boast, as he frequently did, that not a drop of liquor had gone down his throat for "forty year." Being a temperance man, and feeling himself responsible for the "stuff" at the still, he was inclined to resent the freedom with which the young men conducted themselves. Sometimes they paid for what they drank, but more often they didn't, and at such times Mr. Fullalove would limp about attending to his business (he had what he called a "game leg") with tight-shut lips, refusing to respond to the most civil question. But usually the young men were very good company, and, occasionally, when Mr. Fullalove was suffering from pains in his "game leg," they would keep up his fires for him. And that was no light task, for the still was of large capacity. Take it all in all, however, one night with another, Mr. Fullalove was perfectly willing to dispense with both the services and the presence of the roystering young men. But one night when they came the old man had something interesting to tell them. "You fellers ought to 'a' been here awhile ago," he said. "I reckon you'd 'a' seed somethin' that'd 'a' made you open your eyes. I was settin' in my cheer over thar, some'rs betwixt a nod an' a dream, when it seems like I heard a dog a-whinin' in the bushes. Then I heard a stick crack, an' when I opened my eyes who should I see but the biggest, strappin'est buck nigger that ever trod shoe leather. I say 'Nigger,'" Mr. Fullalove explained, "bekaze I dunner what else to say, but ef that man's a nigger I'm mighty much mistaken. He's dark enough for to be a nigger, but he ain't got the right color, an' he ain't got the right countenance, an' he ain't got the right kind of ha'r, an' he ain't got the right king of twang to his tongue." Mr. Fullalove paused a moment to see what effect this would have on the young men. Then he went on:-- "I heard a dog whinin' out thar in the bushes, but I didn't pay no attention to it. Then I stoops down for to git a splinter for to light my pipe, an' when I look up thar was this big, tall--well, you can call him 'nigger' ef you want to. I come mighty nigh jumpin' out'n my skin. I drapt splinter, pipe, hat, an' eve'ything else you can think of, an' ef the man hadn't 'a' retched down an' picked 'em up I dunno as I'd 'a' found 'em by now. I ain't had sech a turn,--well, not sence that night when the 'worm' got chugged up an' the cap of the still blow'd off. "'Hello,' says I, 'when did you git in? You might 'a' knocked at the door,' says I. I tried for to make out I wern't skeer'd, but 't wa'n't no go. The man--nigger or ha'nt, whichsomever it might 'a' been--know'd e'en about as well as I did that he'd skeered me. Says he, 'Will you please, sir, give me as much as a spoonful of low-wines for to rub on my legs?' says he. 'I've been on my feet so long that my limbs are sore,' says he. "'Why, tooby shore I will,' says I, 'ef you'll make affydavy that you'll not creep up on me an' skeer me out'n two years' growth,' says I. You may not believe me," Mr. Fullalove continued solemnly, "but that man stood up thar an' never cracked a smile. I got one of them half-pint ticklers an' let the low-wines run in it hot from the worm. He taken it an' set right on that log thar an' poured it in his han' an' rubbed it on his legs. Now, ef that'd 'a' been one of you boys, you'd 'a' swaller'd the low-wines an' rubbed your legs wi' the bottle." George Gossett knew that the man Mr. Fullalove had seen was no other than Aaron, the runaway. "Which way did he go, Uncle Jake?" George inquired. "Make inquirements of the wind, child! The wind knows lot more about it than me. The man bowed, raised his right han' in the a'r, taken a couple of steps, an'--_fwiff_--he was gone! Whether he floated or flew, I'll never tell you, but he done uther one er t' other, maybe both." "I'd give a twenty-dollar bill if I could have been here!" exclaimed George Gossett. "On what bank, Gossett?" asked one of his companions. "On a sandbank," remarked Mr. Fullalove sarcastically. "And I'll give a five-dollar bill to know which way he went," said young Gossett, paying no attention to gibe or sarcasm. "Plank down your money!" exclaimed Mr. Fullalove. The young man pulled a bill from his pocket, unrolled it, and held it in his hand. "He went the way the wind blow'd! Gi' me the money," said Mr. Fullalove solemnly. Whereat the young men laughed loudly, but not louder than Mr. Fullalove. "Some of your low-wines must have slipped down your goozle," remarked George Gossett somewhat resentfully. Later, when the young men were patrolling the plantations in a vain search for Aaron, their leader remarked:-- "The nigger that old Fullalove saw was pap's runaway." "But," said one, "the old man says he wasn't a nigger." "Shucks! Fallalove's so old he couldn't tell a mulatto from a white man at night. You needn't tell me; that nigger hangs around the Abercrombie place, and if we'll hang around there we'll catch him." So they agreed then and there to lay siege, at it were, to the Abercrombie place every night, until they succeeded either in capturing Aaron or in finding out something definite about his movements. This siege was to go on in all sorts of weather and under all sorts of conditions. XI. THE PROBLEM THAT TIMOLEON PRESENTED. When Mr. Abercrombie heard of the capers of the Black Stallion, he determined to place the horse in quarters that were more secure. But where? There was but one building on the place that could be regarded as perfectly secure--the crib in the five-acre lot. This crib was built of logs hewn square and mortised together at the ends. It had been built to hold corn and other grain, and logs were used instead of planks because the nearest sawmill was some distance away, and the logs were cheaper and handier. Moreover, as they were hewn from the hearts of the pines they would last longer than sawn lumber. This building was therefore selected as the Black Stallion's stable, and it was made ready. A trough was fitted up and the edges trimmed with hoop iron to prevent the horse from gnawing it to pieces. The floor was taken away and a new door made, a thick, heavy affair. To guard against all accidents a hole, which could be opened or closed from the outside, was cut through the logs over the trough, so that when the Black Stallion was in one of his tantrums he could be fed and watered without risk to life or limb. When everything was ready, the question arose, how was the horse to be removed to his new quarters? Mr. Abercrombie considered the matter an entire afternoon, and then decided to postpone it until the next day. He said something about it at supper, and this caused Mrs. Abercrombie to remark that she hoped he would get rid of such a savage creature. She said she should never feel safe while the horse remained on the place. But Mr. Abercrombie laughed at this excess of fear, and so did Little Crotchet, who made bold to say that if his father would permit him, he would have Timoleon put in his stable that very night, and it would be done so quietly that nobody on the place would know how or when it happened. Mr. Abercrombie regarded his son with tender and smiling eyes. "And what wonderful person will do this for you, my boy?" "A friend of mine," replied Little Crotchet seriously. "Well, you have so many friends that I'll never guess the name," remarked his father. "Oh, but this is one of the most particular, particularest of my friends," the lad explained. "I suppose you know he is getting up a great reputation among the servants," said Mrs. Abercrombie to her husband, half in jest and half in earnest. "I know they are all very fond of him, my dear." "Of course they are--how can they help themselves?" the lad's mother cried. "But this is 'a most particular, particularest' reputation." She quizzically quoted Little Crotchet's phrase, and he laughed when he heard it fall from her lips. "It is something quite wonderful. Since the time that he issued orders for no one to bother him after nine o'clock at night, the servants say that he talks with 'ha'nts.' They say he has become so familiar with bogies and such things that he can be heard talking with them at all hours of the night." "Your mother has been counting the candles on you, my boy" remarked Mr. Abercrombie jokingly. "Why, father! how can you put such an idea in the child's mind?" protested Mrs. Abercrombie. "He's only teasing you, mama," said Little Crotchet. "I heard him talking to a bogie the other night," remarked Mr. Hudspeth, the Teacher. "Oh, I don't think you're a bogie," cried Little Crotchet. "You would have been one, though, if you had kept me in those awful books." The Teacher had mischievously thrown out this hint about Aaron to see what effect it would have. He was amazed at the lad's self-possession, and at the deft manner in which he had turned the hint aside. "Oh, have you been admitted to the sanctum?" inquired the lad's mother, laughing. "I paused at the door to say good-night and remained until I learned a lesson I never shall forget," said Mr. Hudspeth. "Ah, you're finding our boy out, eh?" exclaimed Mr. Abercrombie with a show of pride. "He possesses already the highest culture the mind of man is capable of," Mr. Hudspeth declared. His tone was so solemn and his manner so earnest that Little Crotchet blushed. "He is cultured in the humanities. That is apart from scholarship," the Teacher explained, "but without it all knowledge is cold and dark and unfruitful." "I know he is very humane," suggested Mr. Abercrombie. "Oh, it is more than that," said Mr. Hudspeth; "far more than that. All sensitive people are tender-hearted. One may read a book and yet not catch the message it conveys. But this lad"--He paused and suddenly changed the subject. "He said he could have Timoleon carried to the new stable, and you are inclined to be doubtful. But he can do more than that: he can have the horse removed without bridle or halter." "Then you know our boy better than we do!" Mrs. Abercrombie's tone was almost reproachful. "I found him out quite by accident," replied Mr. Hudspeth. Little Crotchet in his quaint way called attention to the fact that he was blushing again. "You've made me blush twice," he said, "and I can't stay after that." At a sign, Jemimy, the house girl, who was waiting on the table--the same Jemimy who afterward had a daughter named Drusilla--turned the lad's chair about. He balanced himself on his crutches, and without touching his feet to the floor walked across the room to the hall, and so up the stairway. On the landing he paused. "Shall I have Timoleon put in the new stable to-night?" he asked. "By all means, my boy--if you can," answered Mr. Abercrombie. "If you succeed I'll give you a handsome present." Little Crotchet always paused on the stair landing to say something, but never to say good-night. After a while his mother would go up and sit with him a few minutes, by way of kissing him good-night, and, later, his father would make the same little journey for the same purpose. On this particular night, those whom Little Crotchet had left at the table remained conversing longer than usual. Mr. Hudspeth had something more to say about humanity-culture; and although he employed "the Concord dialect," as Mr. Abercrombie called it, his discourse was both interesting and stimulating. In the midst of it Jemimy dropped a plate and broke it. The crash of the piece of china put a temporary end to the conversation, and the silence that ensued had its humorous side. Jemimy's eyes, big as saucers and as white, were turned toward a door that led to the sitting-room. The door softly opened, and a portly negro woman, with a bunch of keys hanging at her waist, came into the dining-room. This was Mammy Lucy, the housekeeper. She never once glanced toward her master and mistress. "White er blue?" she inquired in a low voice. "Blue," replied Jemimy. "Dat counts fer two," Mammy Lucy remarked. "You've done broke five. One mo', en you'll go whar you b'long. I done say mo' dan once you ain't got no business in dis house. De fiel' 's whar you b'long at." Jemimy couldn't help that. She couldn't help anything. She knew how the Little Master would have the Black Stallion moved from one stable to the other. She knew, and she never would tell. They might send her to the field, they might drown her or strangle her, they might cut off her ears or gouge her eyes out, they might send her to town to the calaboose, they might do anything they pleased, but she never would tell. Not while her name was Jemimy, and she'd be named that until after she was put under the ground and covered up; and even then she wouldn't tell. Later when Mr. Abercrombie went upstairs to say good-night to Little Crotchet, the lad asked if he might have Timoleon trained. He had heard his father talking of getting a trainer from Mobile, and so he made the suggestion that, instead of going to that expense, it might be well to have the horse trained by his "friend," as he called Aaron. Mr. Abercrombie guessed who Little Crotchet's friend was, but, to please the lad, feigned ignorance. He told his son that the training of such a horse as Timoleon was a very delicate piece of business, and should be undertaken by no one but an expert. Now, if Little Crotchet's "friend" was an expert, which was not likely, well and good; if not, he might ruin a good horse. Still, if Little Crotchet was sure that everything would be all right, why, there would be no objection. At any rate, the horse was now old enough to be broken to the saddle, and Little Crotchet's "friend" could do that if no more. So it was settled, and the lad was very happy. He made his signal for Aaron early and often, but, somehow, the Son of Ben Ali was long in coming that night. The reason was plain enough when he did come, but Little Crotchet was very impatient. The moon was shining, and as George Gossett and his companions had refused to raise the siege a single night since Mr. Fullalove had seen the runaway at the stillhouse, Aaron found it difficult to respond promptly when the Little Master signaled him to come. It is not an easy matter to pass a picket line of patrollers when the moon is shining as it shines in Georgia at the beginning of autumn, and as it shone on the Abercrombie place the night that Little Crotchet was so anxious to see Aaron. Rambler was very busy that night trying to find a place where Aaron might pass the patrollers without attracting attention, but he had to give it up for a time. At last, however, three of them, George Gossett among the number, concluded to pay another visit to Mr. Fullalove, and this left the way clear. Aaron was prompt to take advantage of it. Going half bent, he kept in the shadow of the fence, slipped through the small jungle of black-jacks, ran swiftly across an open space to the negro cabins, flitted to the garden fence, and in the shadow of that fled to the front yard, and so up the friendly oak. Oh, but Little Crotchet was impatient! He was almost ready to frown when Aaron made his appearance; but when the runaway told him of the big moon and the patrollers, he grew uneasy; and after telling Aaron about the Black Stallion, how the horse must be removed to the new stable, and how he must be broken to saddle and bridle, Little Crotchet declared that he was sorry he had signaled to Aaron. "They'll catch you to-night, sure," he said. But Aaron shook his head. "No, Little Master, not to-night. Not while I'm with the grandson of Abdallah." "Oh, I see!" laughed Little Crotchet; "you'll stay in his stable. Good! I'll bring you your breakfast in the morning." Aaron smiled, shaking his head and looking at the basket of victuals that Little Crotchet always had ready for him when he came. "No, Little Master! This will do. I'll not take the basket to-night. I'll put the victuals in my wallet." This was a bag suspended from his shoulder by a strap, being made after the manner of the satchels in which the children used to carry their books to school. Aaron had another idea in his head, but he gave no hint of it to little Crotchet, for he didn't know how it would succeed. So he sat by the lad's bedside and drove away the red goblin, Pain, and waited until George Gossett and his companions had time to make another visit to the stillhouse. Then he took the big key of the new stable from the mantel, slipped it on his belt,--a leathern thong that he always wore around his body,--placed in his wallet the substantial lunch that the Little Master had saved for him, and prepared to take his leave. This time he did not snuff out the light, but placed the candlestick on the hearth. When Aaron went out at the window, Little Crotchet was sound asleep, and seemed to be smiling. The Son of Ben Ali was smiling too, and continued to smile even as he descended the oak. [Illustration: AARON AND LITTLE CROTCHET] Rambler was waiting for him, and, instead of being asleep, was wide awake and very much disturbed. One of the patrollers, no less a person than George Gossett,--young Grizzly, as Rambler named him,--had been to the spring for water. This was what disturbed the dog, and it was somewhat disturbing to Aaron; for the high wines or low wines, or whatever it was that was dealt out to them at the stillhouse, might make young Gossett and his companions bold enough to search the premises, even though Mr. Abercrombie had warned them that he could take care of his own place and wanted none of their interference in any way, shape, or form. If Aaron could get to the stable, where the Black Stallion had his temporary quarters, all would be well. He could then proceed to carry out the idea he had in his mind, which was a very bold one, so bold that it might be said to depend on accident for its success. The moon was shining brightly, even brilliantly, as Aaron stood at the corner of the great house and looked toward the horse lot. He could easily reach the negro quarters, he could even reach the black-jack thicket beyond, but he would be farther from the lot than ever, and still have an acre of moonlight to wade through. What he did was both bold and simple, and its very boldness made it successful. He stepped back to the garden gate, threw it wide open, and slammed it to again. The noise was loud enough to be heard all over the place. George Gossett heard it and was sure the noise was made by Mr. Abercrombie. Aaron walked from the house straight toward the horse lot, whistling loudly and melodiously some catchy air he had heard the negroes sing. Rambler was whistling too, but the sound came through his nose, and it was not a tune, but a complaint and a warning. Aaron paid no heed to the warning and cared nothing for the complaint. He went through the moonlight, whistling, and there was a swagger about his gait such as the negroes assume when they are feeling particularly happy. Behind a tree, not twenty-five yards away, George Gossett stood. Rambler caught his scent in the air and announced the fact by a low growl. But this announcement only made Aaron whistle the louder. There was no need for him to whistle, if he had but known it; for when young Gossett heard the garden gate slammed to and saw what seemed to be a negro come away from the house whistling, he at once decided that some one of the hands had been receiving his orders from Mr. Abercrombie. Thus deciding, George Gossett paid no further attention to Aaron, but kept himself more closely concealed behind the tree that sheltered him. He looked at Aaron, and that more than once; but though the moonlight was brilliant, it was only moonlight after all. Aaron disappeared in the deep shadows that fell about the horse lot, and George Gossett forgot in a few minutes that any one had waded through the pond of moonlight that lay shimmering between the garden gate and the lot where Timoleon held sway. Indeed, there was nothing about the incident to attract attention. As he stood leaning against the tree, young Gossett could see the negroes constantly passing to and fro about their cabins. There was no lack of movement. Some of the negroes carried torches of "fat" pine in spite of the fact that the moon was shining, and so made themselves more conspicuous. But this peculiarity was so familiar to the young man's experience that it never occurred to him to remark it. He could even hear parts of their conversation, for they made not the slightest effort to suppress their voices or subdue their laughter, which was loud and long and frequent. It was especially vociferous when Turin came to the door of one of the cabins and cried to Uncle Fountain, who had just gone out:-- "Nigger man! You better not try to slip off to Spivey's dis night." "How come, I like ter know?" said Uncle Fountain. "Patterollers on de hill yander," replied Turin. "How you know?" Uncle Fountain asked. "I done seed um." "What dey doin' out dar?" "Ketchin' grasshoppers, I speck!" From every cabin came a roar of laughter, and the whole plantation seemed to enjoy the joke. The calves in the ginhouse lot bleated, the dogs barked, the geese cackled, and the guinea hens shrieked "Potrack! run here! go back!" as loud as they could, and a peafowl, roosting on the pinnacle of the roof of the great house, joined in with a wailing cry that could be heard for miles. [Illustration: BEHIND A TREE STOOD GEORGE GOSSETT] The lack of respect shown by the Abercrombie negroes for the patrollers irritated George Gossett, but it was a relief to him to know that if the negroes on his "pap's" place were to make any reference to the patrollers they would bow their heads and speak in subdued whispers. From one of the cabins came the sound of "patting" and dancing, and the noise made by the feet of the dancer was so responsive to that made by the hands of the man who was patting that only an expert ear could distinguish the difference. The dance was followed by a friendly tussle, and a negro suddenly ran out at the door, pursued by another. The pursuer halted, however, and cried out:-- "Ef you fool wid me, nigger, I'll make Marster sen' you in de lot dar an' move dat ar' wil' hoss to his new stable." "Marster was made 'fo' you wuz de maker," answered the pursued, who had now stopped running. "Ding 'em!" said young Gossett in a low tone to himself, "they're always and eternally frolicking on this place. No wonder they ain't able to do no more work in the daytime!" Fretting inwardly, the young man changed his position, and continued to watch for the runaway. How long he stood there young Gossett could not say. Whether the spirits he had swallowed at the stillhouse benumbed his faculties so that he fell into a doze, he did not know. He could only remember that he was aroused from apparent unconsciousness by a tremendous clamor that seemed to come from the hill where he had left the most of his companions. It was a noise of rushing and running, squealing horses, and the exclamations of frightened men. Young Gossett did not pause to interpret the clamor that came to his ears, but ran back toward the hill as hard as he could go. XII. WHAT THE PATROLLERS SAW AND HEARD. The scheme which Aaron had conceived, and which he proposed to carry out without delay, was bold, and yet very simple,--simple, that is to say, from his point of view. It came into his mind while he was in Little Crotchet's room, and fashioned itself as he went whistling to the horse lot in full view of George Gossett. He swung himself over the fence, and made directly for Timoleon's stable. The Black Stallion heard some one fumbling about the door, and breathed hard through his nostrils, making a low, fluttering sound, as high-spirited horses do when they are suspicious or angry. It was a fair warning to any and all who might dare to open the door and enter that stable. "So!" said Aaron; "that is the welcome you give to all who may come to make you comfortable." At the sound of that voice, Timoleon snorted cheerfully and whinnied, saying: "Change places with me, Son of Ben Ali, and then see who will warn all comers. Why, the ox has better treatment, and the plow mule is pampered. What am I that my food should be thrown at me through the cracks? The man that fed me comes no more." "He is where your teeth and your temper put him, Grandson of Abdallah. But there is to be a change. This night you go to your new house, where everything is fresh and clean and comfortable. And you are to learn to hold a bit in your mouth and a man on your back, as Abdallah before you did." "That is nothing, Son of Ben Ali. Then I can gallop, and smell the fresh air from the fields. What man am I to carry, Son of Ben Ali?" "Let the White-Haired Master settle that, Grandson of Abdallah. This night, before you go to your new house, you are to have a run with me." Timoleon snorted with delight. He was ready, and more than ready. He was stiff and sore from standing in the stable. "But before we start, Grandson of Abdallah, this must be said: No noise before I give the word; none of the loud screaming that men call whickering. You know my hand. You are to have a frolic, and a fine one, but before you begin it, wait for the word. Now, then, we will go." With his hand on the horse's withers, Aaron guided Timoleon to the gate. They went through the lot in which the Black Stallion's new stable stood, out at the gate through which Buster John and Sweetest Susan rode years afterward, and into the lane that led to the public road. But instead of going toward the road, they followed the lane back into the plantation, until they came to what was called "the double gates." Going through these, they found themselves in the pasture that sloped gradually upward to the hill from which Aaron was in the habit of watching the light in Little Crotchet's window. The hoofs of the Black Stallion hardly made a sound on the soft turf. Guided by Aaron, he ascended the hill until they were on a level with and not far from the fence on which Mr. Gossett, his son George, and Jim Simmons had carried on their controversy about Addison Abercrombie. Here Aaron brought Timoleon to a halt, while Rambler went forward to see what discovery he could make. He soon found where the horses of the patrollers were stationed. There were five. Three had evidently been trained to "stand without tying," as the saying is, while one of the patrollers was sitting against a tree, holding the other two. All this Rambler knew, for he went so near that the patroller saw him, and hurled a pine burr at him. It was a harmless enough missile, but it had not left Rambler in a good humor. Then it was that Aaron spoke to the horse, and gave him the word. "Grandson of Abdallah, the horses and the man are yonder. Give them a taste of your playfulness. Show them what a frolic is, but cover your teeth with your lips,--no blood to-night. Spare the horses. They have gone hungry for hours, but they must obey the bit. Spare the man, too, but if you can strip him of his coat as he flees, well and good. You will see other men come running. They will be filled with fear. Give them also a taste of your playfulness. Let them see the grandson of Abdallah when he is frolicsome. But mind! No blood to-night,--no broken bones!" The situation promised to be so exciting that Timoleon snorted loudly and fiercely, whereupon one of the horses held by the patroller answered with a questioning neigh, which was cut short by a cruel jerk of the bridle rein by the man who held it. The man was dozing under the influence of Mr. Fullalove's low-wines, and the sudden neighing of the horse startled and irritated him. But in the twinkling of an eye terror took the place of irritation, for the Black Stallion, pretending to himself that the neigh was a challenge, screamed fiercely in reply and went charging upon the group with open mouth and eyes that glowed in the dark. The horses knew well what that scream meant. Those that were not held by the patroller ran away panic-stricken, snorting, and whickering. The two that were held by the patroller cared nothing for bits now, but broke away from the man, after dragging him several yards (for he had the reins wrapped about his wrist) and joined the others. They dragged the man right in the Black Stallion's path, and there left him straggling to his hands and knees, with his right arm so severely wrenched that he could hardly use it. But, fortunately for the patroller, Timoleon's eyes were keen, and he saw the man in time to leap over him, screaming wildly as he did so. The man fell over on his side at that instant. Glancing upward he saw the huge hulk of the horse flying over him, and his reason nearly left him. Was it really a horse, or was it that arch-fiend Beelzebub that he had read about in the books, and whose name he had heard thundered from the pulpit at the camp meeting? "Beelzebub is abroad in the land to-day!" the preacher had cried. Was it indeed true? The Black Stallion drove the crazed horses before him hither and yonder, but always turning them back to the point where they had been standing. The stampede was presently joined by three or four mules that had been turned in the pasture. The patrollers, who had been watching and guarding the approaches to the Abercrombie place, came running to see what the trouble was. George Gossett, being farther away from the pasture than the rest, was the last to reach the scene, but he arrived soon enough to see the Black Stallion seize one of his companions by the coat-tails and literally strip him of the garment. [Illustration: THE BLACK STALLION] The terror-stricken horses, when they found an opportunity, ran toward the double gates where they had entered the pasture. Aaron, expecting this, had opened the gates, and the five horses, crowding on one another's heels, went through like a whirlwind, having left the mules far behind. Aaron closed the gates again, and went running to where he heard the Black Stallion still plunging about. By this time the mules were huddled together in a far corner of the field; but Timoleon had paid no attention to them. He could have caught and killed them over and over again. He was now in pursuit of the patrollers. George Gossett, running toward the fence, tripped and fell, and narrowly escaped the Black Stallion's hoofs. He was not far from the fence when he fell, and he rolled and scrambled and crawled fast enough to elude Timoleon, who turned and ran at him again. In one way and another all the patrollers escaped with their lives, and, once the fence was between them and the snorting demon, they made haste to visit Mr. Fullalove's stillhouse, and relate to him the story of their marvelous adventure, consoling themselves, meanwhile, with copious draughts of the warm low-wines. "I believe the thing had wings," said one of the patrollers, "and if I didn't see smoke coming out of his mouth when he ran at me, I'm mighty much mistaken. I never shall believe it wasn't Beelzebub." This was the man who had been set upon so suddenly while watching the horses and dozing. Some of the others were inclined to agree with this view of the case; but George Gossett was sure it was a horse. "I was right at him," he said, "when he pulled off Monk's coat, and it was a horse, even to the mane and tail. I was looking at him when he turned and made for me. Then I tripped and fell, and just did get to the fence in time to save my neck." "You hear that, don't you, Mr. Fullalove?" remarked the man who had been holding the horses. "It pulled Monk's coat off, and then Gossett just had time to get to the fence to save his neck! Why, it's as natchul as pig-tracks. Every hoss you meet tries to pull your coat off, and you have to run for a fence if you want to save your neck. That's Gossett's idee. If that thing was a hoss, I don't want to see no more hosses. I'll tell you that." "Well," said Mr. Fullalove, "there are times and occasions-more espeshually occasions, as you may say--when a hoss mought take a notion for to cut up some such rippit as that. You take that black hoss of Colonel Abercrombie's--not a fortnight ago he got out of his pen and ketched a nigger and like to 'a' killed him." "Maybe it's that same hoss in the field yonder," suggested George Gossett. "No," replied Mr. Fullalove. "That hoss is penned up so he can't git out of his stable--much less the lot--if so be some un ain't took and gone and turned him out and led him to the field. And if that had 'a' been done you could 'a' heard him squealin' every foot of the way." "If anybody wants to call the Old Boy a hoss," said the man who had been first attacked, "they are more than welcome." "Boys," remarked Mr. Fullalove, "if any of you have got the idee that the Old Boy was after you, you'd better stay as fur from this stillhouse as you can, and try to act as if you had souls for to save. What have you done with your hosses?" "We couldn't tote 'em, and so we had to leave 'em," Gossett answered, making a poor effort to laugh. "What I hate about it is that I took a fool notion and rode pap's horse to-night. He'll be hot as pepper." "Ain't you going for to make some sorter effort to git your hosses out of the field?" inquired Mr. Fullalove. "He can have my hoss and welcome," said the man who insisted on the Beelzebub theory. "I wouldn't go in that field, not for forty horses," another patroller protested. "I might go there for forty horses," said George Gossett, "but I'll not go back for one, even though it's pap's." "Well, it's mighty quiet and serene up there now," suggested Mr. Fullalove, listening with his hand to his ear. "He's caught 'em and now he's skinning 'em," said the man who believed Beelzebub was abroad that night. The patrollers stayed at the stillhouse until the low-wines gave them courage, and then they went home with George Gossett. They were bold enough to go by the double gates, to see if they had been opened, but the gates were closed tight. They listened a few moments, but not a sound could be heard, save the loud, wailing cry of the peafowl that rested on the Abercrombie house. As they went along the road they found and caught four of the horses. The horse that George Gossett had ridden was safe at home. The young men agreed on one thing, namely: That they would give the Abercrombie place the go-by for some time to come; while the man that thought he had seen Beelzebub said that he was sick of the whole business and would have no more of it, being more firmly convinced than ever that the scenes they had witnessed were supernatural. Even George Gossett declared that he intended to advise "pap" to sell the runaway, "if he could find anybody fool enough to buy him." It must not be forgotten that though Gossett and his companions were the only ones that witnessed the terrifying spectacle presented by the Black Stallion as he ran screaming about the pasture, they were not the only ones that heard the uproar that accompanied it. The negroes heard it, and every ear was bent to listen. Randall had his hand raised over his head and held it there, as he paused to catch the drift and meaning of the fuss. Big Sal was reaching in a corner for her frying-pan. She paused, half bent, her arm reaching out, while she listened. Turin was singing, but the song was suddenly cut short. Mr. Abercrombie heard it, but his thoughts were far afield, and so he paid little attention to it. The geese, the guinea hens, and the peafowl heard it and joined heartily in with a loud and lusty chorus. Mammy Lucy heard it and came noiselessly to the library door and looked in inquiringly. "What is the noise about, Lucy?" inquired Mr. Abercrombie. "Dat what I wanter know, Marster. It soun' ter me like dat ar hoss done got loose agin." Then the White-Haired Master, remembering that he had consented for Little Crotchet's "friend" to remove the Black Stallion to his new quarters, regretted that he had been so heedless. It was all his own fault, he thought, as he rose hastily and went out into the moonlight bare-headed. He called Randall and Turin, and both came running. "Go out to the pasture there, and see what the trouble is." "Yasser, yasser!" they cried, and both went rapidly toward the field. They ran until they got out of sight of their master, and then they paused to listen. They started again, but not so swiftly as before. "I know mighty well dat Marster don't want us ter run up dar where we might git hurted," said Turin. "Dat he don't!" exclaimed Randall. Consoled by this view of the case, which was indeed the correct one, they moved slower and slower as they came close to the pasture fence. There they stopped and listened, and while they listened the uproar came to a sudden end--to such a sudden end that Randall remarked under his breath that it was like putting out a candle. For a few brief seconds not a sound fell on the ears of the two negroes. Then they heard a faint noise of some one running through the bushes in the direction of the stillhouse. "Ef I could git de notion in my head dat Marster don't keer whedder we gits hurted er no," suggested Turin, "I'd mount dis fence an' go in dar an' see who been kilt an' who done got away." "I speck we better not go," remarked Randall, "kaze ef we wuz ter rush in dar an' git mangled, Marster'd sholy feel mighty bad, an' fer one, I don't want ter be de 'casion er makin' 'im feel bad." By this time Mr. Abercrombie had become impatient, and concluded to find out the cause of the uproar for himself. Randall and Turin heard him coming, and they could see that he was accompanied by some of the negroes. The two cautiously climbed the fence and went over into the field, moving slowly and holding themselves in readiness for instant flight. A cow bug, flying blindly, struck Turin on the head. He jumped as if he had heard the report of a gun, and cried out in a tone of alarm:-- "Who flung dat rock? You better watch out. Marster comin', an' he got his hoss pistol 'long wid 'im." "'Twa'n't nothing but a bug," said Randall. "It de fust bug what ever raised a knot on my head," Turin declared. "What was the trouble, Randall?" inquired Mr. Abercrombie from the fence. His cool, decisive voice restored the courage of the negroes at once. "We des tryin' fer ter fin' out, suh. Whatsomever de racket wuz, it stop, suh, time we got here--an' it seem like we kin hear sump'n er somebody runnin' to'rds de branch over yander," replied Randall heartily. "Some of the mules were in the pasture to-day. See if they are safe." "Yasser!" responded Randall, but his tone was not so hearty. Nevertheless, he and Turin cautiously followed the line of the fence until they found the mules in the corner in which they had taken refuge. And the mules showed they were very glad to see the negroes, following them back to the point where the path crossed the fence. "De mules all safe an' soun', suh," explained Randall when they came to where the master was. "Dey er safe an' soun', but dey er swyeatin' mightily, suh." "What do you suppose the trouble was?" inquired Mr. Abercrombie. Turin and Randall had not the least idea, but Susy's Sam declared that he heard "dat ar hoss a-squealin'!" "What horse?" inquired Mr. Abercrombie. "Dat ar Sir Moleon hoss, suh," replied Susy's Sam. "That's what Lucy said," remarked Mr. Abercrombie. "Marster, ef dat ar hoss had er been in dar, me an' Turin wouldn't er stayed in dar long, an' dese yer mules wouldn't er been stan'in' in de fence corner up yander." But Mr. Abercrombie shook his head. He remembered that he had given Little Crotchet permission to have the horse removed to his new quarters. "Some of you boys see if he is in his stable," he said. They all went running, and before Mr. Abercrombie could get there, though he walked fast, he met them all coming back. "He ain't dar, Marster!" they exclaimed in chorus. "See if he is in his new stable," said Mr. Abercrombie. Again they all went running, Mr. Abercrombie following more leisurely, but somewhat disturbed, nevertheless. And again they came running to meet him, crying out, "Yasser! yasser! He in dar, Marster; he sho is. He in dar an' eatin' away same like he been dar dis long time." "See if the key is in the lock," said Mr. Abercrombie to Randall. Randall ran back to the stable and presently called out:-- "Dey ain't no key in de lock, Marster." Mr. Abercrombie paused as if to consider the matter, and during that pause he and Randall and Turin and Susy's Sam heard a voice saying: "Look on the little Master's mantelpiece!" The voice sounded faint and far away, but every word was clear and distinct. "Where did the voice come from?" asked Mr. Abercrombie. The negroes shook their heads. They didn't know. It might have come from the air above, or the earth beneath, or from any point of the compass. "Ask where the key is," said Mr. Abercrombie to Turin. His curiosity was aroused. Turin cried out: "Heyo, dar! Whar you say de key is?" But no reply came, not even so much as a whisper. The negroes looked at one another, and shook their heads. When Mr. Abercrombie went back to the house he put on his slippers and crept to Little Crotchet's room. Shading the candle he carried, the father saw that his son was fast asleep. And on the mantel was the key of the stable. XIII. THE APPARITION THE FOX HUNTERS SAW. As the fall came on, the young men (and some of the older ones, too) began to indulge in the sport of fox hunting. They used no guns, but pursued Reynard with horse and hound in the English fashion. The foxes in that region were mostly gray, but the red ones had begun to come in, and as they came the grays began to pack up their belongings (as the saying is) and seek homes elsewhere. The Turner old fields, not far from the Abercrombie place, and still closer to the Swamp, were famous for their foxes--first for the grays and afterward for the reds. There seemed to be some attraction for them in these old fields. The scrub pines, growing thickly together, and not higher than a man's waist, and the brier patches scattered about, afforded a fine covert for Mr. Fox, gray or red, being shady and cool in summer time, and sheltered from the cold winter winds. And if it was fine for Mr. Fox, it was finer for the birds; for here Mrs. Partridge could lead her brood in safety out of sight of Man, and here the sparrows and smaller birds were safe from the Blue Falcon, she of the keen eye and swift wing. And Mr. Fox was as cunning as his nose was sharp. He knew that the bird that made its home in the Turner old fields must roost low; and what could be more convenient for Mr. Fox than that--especially at the dead hours of night when he went creeping around as noiselessly as a shadow, pretending that he wanted to whisper a secret in their ears? Indeed, that was the main reason why Mr. Fox lived in the Turner old fields, or went there at night, for he was no tree climber. And so it came to pass that when those who were fond of fox hunting wanted to indulge in that sport, they rose before dawn and went straight to the Turner old fields. Now, when George Gossett and his patrolling companions ceased for a time to go frolicking about the country at night, on the plea that they were looking after the safety of the plantations, they concluded that it would be good for their health and spirits to go fox hunting occasionally. Each had two or three hounds to brag on, so that when all the dogs were brought together they made a pack of more than respectable size. [Illustration: IT WAS FINE FOR MR. FOX] One Sunday, when the fall was fairly advanced, the air being crisp and bracing and the mornings frosty, these young men met at a church and arranged to inaugurate the fox hunting season the next morning. They were to go home, get their dogs, and meet at Gossett's, his plantation lying nearest to the Turner old fields. This programme was duly carried out. The young men stayed all night with George Gossett, ate breakfast before daybreak, and started for the Turner old fields. As they set out, a question arose whether they should go through the Abercrombie place--the nearest way--or whether they should go around by the road. The darkness of night was still over wood and field, but there was a suggestion of gray in the east. If the hunting party had been composed only of those who had been in the habit of patrolling with George Gossett, prompt choice would have been made of the public road; but young Gossett had invited an acquaintance from another settlement to join them--a gentleman who had reached the years of maturity, but who was vigorous enough to enjoy a cross-country ride to hounds. This gentleman had been told of the strange experience of the patrollers in Mr. Abercrombie's pasture lot. Some of the details had been suppressed. For one thing, the young men had not confessed to him how badly they had been frightened. They simply told him enough to arouse his curiosity. When, therefore, the choice of routes lay between the public road and the short cut through the Abercrombie pasture, the gentleman was eager to go by way of the pasture where his young friends had beheld the wonderful vision that had already been described. When they displayed some hesitation in the matter, he rallied them smartly on their lack of nerve, and in this way shamed them into going the nearest way. George Gossett, who had no lack of mere physical courage, consented to lead the way if the others would "keep close behind him." But none of them except the gentleman who was moved by curiosity, and who attributed the mystery of the affair to frequent visits to Mr. Fullalove's still house, had any stomach for the journey through the pasture, for not even George Gossett desired to invite a repetition of the paralyzing scenes through which they had passed on that memorable night. As they came to the double gates, the young man who had insisted that Timoleon was Beelzebub concluded to leave an avenue by which to escape if the necessity arose. So he rode forward, dismounted, and opened the gates. Then he made a great pretense of shutting them, but allowed them to remain open instead. This operation left him somewhat behind his companions, as he intended it should, for he had made up his mind to wheel his horse and run for it if he heard any commotion ahead of him. In that event the delay he purposely made would leave him nearest the gates. Seeing that the young man did not come up as quickly as he should have done, George Gossett, in whom the spirit of mischief had no long periods of repose, suggested that they touch up their horses and give their companion a scare. This suggestion was promptly acted on. The commotion his companions made caused the young man to pause a moment before putting spur to his horses to rejoin them. This delay placed several hundred yards between him and the party with Gossett. He realized this as he rode after them, but was consoled by the fact that, in the event of any trouble, he had a better opportunity to escape than they did. But he had hardly gone fifty yards from the double gates before he heard some sort of noise in that direction. He half turned in his saddle and looked behind him. The vague gray of the morning had become so inextricably mixed and mingled with the darkness of the night that such light as there was seemed to blur the vision rather than aid it. But when the young man turned in his saddle he saw enough to convince him that he was likely to have company in his ride after his companions. He hesitated a moment before urging his horse into a more rapid gait. He wanted to see what it might be that was now so vaguely outlined. He strained his eyes, but could see nothing but a black and shapeless mass, which seemed to be following him. He could see that it was moving rapidly, whatever it was, but the gray light was so dim, and gave such shadowy shape even to objects close at hand, that he found it impossible either to gratify his curiosity or satisfy his fears. So he settled himself firmly in the saddle, clapped spurs to his horse, and rode headlong after his companions. He looked around occasionally, but the black mass was always nearer. The faster his horse went, the faster came the Thing. [Illustration: THE PHANTOM HORSEMAN] Each time he looked back his alarm rose higher, for the Thing was closer whenever he looked. At last his alarm grew to such proportions that he ceased to look back, but addressed himself entirely to the work of urging his horse to higher speed. Presently he heard quick, fierce snorts on his right, and his eye caught sight of the Thing. Its course was parallel with his own, and it was not more than twenty yards away. He saw enough for his alarm to rise to the height of terror. He saw something that had the head and feet of a black horse, but the body was wanting. No! There was a body, and a rider, but the rider wore a long, pale gray robe, and he was headless! If this was the Black Demon that the young man had seen in this pasture on a former occasion, he was now more terrible than ever, for he was guided by a headless rider! The young man would have checked his horse, but the effort was in vain. The horse had eyes. He also had seen the Thing, and had swerved away from it, but he was too frightened to pay any attention to bit or rein. The Black Thing was going faster than the frightened horse, and it soon drew away, the pale gray robe of the rider fluttering about like a fierce signal of warning. The young man's horse was soon under control, and in a few minutes he came up with his companions. He found them huddled together like so many sheep, this manoeuvre having been instinctively made by the horses. The dogs, too, were acting queerly. The men appeared to be somewhat surprised to see their companion come galloping up to them. After riding away from the young man who had taken it upon himself to leave the double gates open, the huntsmen had concluded to wait for him when they came to the bars that opened on the public road. But the gallop of their horses had subsided into a walk when they were still some distance from that point. They were conversing about the merits of their favorite dogs when suddenly they heard from behind them the sound of a galloping horse. They saw, as the young man had seen, a dark, moving mass gradually assume the shape of a black horse, with a headless rider wearing a long, pale gray robe. The apparition was somewhat farther from them when it passed than it had been from their companion, whom, in a spirit of mischief, they had deserted; but the Black Thing threatened to come closer, for when it had gone beyond them it changed its course, described a half circle, and vanished from sight on the side of the pasture opposite to that on which it had first appeared. "What do you think now?" said George Gossett, speaking in a low tone to the gentleman who had been inclined to grow merry when the former experience of the patrollers was mentioned. "What do I think? Why, I think it's right queer if the chap we left at the double gates isn't trying to get even with us by riding around like a wild Indian and waving his saddle blanket," replied the doubting gentleman. "Why, man, he's riding a gray horse!" one of the others explained. This put another face on the matter, and the gentleman made no further remark. In fact, before anything else could be said, the young man in question came galloping up. "Did you fellows see It?" he inquired. But he had no need to inquire. Their attitude and the uneasy movements of their horses showed unmistakably that they had seen It. "Which way did It go?" was the next question. There was no need to make reply. The direction in which the huntsmen glanced every second showed unmistakably which way It went. "Let's get out of here," said the young man in the next breath. And there was no need to make even this simple proposition, for by common consent, and as by one impulse, horses and men started for the bars at a rapid trot. When the bars were taken down they were not left down. Each one was put carefully back in its proper place, for though this was but a slight barrier to interpose between themselves and the terrible Black Thing, yet it was something. Once in the road they felt more at ease--not because they were safer there, but because it seemed that the night had suddenly trailed its dark mantle westward. "Did you notice," said the young man who was first to see the apparition, "that the Thing that was riding the Thing had no head?" "It certainly had that appearance," replied the doubtful gentleman, "but"-- "No 'buts' nor 'ifs' about it," insisted the young man. "It came so close to me that I could 'a' put my hand on it, and I noticed particular that the Thing on the back of the Thing didn't have no sign of head, no more than my big toe has got a head." The exaggeration of the young man was unblushing. If the Thing had come within ten yards of him he would have fallen from his horse in a fit. "And what was you doing all that time?" George Gossett inquired. His tone implied a grave doubt. "Trying to get away from that part of the country," replied the other frankly. "It was the same hoss that got after us that night," the young man continued. "I knowed it by the blaze in his eyes and the red on the inside of his nose. Why, it looked to me like you could 'a' lit a cigar by holding it close to his eyes." "I know how skeery you are," said George Gossett disdainfully, "and I don't believe you took time to notice all these things." "Skeer'd!" exclaimed the other; "why, that ain't no name for it--no name at all. But it was my mind that was skeered and not my eyes. You can't help seeing what's right at you, can you?" This frankness took the edge off any criticism that George Gossett might have made, seeing which the young man gave loose reins to his invention, which was happy enough in this instance to fit the suggestions that fear had made a place for in the minds of his companions. But it was all the simplest thing in the world. The apparition the fox hunters saw was Aaron and the Black Stallion. The Son of Ben Ali had decided that the interval between the first faint glimpse of dawn and daylight was the most convenient time to give Timoleon his exercise, and to fit him in some sort for the vigorous work he was expected to do some day on the race track. Aaron had hit upon that particular morning to begin the training of the Black Stallion, and had selected the pasture as the training-ground. It was purely a coincidence that he rode in at the double gates behind the fox hunters, but it was such a queer one that Little Crotchet laughed until the tears came into his eyes when he heard about it. Aaron's version of the incident was so entirely different from that of the fox hunters that those who heard both would be unable to recognize in them an account of the same affair from different points of view. As Aaron saw it and knew it, the incident was as simple as it could be. As he was riding the horse along the lane leading to the double gates (having left Rambler behind at the stable), Timoleon gave a snort and lifted his head higher than usual. "Son of Ben Ali," he said, "I smell strange men and strange horses. Their scent is hot on the air. Some of them are the men that went tumbling about the pasture the night you bade me play with them." "Not at this hour, Grandson of Abdallah," replied Aaron. "I am not smelling the hour, Son of Ben Ali, but the men. If we find them, shall I use my teeth?" "We'll not see the men, Grandson of Abdallah. This is not their hour." "But if we find them, Son of Ben Ali?" persisted the Black Stallion. "Save your teeth for your corn, Grandson of Abdallah," was the response. As they entered the double gates, which Aaron was surprised to find open, Timoleon gave a series of fierce snorts, which was the same as saying, "What did I tell you, Son of Ben Ali? Look yonder! There is one; the others are galloping farther on." "I am wrong and you are right, Grandson of Abdallah." As much for the horse's comfort as his own, Aaron had folded a large blanket he found hanging in the stable, and was using it in place of a saddle. He lifted himself back toward Timoleon's croup, seized the blanket with his left hand, and, holding it by one corner, shook out the folds. He had no intention whatever of frightening any one, his sole idea being to use the blanket to screen himself from observation. He would have turned back, but in the event of pursuit he would be compelled to lead his pursuers into the Abercrombie place, or along the public road, and either course would have been embarrassing. If he was to be pursued at all, he preferred to take the risk of capture in the wide pasture. As a last resort he could slip from Timoleon's back and give the horse the word to use both teeth and heels. [Illustration: AARON AND TIMOLEON] And this was why the fox hunters saw the apparition of a black horse and a headless rider. "Shall I ride him down, Son of Ben Ali?" snorted the Black Stallion. "Bear to the right, bear to the right, Grandson of Abdallah," was the reply. And so the apparition flitted past the young man who had left the double-gates open, and past his companions who were waiting for him near the bars that opened on the big road; flitted past them and disappeared. Finding that there was no effort made to pursue him, Aaron checked the Black Stallion and listened. He heard the men let down the bars and put them up again, and by that sign he knew they were not patrollers. Later on in the day, the doubting gentleman, returning from the fox hunt, called by the Abercrombie place and stopped long enough to tell the White-Haired Master of the queer sight he saw in the pasture at dawn. "The boys were badly scared," he explained to Mr. Abercrombie, "and I tell you it gave me a strange feeling--a feeling that I can best describe by saying that if the earth had opened at my feet and a red flame shot up, it wouldn't have added one whit to my amazement. That's the honest truth." Mr. Abercrombie could give him no satisfaction, though he might have made a shrewd guess, and Little Crotchet, who could have solved the mystery, had to make an excuse to get out of the way, so that he might have a hearty laugh. And Aaron, when he came to see the Little Master that night, knew for the first time that he had scared the fox hunters nearly out of their wits. XIV. THE LITTLE MASTER SAYS GOOD-NIGHT. After George Gossett's two experiences in the pasture, he came to the conclusion that it would not be profitable to do any more patrolling on the Abercrombie place, but this did not add to his good humor. He had his father's surly temper, and, with it, a vindictive spirit that was entirely lacking in the elder Gossett. Moreover, age had not moderated nor impaired his energies, as it had his father's. The fact that he had failed to capture Aaron struck him as a personal affront. He was stung by it. He felt that he and his father had been wronged by some one, he couldn't say who, but not by the runaway, for what was a "nigger," anyhow? After a while the idea was borne in upon him that somehow he and his family had been "insulted" by the Abercrombies. He arrived at this conclusion by a very circuitous route. The Abercrombies were harboring a Yankee in their house; and if they had the stomach to do that, why wasn't it just as easy for them to harbor "pap's" runaway nigger, especially when they were so keen to buy him? Another thing that stung him, though he never mentioned it, was the sudden and unexplainable attitude of his father toward Aaron. Young Gossett had observed that his father appeared to lose interest in the runaway after Mr. Jim Simmons failed to catch him, but the fact was not impressed upon the young man's mind until the day he told the elder Gossett about the queer sight he saw in Abercrombie's pasture. "Were you hunting the runaway?" his father asked, with some impatience. "Why, no, pap. We weren't doing a thing in the world, but crossing the pasture on our way to the Turner old fields." "Very well, then. Do as I do; let him alone. If you don't you'll get hurt. I know what I'm talking about." This fairly took George's breath away. "Why, pap!" he cried; "ain't he your nigger? Didn't you buy him and pay your money down for him? Don't you want him out of the woods? And who's going to hurt me, pap?" "You mind what I tell you," snapped the elder Gossett. "I'm older than you, and when I know a thing I know it. Let the runaway alone." "If I'm going to be hurt," responded George doggedly, "I'd like to know who'll do it." It would have been better for both if Mr. Gossett had told his son of his experience with Aaron. As it was, George was in danger of losing the little respect he had for his father. When he was warned that he would be hurt if he kept on trying to capture Aaron, he suspected at once that the warning related to Mr. Abercrombie. Who else would dare to hurt him, or even threaten to hurt him? Certainly not the runaway. Who, then, but Abercrombie? The suggestion was enough. It made George Gossett so furious that he never thought to reflect that he himself had invented it. Once invented, however, every circumstance seemed to fit it. His father had suddenly lost interest in the runaway, though he had paid out money for him, and had hardly received a week's work in return. Why? Because Mr. Abercrombie had overawed his father in a crowd, just as he did the day Aaron was sold from the block. The young man had not forgotten that episode, and his resentment was rekindled and grew hotter than ever, for it was now reinforced by inward shame and disgust at the way his father had allowed himself to be overcome--and that, too, in regard to his own property. The first result of George Gossett's resentment was his nearly successful effort to make the Teacher, Richard Hudspeth, the victim of the violent and natural prejudice that existed at that time against abolitionists; an event that has been related in "The Story of Aaron." The rescue of the Teacher by Mr. Abercrombie, and the fact that George Gossett was knocked flat by the Black Stallion, caused his resentment to rise to a white heat. He brooded over the matter until, at last, a desire to injure Mr. Abercrombie became an uncontrollable mania, and it went so far that one night, inflamed by whiskey, he set fire to the dwelling-house of the man he believed to be his father's enemy. Then it was that Aaron rescued Little Crotchet and Free Polly, and fell fainting to the ground. And then it was that Mr. Gossett seized the first plausible opportunity that had presented itself to sell Aaron to Mr. Abercrombie. It is true, he drove a sharp bargain, suspecting that the runaway had seriously injured himself; but he would have sold Aaron in any event, being anxious to get rid of him. George Gossett disappeared that night and was seen no more in that region. Years afterward, a homesick Georgian returning from Texas brought word that George Gossett had made a name for himself in that State, being known as a tough and a terror. It's an ill wind that blows no good to any one. George Gossett little knew, when he applied the torch to the Abercrombie dwelling, that the light of it would call Aaron from the wildwoods and show him the way to a home where he was to live, happy in the love of Little Crotchet and of children as yet unborn, and happy in the respect and confidence of those whose interest he served. Perhaps if George Gossett could have looked into the future, the blaze that produced these results would never have been kindled, and in that event the story of Aaron in the Wildwoods could have been spun out at greater length, but the conclusion would not have been different. Richard Hudspeth remained long enough to see Aaron duly installed in his new home, for the Abercrombie mansion was at once rebuilt on a larger scale than ever, and to see him serve as the major-domo of the establishment. But the departure of the Teacher was not delayed for many months after his experience with the reckless and irresponsible young men who had placed themselves under the leadership of George Gossett. Duties more pressing and more important than those he had assumed in Georgia called him to his Northern home, where a larger career awaited him--a career that made him famous. He became the most intimate adviser of Abraham Lincoln, and that great man found in him what, at the outset, he found in few New England men, the deepest sympathy and highest appreciation. It was characteristic of Richard Hudspeth that the treatment he received at the hands of George Gossett and his night riders bred no resentment against the Southern people, and the trait of character that shut the door of his mind against all petty prejudices and rancorous judgments was precisely the trait that attracted first the notice and finally the friendship of Mr. Lincoln. Aaron was as much of a mystery to the negroes on the Abercrombie place when he came to move about among them as he was when he roamed in the wildwoods. He was as much of a mystery to them years afterwards, when Buster John and Sweetest Susan came upon the scene, as he was when he first made his appearance on the place, but by that time the mystery he presented was a familiar one. The negroes had not solved it, but they were used to it. At first it seemed that they would never cease to wonder. They watched his every movement, and always with increasing awe and respect. He went about among them freely, but not familiarly. He was not of them, and they knew it. He was kind and considerate, especially where the women and children were concerned, but always reserved, always dignified, always serious. Yet he never lost his temper, never frowned, and was never known to utter an angry word or make a gesture of irritation. He had the remarkable gift of patience, that seemed to be so highly developed in some animals. It was Uncle Fountain who drew the parallel between the patience displayed by Aaron and that of the animals, and added this, after turning the matter over in his mind: "Mo' speshually de creeturs what kin see in de dark." On rare occasions Aaron would go into one of the cabins where the negroes were enjoying themselves, and there would be a mighty hustling around in that cabin until he had the most comfortable chair, or stool, or bench, or tub turned bottom-side up. At such times he would say, "Sing!" And then, after some display of shyness, Randall or Turin would strike into a quaint plantation melody, and carry it along; and as their voices died away the powerful and thrilling tenor of Susy's Sam, and Jemimy's quavering soprano would take up the refrain, all the singers joining in at the close. No matter what melody was sung, or what words were employed, the instinct and emotions of the negroes gave to their performance the form and essence of true balladry,--the burden, the refrain, the culmination, and the farewell; or, as the writers of pretty verse now call it, the envoi. Often on such occasions Aaron would enter the negro cabin bearing the Little Master in his arms. And then the negroes were better pleased, for the Little Master somehow seemed to stand between them and the awesome being they knew as Aaron. At such times the arms of Big Sal ached to hold Little Crotchet, the lad seemed to be so pale and frail. Once she made bold to say to Aaron:-- "I kin hol' 'im some ef you tired." "I won't be tired of that till I'm dead," responded Aaron. "I know mighty well how dat is," responded Big Sal humbly. "I des wanted ter hol' 'im. I _has_ helt him." "She wants to hold you," said Aaron to the Little Master. And the reply was, "Well, why not?" Whereupon Big Sal took the lad in her arms, and when the rest began to sing she swayed her strong body back and forth, and joined in the song with a voice so low and soft and sweet that it seemed to be the undertone of melody itself; and the effect of it was so soothing that when the song was ended the Little Master was fast asleep and smiling, and Big Sal leaned over him with such a yearning at her heart that only a word or a look would have been necessary to set her to weeping. Neither then nor ever afterwards did she know the reason why or seek to discover it. Enough for her that it was so. Something in her attitude told the rest of the negroes that the Little Master was asleep, and so when they sang another song they pitched their voices low,--so low that the melody seemed to come drifting through the air and in at the door from far away. When it was ended nothing would do but each negro must come forward on tiptoe and take a look at the Little Master, who was still asleep and smiling. When Aaron rose to go Big Sal was somewhat embarrassed. She didn't want the Little Master awakened, and yet she didn't know how he could be transferred to Aaron's arms without arousing him. But the Son of Ben Ali solved that problem. He nodded to Big Sal and motioned toward the door, and she, carrying the Little Master in her strong arms, went out into the dark. Aaron paused at the threshold, raised his right hand above his head, and followed Big Sal. This gesture he always made by way of salutation and farewell on the threshold of every door he entered or went out of, whether the room was full of people or empty. Whether it was the door of his master's house or of Timoleon's stable, he paused and raised his right hand. [Illustration: BIG SAL HOLDS THE LITTLE MASTER] The negroes noted it, and, simple as it was, it served to deepen the mystery in which Aaron seemed to be enveloped; and among themselves they shook their heads and whispered that he must be a "cunjur" man. But Aaron was not troubled by whisperings that never reached his ears, nor by the strange imaginings of the negroes. He had other things to think of--one thing in particular that seemed to him to be most serious. He could see that Little Crotchet was gradually growing weaker and weaker. It was some time before he discovered this. We know that the trunks of trees slowly expand, but we do not see the process going on. Little Crotchet seemed to be growing weaker day by day, and yet the process was so gradual that only the most careful observation could detect it. The burning of the house was something of a shock to him. He was not frightened by that event, and never for a moment lost his self-possession; but the spectacle of the fierce red flames mounting high in the air, their red tongues darting out and lapping about in space, and then, having found nothing to feed on, curling back and devouring the house, roaring and growling, and snapping and hissing,--this spectacle was so unexpected and so impossible in that place that the energy Little Crotchet lost in trying to fit the awful affair to his experience never came back to him. He never lost the feeling of numbness that came over him as he saw the house disappear in smoke and flame. But it was weeks--months--after that before Aaron made his discovery, a discovery that could only be confirmed by the keenest and most patient watchfulness. For Little Crotchet was never more cheerful. And he was restless, too; always eager to be going. But Aaron soon saw that if the lad went galloping about on the Gray Pony as often as before, he did not go so far. Nor did he use his crutches so freely,--the crutches on which he had displayed such marvelous nimbleness. And so from day to day Aaron saw that the Little Master was slowly failing. The lad found the nights longer, and Aaron had great trouble to drive away the red goblin, Pain. Thus the days slipped by, and the weeks ran into months, and the months counted up a year lacking a fortnight. This fortnight found the Little Master in bed both day and night, still happy and cheerful, but weak and pale. Always at night Aaron was sitting by the bed, and sometimes the lad would send for Big Sal. He was so cheerful that he deceived everybody except the doctor and Aaron as to his condition. But one day the doctor came and sat by the Little Master's bedside longer than usual. The lad was cheerful as ever, but the doctor knew. As he was going away he gave some information to the father and mother that caused them to turn pale. The mother, indeed, would have rushed weeping to her son. Was it for this,--for this,--her darling child had been born? The doctor stayed her. It was indeed for this her darling child had been born. Would she hasten it? Why not let the mystery come to him as a friend and comforter,--as the friend of friends,--as a messenger from our dear Lord, the Prince of Peace and Joy? And so the poor mother dried her eyes as best she could and took her place by the Little Master's bedside. The lad was cheerful and his eyes were as bright as a bird's. Doctors do not know everything, the mother thought, and, taking heart of hope, smiled as Little Crotchet prattled away. Nothing would do but he must have a look at the toys that used to amuse him when he was a little bit of a boy; and in getting out the old toys the mother found a shoe he had worn when he first began to walk,--a little shoe out at the toe and worn at the heel. This interested the lad more than all the toys. He held it in his hand and measured it with his thumb. And was it truly true that he had ever worn a shoe as small as that? The shoe reminded him of something else he had been thinking of. He had dreamed that when he got well he would need his crutches no more, and he wondered how it would feel to walk with his feet on the ground. And there was the old popgun, too, still smelling of chinaberries. If Aaron only but knew it, that popgun had been a wonderful gun. Yes, siree! the bird that didn't want to get hurt when that popgun was in working order had to run mighty fast or fly mighty high. But, heigh-ho! he was too old and too large for popguns now, and when he got well, which would be pretty soon, he would have a sure-enough gun, and then he would get a powder flask and a shot bag and mount the Gray Pony and shoot--well, let's see what he would shoot: not the gray squirrels, they were too pretty; not the shy partridges, they might have nests or young ones somewhere; not the rabbits--they were too funny with their pop eyes and big ears. Well, he could shoot at a mark, and that's just what he would do. And when night fell, the Little Master wanted to hear the negroes sing. And he wanted mother and father and sister to hear them too--not the loud songs, but the soft and sweet ones. But the negroes wouldn't feel like singing at all if everybody was in the room with them, and mother and father and sister could sit in the next room and pretend they were not listening. And so it was arranged. When the negroes arrived and were ushered into the room by Mammy Lucy, they were so embarrassed and felt so much out of place they hardly knew what to do, or say, or how to begin. Aaron was carrying the Little Master in his arms, walking up and down, up and down, and his long strides and supple knees gave a swinging motion to his body that was infinitely soothing and restful to the Little Master. Swinging back and forth, up and down, the Son of Ben Ali paid no attention to the negroes, and they stood confused for a moment, but only for a moment. Suddenly there came streaming into the room the strain of a heart-breaking melody, rising and falling, falling and rising, as the leaves of a weeping willow are blown by the wind; drifting away and floating back, as the foam of the wave is swayed by the sea. Little Crotchet lay still in Aaron's arms for ever so long. Was he listening? Who knows? He was almost within hearing of the songs of the angels. Suddenly he raised his head in the pause of the song-- "Tell them all good-night. Tell mother"-- Aaron stopped his swinging walk and placed the Little Master on the bed and stood beside it, his right hand raised above his head. It might have been a benediction, it might have been a prayer. The negroes interpreted it as a signal of dismissal. One by one they went softly to the bedside and gazed on the Little Master. He might have been asleep, for he was smiling. Each negro looked inquiringly at Aaron, and to each he nodded, his right hand still lifted above his head. [Illustration: THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE MASTER] Big Sal had waited till the last, and she was the only one that said a word. "He look des like he did when he drapt asleep in deze arms," she cried, sobbing as though her heart would break, "an' I thank my God fer dat much! But oh, man, what a pity! What a pity!" And she went out of the house into the yard, and through the yard into the lot, and through the lot to the negro cabins, crying, "_Oh, what a pity! what a pity!_" Not for the Little Master, for he was smiling at the glorious vision of peace and rest that he saw when he said good-night. Not pity for the lad, but for those he had left behind him, for all who loved him; for all who had depended on his thoughtfulness; for all the weary and sorrowful ones. _Oh, what a pity!_ Over and over again, _what a pity!_ And the wind flowing softly about the world took up the poor negro's wailing cry and sent it over the hill and beyond, and the outlying messengers of the Swamp took it up--_What a pity!_ And the Willis-Whistlers piped low, and the mysteries, swaying and slipping through the canes and tall grass, heard the whispered echo and sighed, _Oh, what a pity!_ * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. A number of words in this book had both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants; for those words the variant more frequently used was retained. This book also contains dialect and vernacular conversation. Obvious punctuation errors were fixed. Other printing errors, which were not detected during the revision of the printing process of the original book, have been corrected. It was unclear if in the expression "simple as a-b ab", in page 67, the second "ab" should be hyphenated. It was decided to keep the text unchanged. 
59967	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file file which includes the original lovely illustrations in color. See 59967-h.htm or 59967-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/59967/59967-h/59967-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/59967/59967-h.zip) ON ANGELS' WINGS [Illustration: Violet's Surprise. _Page 89._] ON ANGELS' WINGS BY THE HON. MRS. GREENE London, Edinburgh, and New York Thomas Nelson and Sons _CONTENTS_ _I._ _Little Violet_ 9 _II._ _Mother's Farewell_ 16 _III._ _A Sad Discovery_ 21 _IV._ _Father's Love_ 28 _V._ _A Strange Book_ 43 _VI._ _Great Excitement_ 48 _VII._ _Fritz and Ella_ 55 _VIII._ _A Bitter Cry_ 76 _IX._ _Aunt Lizzie's Visit_ 87 _X._ _The Parting Kiss_ 105 _XI._ _The Bunch of Violets_ 115 _XII._ _The Silver Watch_ 127 _XIII._ _Noisy Friends_ 136 _XIV._ _Evelina_ 144 _XV._ _Weighed in the Balances_ 151 _XVI._ _Father's Letter_ 159 _XVII._ _The Kind Physician_ 166 _XVIII._ _Sorrowful Tidings_ 181 _XIX._ _A Bright Prospect_ 192 _XX._ _All Alone_ 212 _XXI._ _A Guilty Conscience_ 232 _XXII._ _A Startling Message_ 239 _XXIII._ _Great Preparations_ 249 _XXIV._ _A Grievous Disappointment_ 259 _XXV._ _Wings at Last_ 270 _XXVI._ "_No more Tears_" 283 _LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS._ _Violet's Surprise_ _Frontispiece._ _Violet helps her Father_ 32 _Learning the News_ 52 _Going forth to War_ 76 _Carving the Cake_ 98 _The Farewell Kiss_ 114 _Reading the Letter_ 163 _The Procession_ 275 ON ANGELS' WINGS. CHAPTER I. LITTLE VIOLET. Every one knew little Violet. She sat always in a small window which projected out over the street, and her purple frock and pale face were looked for and recognized by almost every passer-by. She had sat in that curious turret-shaped window for four years--in winter, in spring, in summer, in autumn. Other children made snow men and pelted snowballs in the street beneath, while she looked on from above and laughed and clapped her hands. In the spring the little ones went off by the score and gathered yellow and purple crocuses, of which not a few found their way into Violet's lap, or bloomed again in the vases which stood on the sills of the old-fashioned eight-sided window. She loved to have those flowers, and took them from the children's hands with her brightest and most grateful smile. Later on they brought her violets, sweet wood-violets, and trailing ground-ivy; but for these flowers she now had no smile, only tears, which gathered and multiplied, and which would, despite all her efforts, run down her purple dress in large, bright drops. For was not she herself called Violet? and had not some one, not so long ago, often whispered this word to her in a voice which seemed for ever in her ears?-- "My own sweet Violet, lay thy head on mother's breast and rest thee a while. My little Violet is sweeter to me than all the flowers in the town." And now that Violet had no mother, she could scarcely bear to look at the purple blossoms which they brought to her in bunches; and yet she put them aside, and, when they were withered, treasured them all in "mother's Bible," which lay always on a little table beside her. In summer, in the gap at the far end of the street, between the church and the fountain, she could always catch a glimpse of the hills--the beautiful green hills, covered with trees to the very top, and from whence, in the autumn, the children returned laden with nuts, baskets and satchels and boxes full; and though Violet did not eat nuts, they made tea-things out of the shells, and had doll tea-parties in the old turret-window. A year ago she had been a very happy little girl; and although even then she could not walk, nor run, nor jump about like other children, still she never fretted about it. She had some one always with her who made the long days pass so happily, that she never stopped to ask herself why she was unlike the others, or why all the neighbours as they went by looked up at her with such pity in their eyes. Only once for a few moments she had seemed to understand something about it, when little Fritz Adler, her great friend, going by riding on a stick with a horse's head attached to it, shrieked up to her from the street beneath in great pride,-- "Ha, ha, Violet! look at me how I can prance; thou couldst not do so if thou triedst." "I could," she shouted. "By-and-by, when I can run like thee, I will ride too." "No, no, thou never wilt," screamed Fritz, giving his wooden horse a lash with his leather whip. "I wanted to give thee this horse, this very one; Ella had bought thee this very whip; but mother said 'No,' it would be folly to give thee such a present." "Why?" asked Violet. "Why, Fritz, did she say that?" "Ah! thou knowest thou art not like other children." "Why am not I like other children?" "Because thou canst not run or even walk about like me and Ella. Mother says thou art a little hunchback, and it would hurt thy poor back to ride and prance like this;" and Fritz, again lashing his horse, began to plunge violently up and down on the pavement opposite. "Fritz, what didst thou say? I am what?" but he could give no answer, for his mother, who lived in the little baker's shop across the road, rushing out, promptly secured the offender, and having given him a smart slap across the face, dragged him back into the house. "Mother, what did he say I was? and why did his mother slap him? He called me a little hunchback. What does that mean, mother?" Violet's mother had not been attending to the conversation. She had been working at a little white frilled pinafore for her daughter at a table near the stove, and she had just taken the crimping irons from the heart of the fire, red-hot and smoking; but when she heard these words she dropped them suddenly on the floor, and in a moment she was on her knees in front of little Violet's chair, and covering the child's thin white hands with kisses. "What does it signify what it means; he is a cruel boy to call thee such a name. Thou art my darling, my treasure, my sweetest Violet. Thou art the most precious little girl in all the town." Somewhat amazed at her mother's sudden anguish of mind, and at the passionate way she kissed her cheeks and stroked her hair, Violet gazed at her with eyes which widened and dilated, and then she seemed for a few moments lost in thought; after which she said, in her usual quiet voice, with only the faintest tinge of trouble in it,-- "Mother, dear, is this a hump I have on my back? and is that the reason why I sit in this chair and cannot walk?" "Dearest," replied her mother almost in a whisper, "my heart's love, do not fret or think any more about what Fritz said. Thou art one of God's own little children, and is not that the best thing of all?" Violet nodded her head--it was a way she had of agreeing to things said to her; but still she was not quite satisfied, for after a pause she said anxiously,-- "But did God give me this hump, mother? and what is in it that it pains me so?" As she asked this question, she gave a sudden sob, and some tears fell on the front of her pretty purple dress. "Do not cry, my sweetest treasure," cried the mother, drawing the child's head down on her shoulder, and once more covering it with kisses. "What does it matter what we are like here? If thou canst not walk nor run here, by-and-by Christ will carry my little lamb in his bosom; and if thou hast a hump on thy back now, what does it matter? Some day the good Lord Jesus will call my little one to himself, and then all the pain will be gone; and where the poor shoulders ache so much now, thou wilt have wings, shining wings, and thou wilt never cry there any more, but always be quite happy." "And Violet will have wings!--thou knowest that?" said the little girl, lifting her head suddenly from her mother's shoulder and looking earnestly into her face. "Yes, darling." "Beautiful, shining, silver wings; and no more hump and no more pain?" "No more hump and no more pain," replied her mother softly. "And thou wilt be there, dearest mother?" "Yes, sweetest treasure, I trust I shall be there." "And father?" "And father also." "And Fritz; will he be there? Will he not, mother?" "I hope so. Yes; but it was not kind of him to speak roughly to my little one." "His mother slapped him," said Violet sorrowfully. "He deserved it," replied her mother somewhat sharply. The little girl gave a long sigh; and pressing one of the tears which still stood in a bright drop on the front of her dress with the tip of her finger until it disappeared in the purple cashmere folds, she said softly,-- "I love Fritz. I must tell him what thou hast just told me, that though I cannot run or jump like him or Ella, some day, not very far away, when the Lord Jesus calls me, I shall have wings. Is it not true, mother?" "Quite true," she answered with an effort, then turned quickly away towards the stove and resumed her ironing. CHAPTER II. MOTHER'S FAREWELL. A year had flown away since that eventful day when Fritz had somewhat roughly awakened Violet to the fact that she was a little hunchback, and that she was never to run or walk like him or Ella; and now everything connected with this little life of hers was changed. The young mother with the fair hair and the blue eyes and the warm, loving heart, had flown away before her little girl. The good Lord Jesus had called her first, and she was asleep now in the little churchyard beside the church which stood at the end of the street. She could not shelter nor protect her little girl any more from hurtful words, nor press her to her heart to soothe the pain which they had caused her. She could not sit beside her in the window and read and talk to her till the hours flew by almost unnoticed, so that Violet often forgot that her back ached and that her legs were weary. It had come so suddenly too--at least to Violet it was sudden. She had not noticed the short coughs, or the quick breathing, or the flushed cheeks; only to her eyes her little mother, as she always called her, grew more lovely every day. But one night when she was asleep, and dreaming of a wooden go-cart which Fritz had promised to make for her the next day, her father came to her bedside and called to her to awake. "Violet, my darling, thou must awake. Come with me to thy mother; she is calling for thee." "For me," she said, rising up with sleepy eyes and tossed hair. "Where is dear mother, and why does she want me in the night?" Her father stooped down over the bed and lifted her up in his arms very gently, for it hurt her to lift her up quickly or roughly; and without answering her he carried her through the doorway into the inner room. "Mother, dear, why dost thou want me in the night?" asked Violet, sleepily stretching out her arms towards the bed in which her mother lay. "Is it night?" she replied in a voice which sounded quite strange to the little girl's ears. "John, where is my darling? I cannot see her; put her here, close beside me.--There, sweetest one; lay thy head on mother's breast." Violet placed her head on her mother's shoulder, and stretching out her little arm, threw it lovingly round her neck. "What ails sweet mother?" she said softly. "Art thou sick?" "Ay, sick unto death. Mother has sent for her little girl to bid her good-bye. Mother must say adieu to her poor sick girlie; but father will love thee, oh, so well.--Is it not so, beloved? Thou hast always been better to her than many mothers." "Yes, yes," he said huskily; "never fear, thou knowest that I love her." "And by-and-by she will follow me to heaven. Is it not so, John? She will be glad to find me there." "Yes, darling, yes. And now kiss thy little one, and I will carry her back to bed;" for the childish eyes were beginning to dilate with a strange terror, and Violet was shrinking nervously back against the wall. "Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye," cried the poor mother, clinging to the little white figure as John lifted her from the bed; "when Violet has wings she will fly to her dear mother in heaven, will she not?" "Yes," replied Violet, her face brightening up with a broad, sweet smile as her father lifted her in his arms, and she leaned her cheek against his, "beautiful silver wings; but mother must not go to heaven to-night, for to-morrow Fritz is to bring me my cart, and mother has promised to put a cushion in it and wheel Violet round the room." Her father carried her back to her bed and laid her down, oh, so softly and tenderly, and kissed her with a long kiss, longer than any he had ever given her before, and then he went back into the room and closed the door. Violet did not hear anything more. She looked for some time at the beautiful purple sky outside, filled with thousands of shining stars. She saw the roofs of the houses with their pointed gables; and on the top of the chimney opposite she could see the grave figure of a stork standing upright in the starlight beside its nest. She felt sad at first and trembled a little, she did not know why. For why had her mother called her in the middle of the night and said good-bye to her? Where was she going? She had never gone away anywhere from her before, and to-morrow she had promised to give her that ride in Fritz's cart, and to tell her again that story about the cruel tailor who ran his needle into the elephant's trunk; and Violet smiled and forgot her troubles as she remembered how the elephant filled his great trunk at the gutter and splashed it all over the tailor as he sat cross-legged at his work in the open window; and soon, her mind growing more composed, and somewhat tangled with sleep, she thought she heard the tailor crying somewhere outside in the street. She did not like to hear him sobbing; and every time she looked up, the elephant was still shooting up water into the air; but the bright drops which she saw were the stars still twinkling on the dark back-ground of the sky, and the sobbing came from the next room, where her father was kneeling brokenhearted by the bedside on which her little mother lay dead. CHAPTER III. A SAD DISCOVERY. It was not for many days that Violet understood that her mother was really dead; perhaps, indeed, she did not quite understand it for many months to come. It seemed so strange to her that in the morning when she opened her eyes her father was boiling the kettle on the stove, and arranging the little wooden tray, which was always laid on her bed, with her morning meal, hot and tempting, placed upon it. It was he, too, who, lifting her gently up, placed the pillows behind her poor tired shoulders, and propped up her back so that she could sit forward and eat her egg and the sweet rolls which the baker sent across the street every day, fresh and smoking, for her breakfast. "Where is mother?" she asked each morning with a little sorrowful smile; for her father was so good and kind, and he sat so patiently beside her bed, and buttered the bread with such care that she did not want to cry or sob, though there was such a lump in her throat that she could not swallow what he gave her. "Where is mother, dear father? She did not come to see me all yesterday." "She was not able to come," he said in a low voice. "But where is she? Is she in the next room?" John bowed his head over the tray, but made no answer. "Here, eat thy egg, little one; it will be cold." "Mother always lifts the top off for me," said she with a sob. "Ah, so she does. I am afraid father is a poor old stupid, is he not?" She looked up hurriedly, her father's voice sounded so strangely and his fingers trembled as he tried clumsily to lift the white top off the egg. Then she saw that tears were streaming down her father's face and trickling down his beard; and thinking she had pained him by her words, she threw her arms around his neck and cried out sorrowfully,-- "Thou best father, thou art not a bit stupid. I love thee, oh so much. The breakfast is too nice; only mother always eats a piece of my cake and drinks some of the milk, and thou must do so too." "Yes, yes, of course." John drew his hand hastily across his face, and broke off a piece of the cake. He drank a mouthful of the milk, and then quickly rising, he laid the piece of cake on the table by the stove, and went into the other room. It was the next day that Violet was told the truth, though the truth was to remain to her for many a long day a strange and cruel mystery. When she opened her eyes at the usual hour the following morning her father was not there, and only old Kate the servant, who waited on all the various lodgers in John's house, was in the room, standing by the stove, and pouring some water into a saucepan. "Where is father?" asked Violet, raising herself up painfully in the bed, and gazing around her with a frightened air. "He has gone out," replied Kate, keeping her back turned towards the child. "Go to sleep. He said I was not to wake thee till he came home." "But I am awake." "Never mind; thou must go to sleep again. He said thou wert on no account to awake or to speak until he returned." "But I cannot go to sleep again," cried Violet, beginning to whimper a little. "I can never go to sleep again in the mornings unless mother lifts me up in the bed and settles my pillows. Is mother gone out too? She has not come in these three mornings to see me." Kate did not answer the question, for at this moment she had upset some of the water out of the saucepan upon the top of the stove, and it frizzled and made a great hissing and noise. Meanwhile Violet had raised herself upon her elbow, and was gazing steadily at the door of her mother's room. "Kate," she said presently, in a low, coaxing voice, "couldst thou not carry me in thy arms in there? I know thou art very old, but father always says I am not heavier than a fly." "Thy father would be very angry if I were to attempt to carry thee. He is far too careful of thee to trust thee to my old bones." "But thou must do it, Kate." Then suddenly raising her voice till it sounded quite shrilly through the house, she cried out, "Mother, mother, may I not go into thy room? Dear mother, answer me. Violet's back aches, and she wants to lie in thy bed." "Tush! tush!" said Kate, coming hurriedly to the bedside of the little girl, and putting her hand softly on her shoulder; "thou must not cry and clamour so, it is no use; thy mother is not in there. She cannot hear thee; thou wilt only disturb the neighbours." "She is there, she is there. Open the door. She cannot hear me with all that noise down there in the street. Do open the door, that I may call to her." "There is no use calling to her, poor little lamb," said Kate, sitting down on the bed beside her and wiping away her burning tears. "She cannot hear thee. They have taken her away this morning, and she will not come back any more.--The child must know the truth some time," muttered Kate uneasily to herself. "Her father should have told her before he went out." "Why did they take her away?" asked Violet, still all unconscious of the bitter truth conveyed by the words. "Well, because it was arranged that she was to go this morning." "But where--where? Canst thou not answer me, Kate? Canst thou not tell me where is my little mother gone?" "She is gone to heaven," replied Kate, turning away her head and lifting her apron to her eyes. "Poor child, why does she ask me such questions?" "To heaven!" said Violet with a little start and then a long gasp of childish agony. "My mother, my own dear mother. She is not gone away, she is not gone to heaven without her little Violet; it is so far, so far away." "Hush, hush, child! It is not so very far away. Thou must not cry so. If thy father were to hear thee he would be angry with me that I have told thee." "My father is not gone to heaven too?" she cried, starting up from her pillows with a fresh burst of agony. "O Kate, Kate! father will not leave his little Violet.--Father, father, come, come to Violet." At this moment the door opened, and her father came in. His face was deadly pale, and he walked over to the bed with a look of absolute horror in his face. "My darling, my sweet one," he cried; "here is thy father. Why dost thou call for him so? What troubles thee? What makes thee cry? Father is here now; he cannot bear to see thee weep. What ails thee, my sweetest treasure?" "They have taken mother away out of the next room. I screamed to her, and she would not answer. And--and Kate says she will never come back to me any more." John looked up at the old servant with questioning eyes, full of deepest anger drowned in pain. "I could not help it, sir. The child awoke and made such a clamour I had to tell her. What wouldst thou have had me to do?" and the old woman burst into a fit of such unfeigned weeping that John uttered not a word of reproach, but turned again to soothe his little trembling darling. "Did the good Lord Jesus call my little mother away?" asked Violet with quivering lips. "Yes, my heart's treasure, he did," replied he hoarsely. "And he gave her wings?" "Yes, yes." "And Violet is only a poor little hunchback, and has no wings; and mother said he would call me first." John laid his head down on the pillow and sobbed. CHAPTER IV. FATHER'S LOVE. It was thus that Violet came to know that her mother was dead; but weary days and leaden months went by before she ceased to watch and wait for her; and each morning she only awoke to a fresh surprise, a fresh thrill of pain, a fresh wrestling of spirit against what could never be altered. While her father was in the room she seemed always able to repress the anguish of her little heart. He was so tender, so pitiful; he tried so earnestly to imitate the loving ways and words of the poor dead mother. But when he went out in the morning to the office for his orders, or to the forest to select wood for his trade, and his daughter was left temporarily under the charge of Kate, then it was that all the world seemed going wrong, and that Violet's tears flowed almost ceaselessly. Kate had a kind, loving heart, but she had, oh, such hard and sharp bones: and she had not learned by long and watchful practice the easiest way to lift the poor invalid. Each day when she raised Violet from her bed and placed her in her bath before the stove, there were bitter cries of pain and sobbing cries for "mother." Kate, too, was somewhat stupid and clumsy in the matter of dressing her charge. She had long sharp nails, which often scraped her little neck and arms; and the strings of the petticoats so often got into knots, which it took tedious minutes to undo again. Each day when John came home for his dinner at twelve, he found little Violet's eyes red with tears, and her usually pale face swelled and blotched with the traces of past grief. "Couldst not thou dress me, father?" she had said once pitifully. And he had promised to try; but he had not proved much more successful than Kate. The buttons of his coat had hurt her, and the strings of the little petticoats were to him an impossibility. He was a great big man, with hands like a giant; and he had a willing loving heart, bigger than his whole body, and yet the knots perplexed him even more than they did Kate; and after one trial even Violet said with a smile,-- "I am afraid father is not a very good dresser, is he?" To which he replied with a laugh,-- "No; I am afraid father is a regular old botch." But she saw as he turned away that there were tears in his eyes. After this she made no further lamentations over her dressing. It was not that Kate improved much, but she felt that the traces of her tears and her heavy eyes pained her father to his very heart. She saw it in his face each day as he entered the room at dinner time. She saw the anxious look of inquiry, and then the smile of relief as their eyes met, when there were no blistered cheeks or heavy eyelids to cause him sorrow. Her father was by trade a wood-carver, or perhaps more strictly speaking a toy-maker. He was wonderfully clever, and could make lovely boxes with carved fruit and flowers on their lids; and he could design and execute panels of cedar and walnut covered with the most delicate traceries; but his chief employment was making toys, jack-in-the-boxes, Noah's arks, sheep-folds, wooden soldiers, and wooden cannon, nine-pins, and heaps of other playthings; for the town was famous for its toy-shops, and John worked for one of the largest stores, and was well known to be the most skilful hand at the trade. He had a little workshop on the ground-floor of the house, where he had his lathe and where he kept all his tools, and the wooden boxes also into which, when the toys were finished, he packed them for the foreign market. In the old days, when the little mother was upstairs, and he knew that his Violet was happy, he used to sit in this little den for hours at a time, carving and singing; while the toys which were to fill the hearts of the foreign children with delight grew under his hands in a marvellous way. But now John never sang, and the work he formerly delighted in seemed to have lost its interest. At last he thought he would bring some of his work upstairs and sit of an evening in the window of Violet's room. Of course all the lathe-work and the coarser wood-carving must be done downstairs, but he could generally find some occupation which would not litter the room above, and which did not require noisy hammering or filing. Violet was enchanted at this new arrangement. She loved to see her father at his work, and to watch the piece of shapeless wood grow gradually under his hand into the form he wished it to assume. Above all, she loved to see him carving the animals for the Noah's arks. When he had this work to do he always sat close up beside her in the window; and as he finished each animal he used to place it for her approval on the window-sill, until sometimes all the narrow ledges were covered with elephants and ducks and pigs, apparently walking along in very solemn array. By-and-by he allowed her to help him in his work. He bought her a little paint-box, and he taught her how to colour some of the animals, the yellow canaries, the doves, and the speckled geese. He made her, too, a little table to fit exactly in front of her chair, very tall, with rails to it in front, on which she could place her feet, so that when she worked she need not lean forward to tire her back. The little birds and foxes and squirrels which she painted were far more beautifully coloured than those ordinarily placed in Noah's arks, because the colours she used were much finer than those in common use; so the good John could say with truthful pride to the neighbours who sometimes dropped in of an evening to chat with him and Violet,-- [Illustration: Violet helps her Father. _Page 32._] "See what my little daughter can do; see how she helps me at my work. There are no such animals to be seen in all Edelsheim." And then Violet's pale face would flush with pleasure, and tears, born of happy blushes, would fill her eyes while the neighbours looked admiringly at the yellow weasels and the little red foxes, coloured perhaps a thought too brightly, but still very pretty to look at. The toys, too, with which her room was now well stocked were a great attraction to the children of the neighbourhood; and, where guns and drums and swords were to be had for the asking, the little ones of course loved to congregate. There was beginning to be a talk now about a war with France, and the children's ideas took all of a sudden a most warlike turn. They banged the drums and blew the wooden trumpets and slashed at the chairs and tables till the din was horrible, and sometimes Violet's head ached, and she wished they would go away. But when they did go away, and the shadows grew long, and John had not returned from the forest, or was busy turning some critical work in his lathe, then she wished they were back again; for when she was alone the old ache always began at her heart, the old cry came again to her lips, "Mother, sweetest mother, come back to me." Of all the children who came to sit or play with Violet, she loved Fritz Adler the best. He and his little sister Ella were her almost daily visitors. Fritz's mother, the baker's wife opposite, always complained that Fritz was the "wildest fly" in all the town; and there certainly appeared to be an unusual amount of life about him, but perhaps this was just what made his company so pleasant to her. He always brought into her room a bright face and a hearty laugh, a great rush of free joyousness, which seemed to lift the heart of the sick child out of its languor and make it beat for the time healthily and happily. Besides this, she had trust in Fritz. He had never told her a lie, and she relied implicitly on all he said to her. With his curling hair and his bright eyes, his fresh colour and his careless stride, he was the very embryo of a young German soldier, prepared to conquer or to die, and fear had no place in his heart. A greater contrast than he presented to poor little Violet could not be imagined. She was so still, so pale, so passive. Her eyes, instead of sparkling, were grave, large, and almost the colour of her violet dress; and since her mother's death Fritz was almost the only person who had succeeded in making her laugh outright, and even this had been on very rare occasions. Ella, like her brother, was the very personification of rude health. She had rosy cheeks, curly fair hair which hung over her shoulders, dimpled hands, and great sturdy legs. She was simply Fritz's shadow. He exercised the same curious influence over her which he did over Violet. When Fritz galloped up and down the street, sword in hand, threatening death to every Frenchman who ever breathed, Ella was sure to be following behind him as fast as her fat legs would allow, imitating his every word and gesture. When Fritz fell unexpectedly into the gutter, Ella was certain to fall on the top of him; when Fritz sat in his little wooden cart drawn by Nero, the great black Newfoundland, and rushed down the cobbled hill at full speed, Ella was invariably beside him, with her fair hair floating out behind her in a yellow halo, and her fat legs propped on the little wooden board in front of her. If there was one thing more than another that Violet longed to be able to do, it was to drive in this cart. When she saw the wooden box flying down the street past the window, with the children seated in it, her heart gave great leaps of excitement, and she leaned almost dangerously forward in her chair to see them reach the foot of the hill. But the coming home was somewhat more tedious. Nero was very good at galloping down hill, but exceedingly bad about coming up it again. Fritz generally urged him forward on these occasions by stout tugs at his tail and fearful guttural sounds, in which Ella joined until her very cheeks grew purple; but Nero had evidently not a sensitive tail, and when toiling up the hill he seemed also to grow quite deaf. It tired Violet to watch them returning; for when she heard Fritz's excited adjurations, and saw Ella's cheeks blown out like a roasted apple, she felt somehow as if she were drawing the carriage up the hill herself; and her shoulders used to ache so that she had to give up looking out of the window, and lean back in her chair. Violet had a little basket fastened to a cord, which she could let down into the street from her window, and into which the children and the neighbours were in the habit of putting little presents. The baker's wife, Fritz's mother, often ran across the street and put in gingerbread cakes, still warm from the oven. The confectioner's boy, too, as he went by with his loaded tray of dainties, had a commission from his master to drop a package of sugar almonds or other sweets into the little wicker-work basket. Fritz, also, who was ingenious, had contrived an arrangement by which a little bell could be rung from the street up into her little turret-window whenever there was a gift waiting below for her in the street. But Fritz was also exceedingly mischievous; and one day, when he had rung the bell somewhat violently, and Violet had let down her small basket, she had found inside when she opened it only a large yellow frog squatting on a vine leaf, which immediately leaped out, first on her purple dress, and then upon the floor, where the cat pounced on it, and Violet's screams rang through the house. But Fritz had already reached the door, and the frog was carried off in his red pocket-handkerchief, and replaced among the cabbages in the back garden. After this she always opened her basket cautiously, especially when the bell was rung with unusual violence. And on one occasion, observing the legs of a cockroach issuing from the wicker sides of the basket, she opened the lid with special care, and seeing its contents, she turned the basket upside down, and shook everything quickly into the street beneath. The punishment was complete; for Fritz, who was standing directly underneath and gaping upwards, received a perfect shower of cockroaches on his face; and little Ella, also, who was smilingly gazing up at the window, had to rush into the shop opposite, to her mother, to have some of the struggling black creatures released from her web of yellow hair. This was one of the occasions on which Violet had really laughed. It would have been impossible not to do so, as the mirth which rose up from the street beneath was infectious to the last degree. Fritz's father, standing at his door, and over whose head clouds of steam were issuing from the bakery beyond, laughed at his son's discomfiture till the tears ran down his cheeks; and even the grim policeman walked out into the middle of the street, partly to avoid the black insects which were swarming on the narrow pavement beneath, and partly to catch a sight of little Violet's face. He had heard her laugh, and it had sounded like music in his ears; but now, as she glanced out quickly, he walked on again with a steady tread and a face like iron. His sword clanked against the pavement, and the spike on his helmet shone severely bright, and none could guess, as he passed them, that the heart so tightly fastened up within his blue uniform was soft as the baker's dough in the shop beside him, or that his eyes were blinded at this very moment with sudden tears. There were occasions when even he had placed gifts in the basket;--little toys which other hands had played with; story books which other eyes had feasted on greedily, and on whose pages were the marks of the little fingers which had held them once, so tightly and eagerly grasped; and occasionally a bundle of snowdrops had been dropped in hastily, whose stalks had been rolled in damp moss to keep them fresh till the morning, for he always placed his gifts in the basket at night-time. He rang no bell; no eye saw him. He did not call out to the little figure seated in the window above, with the shaded lamp burning on the table beside her; he asked for no thanks, but passed on with the same official tread, the same clanking sword, and the same ache for ever at his heart. Violet never knew who it was that placed these presents in her basket. She often asked Fritz if he could guess; but though he did guess the butcher, the chestnut-seller, and the lamplighter, simply because they had children, he never thought of the grave policeman, who so often, as he walked past, threatened to put him in prison. Violet treasured these gifts more than all her other presents. She felt, by a kind of instinct, that there was some story connected with them. On the fly-leaf of one book she had read with a sudden sting of strongest pain these words,--"For my own sick girlie, from her little mother." "Her little mother!" She had gazed at the crabbed characters till this word seemed to rise up off the page and enter into her very heart; immense tears gathered in her eyes, and fell in stars of bitterness upon the paper,--"For my own sick girlie, from her little mother." In the evening she had said to Fritz in a low voice, almost imploring in its entreaty,-- "Couldst not thou, dear Fritz, find out for me who gave me this?" "I have told thee already," replied Fritz, who was busy sharpening a wooden sword on the hard edge of the lowest window-sill. "It is the lamplighter; I am certain of it. Whenever he goes by with his ladder and lantern, I remark he is always looking up at this house and at thee; and, besides, his pockets are always bulged out as if he had heaps of things in them." The reasoning was, no doubt, good; but it did not satisfy Violet. "But has he any children, Fritz?" she asked softly and a little doubtfully, for Fritz sometimes grew impatient if his words were questioned. "Of course he has--hundreds of them." "But are any of them sick--sick, I mean, like me?" she pleaded anxiously. "Sick like thee?" he repeated vaguely, for his mind was still engrossed entirely with sharpening the deadly blade which he held in his hand; which he did by moistening it in his mouth and rubbing it on the wood before him, so that the window-sill was now quite black with paint, and so were his lips--"Sick like thee? How can I tell? All I know is, he has only one child, and she is the greatest goose in all the town--that fat red-haired girl called Minna, who sits under the red umbrella on the steps of the chapel and sells fruit." Violet shook her head and sighed. Fritz's description of the lamplighter's daughter did not fit in with her thoughts at all. The little sick maiden reading the book given her by her mother did not resemble in any point Fritz's fat girl selling fruit on the chapel steps. Again she sighed heavily, and murmured to herself, half in a whisper, "Oh, I wonder!" "What do you wonder about? What do you want to know? I'll tell you if you don't bother," said Fritz quickly. "I want to know if Minna could ever have had a 'little mother.'" Fritz had by this time succeeded in smashing the blade of the sword short off close to the very handle, and was standing up now, looking very red and angry opposite her, with a fearful smudge of paint on his lip and another on his cheek. "Violet!" he cried passionately, "see what thou hast made me do! Thou art a little goose thyself." He waved the broken stump of the sword in his hand, and then he stopped. Violet's book had slipped off her knees on to the floor, and Fritz, with his natural rough politeness, had stooped to pick it up. As he did so, he saw the written inscription on the fly-leaf. For a full minute he gazed at it; then looking up covertly at her, he saw that she had tears in her eyes. "Violet," he cried remorsefully, with his two stout arms stretched out to embrace and comfort her, "don't cry; it could not be the same girl, for," he added with decision, "Minna never had any mother; of that I am quite sure." CHAPTER V. A STRANGE BOOK. That evening, when John returned from the forest, he found his little daughter flushed and excited, with her eyes shining purple in the twilight and a strange earnestness in her manner, which, he feared, spoke of a sudden uprising of fever,--that fever which was so slowly but surely wasting away her little life. "Thou hast not been very long by thyself, hast thou, my sweet one?" he said anxiously, as he looked at the eyes raised up so lovingly to his, but still full of some strange and hidden tremor. "Oh no, Fritz has been here; and, besides, I have been reading." She glanced with almost the nervousness of guilt at the little table beside her, and moved herself restlessly on her chair. "My darling has been tiring herself, I fear," said John, sitting down on the window-sill beside her, and putting his great arm round her lovingly. "Well, now that father is returned, dost thou know--canst thou guess what he has been about all the afternoon?" "No, father," she said softly, laying her head down on his shoulder with a long, weary breath. Her thoughts were evidently engrossed by some subject of which he knew nothing. "Ah, my sweet one must not sigh like that," he said, drawing her tenderly towards him; "it makes father's heart ache; and, besides, when Violet hears father's news, instead of crying, she will almost fly out of her chair with joy." "What!" she cried, sitting so suddenly up that John was almost terrified, and had to loose his close grasp of his little girl; "tell me, father, quickly, quickly, tell Violet thy news." John gazed at her in silent wonder. He did not understand this mood--the brightly-glittering eyes, the deepening flush, the expression of a burning but unspoken anxiety, and the constant restless motion of the little hand which lay hot and dry in his palm. "What hast thou been reading?" he asked curiously, stretching out his arm towards the little table beside her, on which now for the first time he had noticed a book--a strange book with a yellow-spotted paper cover and red edges. It was open, but was turned down upon the Bible which always rested on the table beside her chair--her mother's Bible, the most precious thing she had in all the world. "Who gave thee this new book, and what story hast thou been troubling thy poor head with?" he asked kindly, as he would have lifted it from its resting-place. "Ah, do not touch it," she cried quickly, as she withdrew one hand from his grasp and laid it on the yellow-spotted cover; "I have not finished it yet. It is too lovely a story, and--first--first I must tell it all to Fritz; and then--then, father, if Fritz says it is true, then I will tell it all to thee." She ended her sentence with a quick sob of excitement. "Who gave thee the book, Violet?" "I do not know, father." She rubbed her fingers up and down the cover restlessly. "Thou dost not know?" "No; I have tried to think, but cannot tell. Fritz said perhaps it was the lantern-man gave it to me; but then his girl never had any mother." "My little life, my heart's blood, what ails thee? Let us talk no more of books or lantern-men, but instead, we will speak of the grand carriage that father is going to make for his Violet," cried John, beside himself with a sudden fear that the fever had risen to the sick child's head, and was filling the poor, weary brain with distracting fancies. He lifted her out of her chair with tenderest love, and, sitting down by the stove, all forgetful of the evening meal which he so much needed after his day's work, he told her, in quiet, unexcited tones, as he rocked her gently to and fro on his knee, how all the week he had been thinking over a design of a little carriage which he was going to make for her, and for which he had gone that afternoon to the forest to choose wood--a carriage with springs, which could go over the cobbles outside and not shake her poor back, and into which her pillows could all be put, and in which she would be as comfortably propped up as if she were in her chair at home. "And if that does not succeed, and my little one is too tired to drive, then we shall make a carriage with handles to it, and we shall carry thee everywhere thou choosest to go. Fritz and I can take thee out on Sundays for long drives. Is it not so, Violet?" "Yes, thou and Fritz," she echoed softly; "and then I can go down the hill and see the place where mother is asleep; cannot I, father?" "Yes, my heart, we will go there first." "Will she know I am there? Is she too far up, father?" "I cannot tell, darling." "But if--if--if Violet had--" The question died on her lips, and John had become strangely silent. By-and-by, as the room darkened and the long summer evening grew shadowy, he rose up and lifted his little weary daughter in his arms and laid her down on her bed. This time the knots came undone without trouble, and no Kate was needed to assist in putting on the white frilled night-dress, or to shake up the pillows behind her aching shoulders. John seemed to-night to have hands like her mother's, so softly did he lay her down and so quietly did he sit by her side stroking her hair while she said the prayers her mother had taught her, and to which her little lips remained ever faithful. As he leaned over her to give her his good-night and a kiss, she said softly, "Another kiss, father;" which having received, she murmured to herself lovingly, "Good-night, father; good-night, mother;" and soon she was fast asleep. CHAPTER VI. GREAT EXCITEMENT. When John knew by Violet's regular breathing that she was fast asleep, he rose gently from his seat beside the bed and went over to the little table, on which lay, amongst so many others of the child's treasures, the mother's Bible and the gold-spotted book. He took them up with quite a reverent, almost a guilty touch, and placed them with care upon the larger table at the foot of the bed. Then he lit the lamp, shaded it, and having once more leaned over the bed to see that Violet slept, he sat down to look at this new book in the pretty paper cover which seemed by its contents to have so excited and interested her. He placed his finger in the page at which he found it open, and turned first to look at the title. He smiled rather sadly as he read the name, for it was a book that he remembered well having read himself when he was a youngster. He had forgotten the stories now, but he recognized the clumsy woodcut which had had the power not so long ago to thrill his own heart with a feverish excitement, and make it beat with a mixed enthusiasm and distress. But it was with no mixed distress that his eye fell on the page where he had just placed his finger, and which had evidently been the centre point of poor little Violet's interest. On one side of the open book was a plate, divided by the old-fashioned style into three consecutive pictures, one above, one in the middle, and one at the foot of the page. On the opposite side was a short poem, consisting of three verses, each verse explanatory of the plate opposite it. It was called "The Hunchbacked Girl;" and as his eyes fell on the name and the pictures which accompanied it, he closed the book hurriedly, and said in a voice straining between anger and tears, "How wicked! They shall answer to me for this." But by-and-by, making a strong effort over himself, he opened at the page again and stared at the plates and the print until he saw them no more. The first picture represented a woman lying, evidently at the verge of death, in one of the garret rooms of a house situated in a large town; for one could see through the open window the roofs of houses opposite and the top of a church steeple. By her side knelt a man with a child in his arms, which he was holding up towards its mother to receive from her a last embrace; for her hands were outstretched also: and underneath were written the words, "Auf wiedersehen" (To meet again). The second picture represented a little child propped up in a chair at the same window, with its head resting on its hand and its eyes looking out desolately across the roofs and the steeple to the sky beyond. Underneath, in small text, were printed these two words, pathetic in their simplicity, "Ganz allein" (All alone). In the third picture the room was the same, but the chair stood empty at the window. The little pallet in the corner was empty also; but in the centre of the apartment, with eyes steadfastly uplifted, and with a radiant smile upon its face, stood the little hunchbacked child. On either side was an angel, holding it by its hands; and from between its poor, weary shoulders had sprung up two shining wings, rising into the air behind it, and apparently stretching themselves out for flight. Underneath was written, in the same small, close, old-fashioned printing, "Keine thräne mehr" (No more tears). John did not trust himself to look at the story. He laid his face down on the page and stretched out his hand on the table, while his fingers closed tightly on his palm. "God help my little Violet," he said bitterly to himself; "as long as I live she shall never be left alone." But even as he spoke, while his head was still bowed over the open page before him, and his heart throbbed heavily against the wooden table, he was aware of an unusual stir in the street beneath, a hum of voices rising higher and higher, the trampling of many feet, and far off, near the barrack square, a bugle call, loud and shrill, which made him start up from his sitting posture and walk quickly to the window. But what a sight it was his eyes fell upon! The street, so silent and peaceful a few minutes ago, and to all intents and purposes empty, was now a surging mass of human beings. All Edelsheim seemed gathered together in this one narrow thoroughfare. Every moment the voices were becoming louder, the excitement greater. It was with difficulty the lamplighter could force his way through the crowd to light the large lamp which hung in the centre of the street on a chain suspended across the roadway from the Adlers' house to his own. John opened the window for a moment, and looked out across the wooden box filled with violets which stood in the old mullioned embrasure. "Hist," he cried, leaning down and trying to catch the attention of some one immediately beneath the window, "what has happened?" The question was heard, for a woman looking suddenly upwards to see who spoke, flung her arms high up into the air and cried out in a shrilly voice of anguish, "War is proclaimed." He closed the window as suddenly as he had opened it, gave one glance towards the little bed to see that Violet was still asleep, and then sank down upon the broad window seat with his face covered. [Illustration: Learning the News. _Page 52._] War is proclaimed! Only three words, and yet the whole town was already rocking with their import. Bells were ringing, shouts were rising, men and women stood so closely packed beneath that one could have walked across their heads with safety. Exultant youths, full of their young life and young blood, so soon to be given and spilt for God and Fatherland, were flinging their caps in the air; men, too, with beards and grizzled hair, shouted and gesticulated frantically; others, grave and silent, turned their voices inward and cried aloud to the God of the fatherless and widow. Fritz, in his night-dress, at the little gable window opposite, was blowing a shrill tin trumpet and screaming out, in his high, boyish voice, "War, war, war!" which was echoed by a still higher treble in the room beyond. At last Violet stirred. It was almost impossible that with such a din going on outside she could sleep on. In a moment John had risen and was kneeling at her bedside. His hand had clasped the little fingers which lay so loosely upon the knitted counterpane. His bearded check was close to the white face on the pillow, barely discernible now in the closely-shaded light of the lamp which burned at the foot of the bed. He was ready with the word of love to quiet her alarms, and with a kiss to soothe her back to sleep, but they were not needed. She merely moved restlessly to and fro on her pillow, and muttered to herself in some dreamful excitement,-- "Look! look out into the street! What dost thou see, father?" John bent low over the child's face and touched it gently with his lips. He must have kissed her then, or his heart would have broken. Even in her sleep Violet knew who was bending over her. "Father," she said softly. "Yes, my heart's love, I am here beside thee." "Seest thou? is it not lovely?" "What? what?" he asked with a sob. "The little hunchback has wings." After this she gave a long, restful sigh, and turned her head against her father's arm. Nor did the noise in the street disturb her any more, though the cries at times rose almost to shrieks, and though the lamp in her room burned on unextinguished until daylight had taken its place. CHAPTER VII. FRITZ AND ELLA. The next day there seemed little if any diminution of the excitement. The crowd was not quite so dense; but ordinary business appeared for the time almost suspended. People were rushing up and down the street with slips of paper in their hands on which were printed the latest telegrams; and persons who were usually engrossed with their work in the early hours of the day were standing at the doors of their shops and houses discussing the great news of impending war, news which gathered with every hour fresh confirmation. Violet, of course, seated as usual in her chair in the window, could not but notice the bustle and the stir beneath; but it did not frighten or distress her, for her father had brought his work up to her room quite early this morning, and when he was near her she always reposed on his strength and courage in place of her own. But John was both distressed and disturbed; and presently seeing that Violet's hair was a little blown about by the wind, he made it a pretext for closing over the casement, so that she might not hear what the people were talking about so earnestly in the street underneath; and for a time his efforts were successful. It was only as the day wore on and it came near the time when he had to go to the store for orders that she grew restless, and the anxious pleading look came into her eyes which he never could bear to see, and which to-day he felt less able than ever to withstand. "I shall not be long away, darling," he said softly as he gathered up his tools and laid them on the broad window-sill beside her. "See, I am not taking away my work materials, and I shall be back almost before thou thinkest that I am gone. I will send Kate to sit with thee, and thou canst teach her how to paint the ducks for the magnet-box, only this time I would not give them scarlet wings; black, I think, would be better." Violet smiled at the idea of Kate's trying to paint the ducks--Kate, who was so blind that she could not see a cockroach creeping across the kitchen floor, and the length of whose nails would sadly interfere with her holding the paint-brush. "I would rather have Fritz to sit with me," she said plaintively. "Fritz! ah, well; but is not this the time for his school?" "He has not been at school all to-day. I have seen him ever so often at the window. See, father, he is there now; and oh! only look what a dress he has got on." She burst out laughing, and even John with his heavy heart could not repress a smile, for there at the window opposite stood Fritz with an enormous spiked helmet on his head; a huge military coat buttoned across his chest, which covered his whole body; and a pair of riding-boots on his legs, which evidently encumbered him a good deal, for just at this moment, while John and Violet were gazing at him, he made a sudden rush at some unseen enemy beside the curtain, and one of the boots doubling up at the ankle he fell waddling on the floor, his helmet tumbling off his head and going almost out of the window, while all his efforts to get up again, even with the assistance of fat Ella, who tugged at him with all her might and main, were fruitless. Again Violet burst out into one of those rare fits of real childlike laughter which always delighted and refreshed poor John's heart; but to-day, though he smiled somewhat grimly, he turned away quickly to the door, saying as he went: "I shall see about Fritz coming to sit with thee; but if his mother will not permit it thou must be content for awhile with Kate." "Yes, yes," cried Violet after him; "but do, please, send Fritz here. I have something so particular to ask him." She watched her father as he crossed over the street to the baker's. He was such a great tall man that he had generally to stoop as he went in at the doorway; but to-day Madam Adler met him at the entrance to the bakery, and they held what seemed to the watcher at the window upstairs a very lengthy conversation. Madam Adler, who was a round fat little body, gesticulating somewhat wildly, pointed first up the street and then down it, and clutched every now and then at her cap, which was hanging half off the back of her head, while she gazed up at the great tall man beside her, whose grave eyes were fixed intently upon her face, and who listened earnestly while she poured forth a torrent of words, not one of which Violet could hear from the buzz and noise in the street beneath. Fritz, who had regained his legs by this time, was now standing in the window opposite, making frantic signs across to Violet, who at first remained quite unconscious of his efforts; but presently looking up she saw him waving a sword furiously across the street to attract her attention; and seeing now he had secured it, he proceeded to make a sudden lunge at Ella, digging the weapon apparently deep into the very middle of her body. Ella immediately collapsed on the floor, and Fritz continued for some time to prod her violently. Violet screamed and turned away her head; but when she looked round again, Ella, with an enormous brown paper helmet on her head, was standing beside Fritz in the very middle of the window grinning from ear to ear, while her assailant, still martially attired in the old trailing coat, and with a face flushed with victory, had his arm thrown affectionately round her neck. By-and-by, as Violet still gazed across and smiled more and more at Fritz's excited movements, she saw her father enter the room opposite. He sat down in a chair a little distance from the window and called Fritz over to him, and a conversation ensued apparently of some interest, as Fritz never lifted his eyes from John's face while he was speaking to him, and Ella's countenance also assumed a kind of rigid stolidity most unnatural to it. But this tranquillity did not last long; for no sooner had John left the room, having shaken hands with Fritz and kissed Ella, than a kind of secondary excitement seemed to take possession of the children. Fritz first took off his own helmet, and then, while Ella was stooping down to unloosen her brown paper leggings, he snapped hers off also with a summary politeness which Ella seemed for a moment to resent; but Fritz had no time, evidently, to give to trifles. He laid both helmets on the foot of a couch which projected out into the window, and then he rapidly divested himself of his coat and his huge leather boots, winding up by planting Ella on the end of the sofa and tugging violently at her less cumbersome leggings, until the little girl descended suddenly upon her back on the floor. This time a few tears evidently softened the heart of the warrior, for he stooped down, lifted Ella from the ground, and covered her face with kisses; and in a few minutes Violet saw them both emerge from their house hand-in-hand and cross over the street, and push through the gathering of people towards the door of her own house, which opened immediately beneath her window. She felt rather sorry that Ella had come across with her brother, for she had something to say to Fritz, a question to ask him in secret about some subject which was troubling her, and which she felt she could only confide to him in private. But when the door of her room opened and Ella burst in all smiles and health and happiness, and rushed over to fling her dimpled arms round Violet's neck, she forgot for a time about her secret; and her spirits rose, and her white face broke into one of its sudden smiles, as she noticed scraps of cord and paper still sticking to Ella's fat legs which Fritz had evidently been too hurried to remove. "What hast thou been doing all this morning, Ella?" she asked curiously; "and why has Fritz not been at school? I have seen him ever since I was dressed, playing in the window." Ella's cheeks suddenly deepened to a purple red, and she gazed towards her brother with eyes which said plainly, "Thou must give an answer to this question." "I have not been at school because--because, well, because I did not go; and besides I was busy doing lots of other things." Ella's face looked decidedly relieved by this explanation of her brother's, which was entirely satisfactory to her own mind; but Violet was much puzzled by Fritz's words and still more perplexed by his manner, which was strange and quite unlike himself. While she was pondering with herself what it all meant Ella broke in upon the silence. "Yes, Fritz was doing lots of things all the morning--killing and cutting and stabbing the French, and he gave me an awful scrape on the arm; just look at it, Violet!" And Ella turned round the fattest of arms to Violet for compassionate inspection, across which just at the pink and dimpled elbow there certainly was a most undeniable and somewhat gory scratch. "Hold thy tongue, thou little gabbling goose of a chatterbox," cried Fritz, turning suddenly round in real anger and casting a glance of withering scorn upon his unhappy sister; "hast thou already forgotten what I said to thee in the hall downstairs?" "I did not say anything about the war," said Ella in reply, covering her face suddenly with her frilled pinafore and grasping on to the side of the invalid's chair, while she stretched out her hand as if to defend herself;--"I did not say one word about the war, did I, Violet?" "No, no; she said nothing--nothing that I heard. She is a good little lamb, and thou must not frighten her, Fritz," cried Violet soothingly, as she drew the little sobbing girl over to her side and held her arm tightly round her fat waist. "She is a good little new-born donkey," snorted Fritz still in much virtuous anger; "she has no more sense than the head of a pin. I told her something only a moment ago downstairs, and the instant she gets up into the room she must begin to let out the whole secret." "What secret?" "About the war," sobbed Ella. "About what war? I do not understand. Why is it a secret, and why should Ella not tell me?" she added in a distressed voice. "He said if I did tell thee he would cut my tongue out with his sword, and give me to the policeman to put me into the prison," sobbed Ella. "For shame, Fritz! how couldst thou frighten her so?" said Violet with quite a hot flush on her usually pale face.--"I will not let him touch thee, Ella. There, put down thy apron; Fritz was only laughing at thee." "Of course," cried Fritz contemptuously; "but she is such a little thrush, she would swallow a camel, hump and all, if one only held it up to her mouth." This brilliant sally was suggested by the descent of one of Violet's newly-painted animals upon Fritz's head from the window-ledge above. "I would not swallow a camel--I am not a thrush," still sobbed Ella, hiding her face against Violet's chair. "Well, well, what does it signify? stop crying," cried Fritz, making an effort over himself to recover his usual gallantry. "Come along, let's have some fun.--May we take down all those old beasts overhead and have a game with them?--may we, Violet? We have not played at crossing the desert for ages." "Yes, yes; only take care. Some of them are quite sticky, and one or two have broken legs; but there are lots of other animals in the Noah's ark in the corner." "All right; now we shall have real good fun," cried Fritz, tugging Ella's lingering arm from the rungs of Violet's chair with reassuring roughness and making room for her on the bench beside him. "Now, thou shalt be Noah, and Violet shall be Aaron, and I will be Moses with the rod." "What rod?" asked Ella, gazing up at her brother rather doubtfully with eyes all wet and smudged with tears, while she wriggled herself into a more comfortable position on the carpenter's hard bench beside him. "Oh, not the rod thou meanest," he replied reassuringly as he emptied out pell-mell a whole box full of animals upon the table--cows, sheep, ducks, elephants, and canary birds, all heaped up in a mound of wild confusion. Ella had by this time her yellow curly head pillowed confidingly against Fritz's left shoulder, and perfect harmony was restored between them. Violet was now the most silent of the three. For some minutes past she had seemed in a reverie, and occasionally she looked anxiously across at Fritz, as if longing but fearing to ask him some question. Whether he was aware of these longing, sorrowful glances directed towards him, it was impossible to tell. One might perhaps have thought so from the way he rambled on in a foolish, disconnected style, while he ranged the animals two by two along the edge of the table, and elicited shrieks of laughter from Ella by making the broken-legged elephant sit on its tail, while the no-legged goose was given a lift across the desert, seated between the horns of a scarlet cow. At last they were all arranged in order, from the elephant down to the little red spotted lady-bird, which was fully as large as the mouse some distance in front of it; and Ella was desired to keep her feet and arms under the table, as every time she stretched them out she was certain to overturn a whole cavalcade of animals. "Now Moses is going to drive them all into the ark, and I am Moses," cried Fritz triumphantly; "and any that are stupid and won't go in for me, Aaron can pick up and push them in after Moses, as hard as he likes." "But Moses did not drive the animals into the ark, nor Aaron either," said Violet smiling. "Yes, yes," shouted Ella, kicking her toes against the underneath part of the table, so that several of the astonished animals suddenly leaped high into the air and then fell down on their sides--"yes, yes; Fritz is right. Moses drove them in, every one, into the ark; he whacked them with his rod, and off they galloped." "For shame, Ella!" cried Violet, though she could not help laughing a little as she looked at the joyous round face opposite her, stretched in innocent smiles from ear to ear; "it was Noah who drove the animals into the ark; and besides, that story is in the Bible." "But Fritz said it was Moses," repeated Ella, whose confidence in Fritz's veracity was not easily to be shaken. "I know I did, but I was wrong. It was Noah of course--only, what does it matter? I never can remember the names of those very old men; and besides I don't much care for Bible stories--I like bits of them, that's all." "Oh!" said Violet, with a sound of such unmistakable dismay in her voice that Fritz looked up surprised; "thou dost not care for Bible stories, Fritz?" "No, he does not; only bits--bits the size of a crumb," chimed in Ella, who was busy crushing the heads of two stags together, to the total destruction of their antlers. "Hold thy tongue, Ella," cried Fritz angrily; "I do like some Bible stories, of course: Daniel in the lions' den; and Gehazi, who was turned white for telling a lie--that's a grand story; and the little child who was standing in the corn in the sun and got a headache, and who was made alive after he was dead, and given back to his mother--I like that best of all." "So do I," screamed Ella, whose mirth was momentarily becoming more irrepressible. "Get in, old humpy back, into thy box; get in, I say, old beast." This speech was addressed to a kind of violet-coloured camel which had stuck in the entrance to the ark and was now standing head downwards amongst its imprisoned comrades with its heels elevated in the air. "Ella, thou great goose, thou stupid little child, what art thou saying? thou must not speak of humps to Violet." A sudden push from Fritz's elbow sent the astonished Ella rolling off the bench on to the floor. "Violet," cried Fritz, suddenly looking up and taking no notice whatever of his sister's descent, for at this moment a spasm of recollection had flashed across his mind, "dost thou know, Violet, the lamplighter's girl _has_ a mother? I saw her yesterday morning in the market selling fish." "Selling fish?" said Violet, repeating Fritz's words in a curious, absent manner. "Yes; and such an old lobster I never saw. Her hands were just like claws, and--but what is the matter with thee? why art thou crying? It is all the fault of that horrid little Ella. But never mind; mother slapped me for speaking about thy hump, and Ella shall get slapped too." "I am not crying," said Violet, vainly trying to keep back a sob; "it is only because I have been waiting so long, Fritz, to say something to thee." "Not about the war?" cried Fritz, colouring crimson and bending his face down suddenly on the table. "I promised thy father I would tell thee nothing about it." "It is nothing about war. It is a secret, but--but I could not say it to thee before Ella; she would not understand." "Well, Ella shall go.--Come along home, thou little good-for-nought, and I will carry thee across on my back." Ella at these words half moved out from her hiding-place under the wooden table, whither after her fall she had retreated in some dudgeon, but she almost immediately drew herself in again, and said flatly,-- "Ella will not go home; mother will smack her for calling the camel a--" "Hist, thou little goose; mother will do nothing of the kind. Get up quickly, or I will not carry thee at all; there, hold on tightly now and keep thy heels quiet, for it is getting so dark and the stairs are so narrow I might fall down and break thy neck. Say good-evening now to Violet, and away we go." He carried Ella over to Violet's chair, and the little maiden put her soft loving arms about her neck and kissed her with all the strength of her childish heart. "Ella did not make thee cry, Violet, did she? Ella did not know that thou wast so fond of the poor--" She did not finish her sentence, for Fritz whirled her away suddenly. But Violet called down the stairs after her, "Ella did not make Violet cry; Ella is a good girl. Good-evening, sweet Ella." It was almost dusk when Fritz returned, and John had not yet come home. Violet heard the boy's step on the stairs, and her heart beat so fast that the neck of her little purple frock heaved up and down flutteringly. She had packed away all the animals she could fit into the Noah's ark, and the others she had placed in a heap on the window-sill. There was nothing now on the table before her but her mother's Bible and the book with the gold-spotted cover. For the twentieth time since Fritz had left the room, she had opened this book at the picture of the little hunchback and as hastily closed it again. "I will ask him first, and then I will show it to him," she said in a whisper to herself as she looked up nervously at the opening door. But Fritz came in quite unconscious of the fluttering heart; his own was beating so hard that he had to sit down on the chair by the stove to get his breath, and it was some moments before he gasped,-- "Well, if ever I take that great fat Ella on my back again! I would rather carry a cow to market on my shoulders than have her hanging on to my neck and throttling me. First she made me carry her up to the top of the house, to the very garret, because she said mother was there; and then all the way down again, because she said mother was in the bakehouse. Then I had to haul her all the way off again down the street to Madame Bellard's, and up to the top of that house, where we found mother and Madame Bollard crying over their coffee like two sea-crabs; and there I left Ella gaping at them with her eyes nearly falling out on her cheeks. Pah! she weighs at the least three tons." "What were they crying about?" asked Violet curiously; "I saw so many people crying in the street to-day." "People often cry when they have nothing else to do," he said, jumping up suddenly from his chair and raking out the ashes from the stove vehemently,--"at least Ella does; but of course they had something to cry for--only it is a secret, and thou must not ask me." "A secret?" she said, nervously pushing the little book in front of her up and down the table. "Thou hast not asked me yet, Fritz, what my secret is." "What is it, then?" he asked, coming close up to the table; and then recognizing the gold-spotted cover on the back of which Violet's fingers were trembling visibly, he added, "Is it about the lamplighter's girl? or hast thou perhaps found out the name of the little mother?" "No," said Violet, shaking her head; "I cannot think who the mother is. But oh, there is such a lovely story in her book, Fritz, and I want so much to ask of thee, 'Is it true?'" "Show it to me," said Fritz cheerfully. "Of course I can tell it to thee at once." But Violet covered the book with both her hands; and though it was now almost dusk, he noticed how the blood rushed over her white face, and she looked for a little while out of the window. "No, no--in a minute thou shalt see it; but first thou wilt tell me one thing, wilt thou not, Fritz? only one thing, but quite, quite truly;" and she turned her eyes upon him so earnestly that the boy felt almost frightened. "Of course I will answer thee truly; but first I must hear thy question." "If mother were here she could tell me all I want to know," sighed Violet, putting off the dreaded moment; "and father, I know he could also tell me, only he does not like me to talk about hunchbacks." "About hunchbacks!" cried Fritz with a sudden gasp; "I do not know anything about hunchbacks." "Yes, yes, thou dost," she cried excitedly. "I am a little hunchback; thou knowest that; thou saidst so thyself, Fritz, one day long ago. And now thou wilt tell me this one thing. Is it true--" She paused and breathed more quickly than ever; the question was evidently one of gigantic importance. "Is what true?" "That God gives the little hunchbacks these humps?" "Yes, of course; that is to say, first they get a fall or something, and then God gives them the humps afterwards." "And what does he put into them?" "What? I do not understand thee." "Is there not something inside of every poor hunchback's hump?" "Yes, of course there is." "Well, and what is it, Fritz? dear Fritz, tell me what it is." The question was breathed with actual pain. "Dost thou mean what is in thy hump--this thing?" and Fritz laid his hand very softly on her shoulders. "Yes." "Why, any one knows that. Bones, of course; I can feel them." "Bones?" she gasped. "Yes; bones, and flesh, and skin, and all that kind of thing." Violet's eyes distended; an anguish crept into them that appalled even Fritz. She drew the spotted book quickly over to her, and said slowly, as she opened it at the story of the hunchback, "Look at that picture, Fritz: that little sick child had 'wings' in her hump, lovely silver wings; and are not books like this true, Fritz? There are angels in the page, and the little girl flies up to her mother, and people would not write what was not true about angels and--and heaven." The question was a little puzzling; but Fritz answered it without hesitation. "The stories in this book are all fairy tales. Look at the cover and thou canst see that for thyself." "Fairy tales? but are fairy tales never true?" "No; at least none that I ever read." "But God, and the angels, and heaven are all in that book, and they are true; and the little sick hunchback, that is not a fairy tale, for I am sick just like her; and why--why must that one little bit be untrue? And besides," sobbed Violet, whose whole courage and hope seemed almost to have forsaken her,--"besides, the words under that picture are in the Bible. I found them in mother's own Bible: 'No more tears.'" As she lifted up her face to Fritz for some hope, some consolation, immense tears were running down her cheeks, and the boy felt a tightening in his own throat too. "What does it matter?" he said as he pushed the spotted book away from her; "I will throw this old thing out of the window if it makes thee cry. Thou dost not want wings; thou art the best little angel in all Edelsheim: and, besides, flies have wings, and they are horrid beasts; and so why need one care?" and he threw his arms round her neck, and kissed her wet face, and whispered every loving name he could think of into her ear. CHAPTER VIII. A BITTER CRY. The next few days were so full of a new excitement for Violet that she scarcely had time to think of the little hunchback, or of the shock her feelings had received from Fritz's words. All day long she sat in the window, absorbed in watching what was going on in the street beneath. Regiments of soldiers were constantly marching past, bands were playing, and flags flying from many of the opposite windows. Great forage-carts toiled up the hill, driven by soldiers; and Uhlans were for ever dashing up and down the street on their great tall horses, so that the points of their lances often seemed to come up to the very window at which she sat. [Illustration: Going forth to War. _Page 76._] But Violet was not afraid of them, for even in their haste they gave her often a nod as they went by. Many of the Uhlans were friends of her father's, and though she scarcely recognized some of them in their square caps, they knew her; and not a few, as they rode quickly past and saw the white face in the window, felt a shiver at their heart as they asked themselves the question, "If John goes to the war, what is to happen to the child?" But as yet the question was not decided, and though Violet had heard through Kate some talk of the war, her heart lay still in an unsuspecting calm. Once, as she saw a little child crying in the street below and holding on to its father's long military coat in an anguish of grief, she lifted her head suddenly and said to her father, who was busy making one of the wheels for her new carriage, "Thou art not a soldier, father?" "No, darling, no, not at this moment." "Thou wast a soldier once though, long ago, before Violet was born. Is it not so? Fritz has told me thou wert." "Yes, a long time ago." "And wert thou ever in a battle, father?" "Yes, my sweetest treasure, in several; but we will not talk of battles. Thou hast not asked me all to-day about the carriage. I have got the springs home this morning from the blacksmith, and it will be so light when it is finished that even Fritz could draw thee about in it." "How lovely to go up and down the street with Fritz as Ella does, ever so fast down the hill, and ever so slow up. I am not so heavy as Ella, am I, father?" "No, my poor little daughter, I am afraid not." "And thou, father, some day, thou wilt take me in my carriage to the hill, and we will gather nuts and bring them home in my carriage; and every one will wonder when they see no one in the window. They will look up and they will say, 'Where is little Violet?' and they will never think that she is gone far, far away, to that hill which is so very far off." The child's face was radiant; her eyes had turned to that deep purple hue which seemed always to match the shadows of her dress, and her cheeks had crimsoned with the thought of this new and wonderful life which was so soon to be hers. Poor John put down his wheel and went over to his favourite seat on the broad sill beside her. He had purposely set her to talk on this theme, and now she was breaking his heart with her innocent raptures. "I am afraid father is a great idler," he said, putting his head down very softly against her shoulder. "I ought to be downstairs in my workshop now, instead of chattering nonsense to thee all day." "But we were not talking nonsense, were we, father? It is quite true about the carriage, is it not? it is not a fairy tale, father?" "A fairy tale?" "Fritz says--;" she paused. "What does Fritz say?" John asked the question somewhat dreamily. He had been gazing at her earnestly for some minutes, and now he kissed her twice passionately, as if without any apparent reason. "Thou art father's little treasure, his darling, his own sweet little maiden," he said with almost a sob in his throat, "and thou must try and grow strong for father's sake." Violet looked up a little shyly, and put her arms round his neck. "And thou art the best father in all the world--dear, dear father." The old policeman, walking by in the street, saw the little maiden with her arms so tightly clasped round her father's neck; and he said to himself with a groan, "Poor maiden! she knows it all now, and she would fain hold him back if she could;" and he walked on. But Violet did not know it all, nor for many days did the truth dawn upon her. It fell to Fritz's lot, as usual, to be the one to proclaim the tidings. It was one evening about a month after war had been proclaimed. It had been a very hot day, and Violet was tired and weak, and not inclined to play or talk. She was leaning back against her pillows looking out at the pigeons, which always came at this hour of a summer's afternoon to sit and preen their feathers on the lantern-chain which hung high up across the street. She knew these pigeons quite well; she had given them all names. She placed crumbs for them every day on the window-sill beside her chair, and she delighted to see their fussy ways, twirling round and cooing angrily, and trying to push each other off the sill so as to secure the larger share of the food. But to-day she only watched them languidly. For the last three days neither Fritz nor Ella had called in to play with her. She had seen them in the street hanging on to the backs of the forage-waggons, and Fritz had once appeared in the window opposite with Ella's doll speared at the end of a lance, but seeing Violet beckoning to him to come across, he had shaken his head lugubriously and disappeared from her sight. So Violet, whose back was aching and whose little heart sank easily under any depressing influence, was alternately watching her father putting some finishing touches to the hood of her new carriage, and gazing out languidly at the pigeons and the storks on the red roofs, and the jackdaw in Fritz's window opposite, hopping everlastingly up and down from its perch, and screaming out some words which the baker's boy had taught it with much trouble to say. Beyond the roofs and between the fretted spire of the church she saw also the hill, looking so green and fresh in the golden evening air; and above it there was a pale green sky, flecked with amber clouds and little bars of red. Violet sighed heavily, and John looked up from his work. "What ails my treasure?" "Nothing, father, only I am so, so tired; and Fritz and Ella, they have not come to see me for so many days." "Ah, I will call over there presently and send them across to thee. I have but one or two nails to put in this hood, and then thy carriage will be finished; that is good, is it not?" "Delightful!" cried Violet, raising herself up in her chair to see better the last finishing touches put to her new possession; but as she did so her eyes fell for a moment on the pavement opposite, where a soldier was just stopping at the Adlers' door with a bundle of papers in his hand, surrounded and followed by a large and excited crowd. "What is it? father, come here. There is such a fuss in the street. A soldier has just gone in at the Adlers' house, and all the people are standing at their door, and one woman is crying." "I am afraid a great many women and children will cry before this evening is over," said her father very gravely, as he rose and went over to the window. "Why, father?" "Because their husbands and fathers will have to go away from them to the war, and leave them. Yes; it is just as I thought. It is the orderly corporal leaving the names at the different houses. Whose turn will it be next?" "But Fritz's father cannot be sent to the war; he is not a soldier, father?" "We must all be soldiers, little one, when a war comes, and we are called out to fight." "But thou, father, art not a soldier; thou saidst so to me thyself the other day. Father, dear father, turn round thy face to me. Tell Violet that thou wilt never be a soldier." "I cannot tell Violet what she asks me," said John slowly, turning his face and speaking in a strained, thick voice. "If the king wants me to fight for God and the Fatherland, of course I must go." "But he does not want thee; he has not sent for thee?" "Not yet," he said, sitting down beside his little girl, and lifting up one of her hands tenderly; "but he may want me. And if he does, I must go; must I not, Violet? Father could not stay at home if his king called him. A brave soldier is always ready to fight for his country." "But thou art not a soldier, father. The king has not called; and if he were to call for thee, I would not let thee go. For if father goes away to the war, and leaves Violet all alone, she must die! she must die! she must die!" Violet sobbed, and rocked herself to and fro in her chair. "There, there, my heart, thou must not say such things. The corporal has not called yet with father's name. Keep still, my lamb, and cease crying. Fritz will be here soon, and thou wilt see how brave he is. I will go over and call him," cried John, rising precipitately. The corporal had come out of the Adlers' house, and was crossing over towards their own doorway. "Father, father, stay!" cried Violet. "I would rather have thee to sit with me than Fritz." She caught at his coat. "Come back to me! come back, come back!" But he was already closing the door after him, and in a moment more she heard his footsteps hurrying down the stairs. With eyes full of blinding tears, she turned quickly to see him emerge into the street beneath; but though she brushed them from her eyes, he was nowhere to be seen. She looked up at the windows opposite, but he was not there either--only she could see Fritz lying on his face on the floor, and Ella stooping caressingly over him, with her little white apron to her eyes. The crowd was now gathered exactly under their own window, and Violet's heart beat so fast that at last she cried out loud in her misery, and Kate opening the door came in. "Kate, Kate, where is father?" she cried out anxiously. "Father is busy talking to the corporal downstairs. He cannot come up just yet." "The corporal!" screamed Violet passionately; "he is not coming to call my father to the war? Go down, Kate, to the door, and tell him he must not call him away. Father could not go to the war and leave me all alone." "No, no; to be sure not," said Kate soothingly. "Men with children have no business to go off fighting. I will tell him so when he comes up, and-- Ah, here comes Master Fritz, tearing across the street like a madman, and Miss Ella too." "Shut the door!" screamed Violet. "I do not want to see Fritz; I do not want to see Ella: I want only father, only father to come back." But before Kate's stiff bones could bear her across the room, the door flew open and the children rushed in. Fritz's cheeks were purple, his eyes were red, his blue-striped blouse was damp with tears. Ella tumbled in after him, her face also streaked and smeared from crying, and her pinafore hopelessly crumpled. "Hast thou heard the news, Violet?" screamed Fritz excitedly. "The Reserve has been called out, and father is to go to the war!" "What is the Reserve?" "Oh, all the soldiers who have been out fighting before, long ago. My father was in lots of battles before, and so was yours." "My father is not in the Reserve?" cried Violet, leaning forward eagerly. "Yes; of course he is. I saw the corporal put the same blue paper into his hand downstairs as he did into father's a few minutes ago." "And he is to go away to the war?" "Yes." "When?" "The day after to-morrow." Then such a cry of bitter anguish burst from Violet's lips that Fritz and Ella absolutely stood aghast with terror. She struggled wildly to get free from her chair, and to push her little table away which held her a close prisoner--"Let me out! let me down, Fritz, Ella! I must find father.--Father, father, father!" till at last the bitter cry echoed through the room, the house, and out into the street. Madam Adler opposite heard it, and thrust her fingers into her ears; the policeman walking past covered his eyes suddenly with his gloved hands; and John, saying farewell to the corporal in the hall, heard it also. In a few moments he was up the stairs, and held his darling close to his heart. Fritz and Ella speedily departed homewards, leaving the door wide open behind them. John rose and closed it, and he and Violet were left alone to their grief. CHAPTER IX. AUNT LIZZIE'S VISIT. The next day an aunt of Violet's arrived from a distant town. She was a sister of John's wife and a wife herself, very young and very fair, and with a wonderful likeness to the poor dead mother. Her husband, who was many years older than herself, was amongst the militia, and had not yet been called out; and at the cry from John's broken heart she came at once, leaving her own little ones behind her, to remain a few days with Violet, until the bitterness of the parting was over. On this day the little girl had made no effort to leave her bed; all the long morning she had remained with her head buried in the pillows, and with the sheet drawn over her head, deaf to all comfort or words of sympathy. For who could comfort her when the appalling fact remained unchanged that her father was going to leave her, to go to the war, and she would be left alone? In vain Fritz had stood by her bed and called to her. He had brought her a box of the most delicious sweetmeats, a farewell present from the confectioner; for poor Madame Bellard, like all the rest of the French residents in Edelsheim, had had to break up her home since the war was declared, and prepare to leave Germany at once; and now, as her shop was being closed, the children of the neighbourhood were profiting by her good-nature. To Violet she had sent a special gift of great beauty--a box of frosted silver, and all within were sweetmeats of various colours, pale pink and green and white, which shone glitteringly, as if they had been sprinkled over with diamond dust. But no words of Fritz, nor descriptions of the treasure he held in his hand, could induce Violet to look up. Her head was buried in her pillows, and no sound but smothered sobbings reached his ears. Once a little thin hand was stretched out for a moment through the sheets, and grasped his gratefully, and there was an effort to say something, but Fritz did not understand it; and having left the sweetmeat-box on the table beside her bed, he moved away dejectedly, followed by Ella, who, in endeavouring to walk out on her tip-toes, had nearly fallen down on her face in the doorway. Once in the afternoon Violet started up, and lifting herself painfully from the pillows, flung the clothes from off her face. She had heard a step on the stairs, and now she heard her father's voice calling to her. He was standing in the doorway as she looked up, and all the bright colour rushed to her pale face, and an exclamation of admiration and surprise burst quite unconsciously from her lips. "Father, is it thou? Oh, how splendid!" And splendid he did look this afternoon in his new uniform--a giant in height, in breadth, in strength, with a fair open face, which could look stern enough at times, but now there was no sternness about it, only a searching eagerness to see if he might win one smile from his darling in the bed yonder. John had to take his helmet off to enter at the doorway. And now, as he stood by his little girl's bed, turning himself round with an assumed pride for her admiration, he looked, as he was, one of the very flower of the German army, ready to die for his king and fatherland; with a heart of steel to face the foe, and a heart of wax to be moulded by those tiny burning fingers in the bed, into whatever shape or form she chose. "Has the king seen thee, father?" she asked with a sob and a smile. "No, my child." "Ah, he will be delighted. Thou art the finest soldier I ever saw." "Thou thinkest so, my treasure?" "Yes, yes; the best soldier in all the army"--she stretched out her arms lovingly, yearningly--"and the best, the very best, the dearest father in all the world." John put down his helmet on the bed; his spurs clattered, his sword clanked, as he stooped over it; but she heard nothing--only the whisper in her ear: "Violet, my heart's treasure, how can I go away and leave thee?" Later on in the evening, when he had gone out to make some final arrangements, and to buy some last comforts for his little girl, and she had relapsed into her former state of speechless grief, there came a tap at the door of her room, and a voice, which seemed to thrill through every fibre of her frame, cried softly,-- "Is Violet awake? May Aunt Lizzie come in?" Violet once more flung down the clothes and made a violent effort to rise up quickly. Her cheeks flamed to a carmine red, her eyes glowed in the twilight, and there was something in their expression which made her aunt pause on the threshold and place her hand suddenly upon her heart. "Poor little girlie! all alone?" she said, in the same sweet, low voice. "Aunt Lizzie has come at a good time to sit and comfort thee." Violet had not seen her Aunt Lizzie for two long years; but now, at this crisis of her young life, when her heart was hungering for a face which she could never see again, and her spirit was crying out for her lost mother to comfort her, Aunt Lizzie had come in at the door, with the same gentle voice, the same sweet blue eyes and waving golden hair, and had laid just such a soft cheek against her own. All Violet's reserve gave way at once, and she turned with a sudden movement of overpowering relief, and flung her arms around Aunt Lizzie's neck. "Aunt Lizzie! Aunt Lizzie! dost thou know, hast thou heard?--my father--;" here she turned her head in upon her aunt's breast; she could not finish the sentence--only a storm of sobs completed it. "Yes, yes; I know it all. Thy father has to go away to the war. It is terrible. I was thinking of thee all the way in the train, and of all the other poor little children in Edelsheim who must say 'Good-bye' to-morrow to their fathers." "But, Aunt Lizzie, Violet will be so lonely, so quite alone." "Yes; thy father is so wonderfully good, and so kind, thou wilt miss him more than most children: I know that well." "There will be no one to sit with Violet all day, no one to kiss Violet at night, no one to hear Violet say her prayers, no one to talk about mother--only Kate, and Kate never knows what Violet says." "Ah, well, Aunt Lizzie must think of some one to come and stay with Violet. Our little darling must not be left alone. We will talk to father this evening. And now Violet must dry her eyes. Aunt Lizzie has seen so many tears to-day that she feels quite sad; and, besides, when father comes home we must not weep." "Where did Aunt Lizzie see so many tears?" asked Violet, still sobbing. "Oh, so many!--such red eyes and blistered faces!--at the railway station. It was at first almost impossible for Aunt Lizzie to find a seat. Only the colonel interfered, and said they must make a place for her. So many wives with babies in their arms, sobbing and stretching out their hands; and quite old women from the country, and little girls about thy size." "Violet cannot go down to the station and see her father off to the war, can she, Aunt Lizzie?" "No, no; it would only make father sad, and it would tire thee." "Were there any poor little hunchbacks at the station at Edelsheim?" "What?" cried Aunt Lizzie, with almost a start of horror. "Sweetest treasure, thou must not say such things. Thou art our own sweet Violet--a little sick girlie that every one loves, and God most of all. Is it not so, my loved one?" "Some hunchbacks have wings," said Violet, with a sudden gasp and a swift upward glance at her aunt's face. "God gives them wings." "Yes, dearest child; and some day he will give thee wings too, and then Violet will fly away and be at rest: she will be so happy up there with mother; and she will have no more pain in her poor back, and she will never cry any more, nor have tears in her eyes." "Yes," said Violet, with a sigh and a long, fluttering sob, "no more tears. The poor little hunchback in the fairy tale never cried once, not once, after God gave her wings. I read that in the book, underneath the picture, and I know it is true, although Fritz will not believe it, for I found the words in mother's Bible." "Yes, yes, it is quite true," said Aunt Lizzie softly: "there will be no more sorrow nor trouble of any kind in heaven--nothing to make us cry--no more fighting, no more wars." "No more soldiers, and having to say 'Good-bye,'" added Violet sobbing. "Aunt Lizzie, Aunt Lizzie, Violet cannot say good-bye to father." "Ah, darling, it is hard, but thou must try to say it;" and Aunt Lizzie pressed the little head close to her breast. "Father is a soldier, and Violet must seek to be a soldier too. Thou wilt be brave, sweetest child, for his sake, wilt thou not? Father's heart is breaking at having to say farewell to his little girl, and yet thou seest, dearest one, how he strives for thy sake to be cheerful." "I know a text about soldiers, Aunt Lizzie," said Violet almost in a whisper. "What is it, my little girlie?" "'Fight the good fight;' but, Aunt Lizzie, Violet is too sick to fight, and her back aches so." "Violet is one of Christ's own little soldiers, and when she is very tired she must just lay her head on his breast, and he will fight for her all her battles, whatever they may be." "Yes; that is like mother's hymn that we used to say always at night, 'How sweet to rest on Jesus' breast.' And then when mother used to lie down beside Violet on the bed, and put her arms so closely around her, Violet used to say, 'How sweet to rest on mother's breast;' and there was no harm, was there, Aunt Lizzie?" "None, none," replied the young mother with an effort to keep back her own tears. "Now lay thy head softly down on Aunt Lizzie's breast, and she will sing thee to sleep." "Dost thou know what Kate said to Violet once?" asked the little girl, a smile spreading over all her face. "No, my child; what was it?" "She said Violet would soon sleep on mother's breast, and then Violet would have no more headaches. Is not that lovely, Aunt Lizzie?" "Lovely," she answered almost in a whisper. While they were talking thus, John came in. At first his face was somewhat white and stern. He seemed afraid to trust himself to glance towards the bed. When at last he did look across to the corner where Aunt Lizzie, who had taken off her hat and shawl, was sitting on the bed beside Violet, his face suddenly changed; a light, a look came into it, a sudden flush passed over his handsome face, and he stretched out his hand with a hasty movement and a quick outburst of thanks. "Lizzie, thou best of sisters! so thou hast come. I scarcely dared to hope it. It has been too good of thee to leave thy home; and of Henry, too, to spare thee." He kissed her affectionately, and sat down on the edge of the bed, where Violet lay, partially supported by her aunt's arm. "Ah, God be thanked, my task is now comparatively light." He drew a long, deep breath, and tried to smile a happy smile as he gazed into his little girl's face and lifted one of her hands into his own. "I have had such a busy afternoon," he continued, still searching into the large wistful eyes opposite him for some ray of cheerfulness. "I have finished Violet's carriage, and I have bought a lovely cushion for it, and a rug to put over her feet; and Fritz put Ella into it, and found it was so light he could draw her up the steep hill from the church to the fountain without drawing breath: so now Violet can go out also every day and get some roses in her cheeks.--Is that not so, my heart's angel?" Violet nodded her head silently, and pressed her father's hand, but no words came. "And father is going to give Violet his canary to take care of for him; and such a grand cage as he has bought for him, all gold and silver, and with beautiful green fountains. And Violet must feed him herself, and see that he is never hungry or thirsty either. Eh, my darling?" "Yes, father." "And here is a desk father has got for thee--a real leather desk full of paper and envelopes and beautiful red sealing-wax; and, look here, my treasure, a seal with 'Violet' on it. Is not that lovely?" "Beautiful," said Violet, her eyes dilating and her mouth expanding with a troubled smile. "And somewhere in the desk Violet will find, if she searches well for it, a little box with silver in it, bright silver money to buy stamps with; and when she wants more money in her box she must ask Madam Adler for it, and then she can always write letters to father and tell him all the news." "Father will write to Violet?" "Of course, of course;--and the ink-bottle thou hast not seen yet, nor the pens and pencils," cried John with a sudden access of interest; for Violet's lips quivered ominously, and one large tear had already fallen with a splash upon the pink blotting-paper. "And now we will shut up the desk, and Violet will get up on father's knee. We are all going to sit by the stove and have our supper. And father has a cake for thee, which Madame Bellard has baked on purpose for us. Wait till Aunt Lizzie sees it; it is all sugar on the top. It was good of Madame Bellard, in all her trouble, to think of us. Was it not, Violet?" "Yes, yes, too good," she said softly. It did not take long to dress her. A couple of shawls fastened loosely round her, and stockings drawn up over her feet, were enough for the occasion; and when the coffee was ready the cake was uncovered in all its glory. Such a splendid cake as it was, all covered with creamy frosted white sugar; and on the top were letters made of pink comfits, which formed these words, "John and Violet;" and underneath, in smaller comfits of the same colour, was added, "Auf wiedersehen" (To meet again). [Illustration: Carving the Cake. _Page 98._] Poor Violet! once her eyes fell on the pink letters it was with difficulty she could swallow any of the cake. She put a small piece in her mouth, and crumbled up the rest in her fingers, letting the currants fall through them on the floor. She drank her coffee eagerly, so as to swallow down the tiny bits she had taken; and then John, watching her closely, saw it was no use to offer her any more. "We must give some of this grand cake to Kate," he said presently. "We cannot allow Aunt Lizzie to eat it all. And Fritz, too, and Ella, they must each have a slice." He took up the knife and began to carve the cake with some recklessness. Violet watched him intently as he cut a large piece for Kate, then another for Fritz; and the knife was already buried in the frosted silver for Ella's slice, when she suddenly stretched out her hand and cried out piteously,-- "No, dear father, not there. Ah, leave that piece for me. Do not cut off those words; Violet loves them." John drew out the knife and laid it on the plate. "Aunt Lizzie shall cut Ella a slice by-and-by," he said softly; then drew his girl so close in to his side that Violet could feel the loud beating of his heart. After all, the supper proved but a sorry meal, though Aunt Lizzie talked and laughed and told anecdotes about her children at home, some of which caught Violet's attention, and drew forth questions and answers; but every now and then a deep unconscious sigh from John, or a smothered sob from Violet, would show that their minds had wandered far away from the little fair-haired children at Gützberg. At last he got up and laid her down upon her bed. "I must say good-night now to my darling," he said wearily as he stretched his arms up into the air. "Father is very tired, and he must go down to the barracks presently." "Not to stay--not to sleep? Thou wilt not say good-bye to-night?" cried Violet. "Dear father, not to-night!" Her appeal broke into one long, pitiful wail. "No, no; not to-night. Oh, darling child, if Violet only knew how father's heart aches, she would not cry so. Try, sweetest darling, to be brave. Father will come back when he has reported himself to the captain, and Aunt Lizzie will stay with thee while he is away." Violet ceased crying aloud, and lying back on her pillows, resorted to her old device of drawing the bedclothes over her face. John stooped down and kissed the little hand that grasped them so tightly; then saying a few words in a low voice to Aunt Lizzie, he went out of the room. When he returned about two hours later, Violet was asleep. Her aunt had sat by her bed and sung to her, in a low, droning voice, little hymns and nursery songs familiar to her ears in the old mother days, until at last the sobbing ceased, the hand which held the sheet gradually relaxed, and the child slept. Poor John! it was a relief to him to find all so quiet in the room when he came up. He had the bird-cage in his hand, which he hung up on a peg in the centre of the eight-sided alcove which formed the window, and which jutted out some distance over the street. Then he drew a chair over into the alcove for Lizzie, and they sat down in the gloaming to talk over Violet and what was to be done to insure her happiness and comfort during the time he must be away at the war. It was a long talk and a sad one, and to John, sitting there in the moonlit window, it seemed as if he were speaking in a dream to the poor little dead mother; for Aunt Lizzie listened with the same earnest sympathy, and when she replied it was in the same low tones. When she spoke, too, of the poor sick child lying now so quietly asleep on the bed in the corner, she used the very same expressions and endearing epithets of love, which came back to poor John's ears like whispers from the grave. It was finally arranged between them that she was to remain with Violet for a few days after his departure, so as to allow the first burst of childish grief to pass over under her loving and watchful care. Then Aunt Lizzie had hoped that it might have been possible to have moved the poor little invalid to Gützberg, where she could have devoted herself to her charge, and she would have done so lovingly and faithfully. But John had already thought of this plan, and had consulted over it with the physician, a kind and clever man, who had known Violet from her birth; and he had decided against the plan, saying that any attempt to move the child from the room where she had lived all her little life would be almost certainly attended with fatal consequences. The shock of a removal, and the tearing up of the frail tendrils which held this little fading flower to life would cause it suddenly to wither away. "And besides," the doctor added kindly, "what should we all do here in Edelsheim without our little Violet? Why, you might almost as well take down the clock out of the old church tower and tell us still to know the time of day, as to take our Violet's face from the window and tell us all to live pure and patient lives. No, no, good man; leave us the child, and I for one will watch over her." So John had returned home with sudden tears in his eyes, satisfied that the doctor was right. And Aunt Lizzie afterwards confirmed him regretfully in the same view; for she had said to Violet that afternoon, when she was lying on the bed beside her, "How would Violet like to leave Edelsheim for a little while, just while father is away, and to return with Aunt Lizzie to Gützberg? The little children at home would scream with joy to have Violet amongst them, and they would hold out their hands to welcome her." But the child had cried out almost in terror, "No, no, no; do not take Violet to Gützberg. She must watch for father at the window; she must wait for him till he comes home. He will not be long away. And besides, Aunt Lizzie, Violet could not leave her little mother. She is quite, quite close to Violet down there at the church; and sometimes Violet sends her flowers; and Fritz calls out quite loud, 'Mother, mother, Violet sends thee these flowers and her heart's love, and never, never forgets thee.' Fritz says it is all no use--she does not hear him calling out; but oh, Aunt Lizzie, Violet knows she does listen, for God hears all Violet's prayers, and father says my little mother is quite close to God." After this outburst from the child's heart her aunt did not seek to urge her point. To tear asunder such strong links of love would indeed be death to Violet, and the little aching, loving heart, already half in heaven, must not be troubled further by any act of hers. So now, all thoughts of Gützberg having been abandoned, it was arranged that a little maid called Evelina, who was at present in charge of Lizzie's children at Gützberg, should be engaged by John as nurse to Violet. She had been living in Lizzie's family for three years, and had a pretty bright face, a gentle manner, and up to this time had, under Lizzie's motherly direction, taken excellent care of the little ones. She was the only person Lizzie knew whom she could recommend from personal experience; and she undertook to impress on the girl's mind that she must, during John's absence, devote herself entirely to the sick child, and have no thought but for her comfort and happiness. "One word more, Lizzie," said John, in a low, constrained voice, as he bent his head down on the back of Violet's chair, which stood empty in the moonlit window. "If--if, dearest Lizzie, it should please God that I should not return--what then? What is to become of my poor child?" "God preserve us from such trouble," cried Lizzie, starting up suddenly, for there was a movement in the corner. "Hush. Violet will hear thee. Make thy mind happy. If I were to leave Gützberg and the children, and even Henry himself, I would come here and be a mother to her." "It will not be for long," he said almost inaudibly as he lifted his helmet from the window seat and rose up. "The doctor told me so to-day. Thanks, a thousand thanks, good Lizzie. To-morrow at ten I shall be here to say good-bye. I shall have but a few minutes, that is all. We start at twelve for the front." CHAPTER X. THE PARTING KISS. Aunt Lizzie slept beside Violet that night, with her arms tightly clasped around the little girl for whom the day was to break so bitterly. She found the soft breathing of the child, so peaceful in its restfulness, almost more difficult to listen to than the quick uneasy panting of the afternoon, for she knew well the anguish to which she must by-and-by awaken. "So He giveth His beloved sleep," she murmured to herself as, in the summer dawn, she watched the little face so tranquilly turned towards her; and though occasionally there was a little fluttering sob, it was only a relic of yesterday's passionate weeping. Once when Violet smiled in her sleep and nestled more closely to her, Lizzie kissed her gently on the forehead. The child moved, smiled again, a broadening, happy smile, and said with a sigh of content, "On mother's breast." Aunt Lizzie could not sleep. She watched the bands of crimson rising slowly up behind the roofs opposite like streaks of blood. The cocks crew and screamed from yard, and garden, and barn. The fountain at the angle of the street dribbled and splashed monotonously. There was a child crying in an opposite house, bitterly, ceaselessly. The canary awoke, stretched its wings with the help of its thin yellow legs, took a drink at the green fountain, having eyed it first with suspicion, and then burst out into a loud joyous carol. Aunt Lizzie was afraid it would awake Violet; but she slept calmly on. Then the sun itself rose up in all its splendour and shone gloriously over all. The red roofs blazed and glistened. The orange weather-cock on the chimney of Madame Bellard's house looked as if each separate painted feather on its wings were a tongue of fire, while the scarlet nasturtiums creeping up the red brick shaft trembled and glowed brilliantly. Aunt Lizzie's mind, from the long night's watching, felt hot and confused. The rays of the sun which shone slantingly through the round old-fashioned panes of glass in the window threw stripes of prismatic colour on the floor and on the chest which held the dead mother's clothes and all the little relics of her homely happy life. If that bitter crying opposite would cease, Lizzie felt as if she could think connectedly. If it were not for the fear of disturbing Violet, she would have got up ere now and closed the open pane in the window. She tried to think of the little children at home at Gützberg, of their bright smiles, and hearts innocent of care, but it was impossible. A drum in the distant barrack had begun to throb, and her heart, leaping up to a sudden agony, throbbed with it. How many other hearts, too, were stirring at that call! men buckling on their armour; and women, who had not slept all night, starting up to fresh paroxysms of grief and despair. It was vain to hope that all the brave fellows going forth this day from their homes would come back to them safe and unharmed. Yet each one cried in their heart, "O God, let this bitterness not come to me"--"Spare, good Lord, spare my husband"--"Lord Jesus, have pity on my son"--"Beloved, thou wilt return to me safe"--"Ah, dear one, forget me not;" while the little ones smiled their adieus, knowing not the dread future. At six o'clock the whole town seemed astir. Men were talking in the streets; spurs were clanking on the pavement as soldiers hurried to and fro. Bugles were calling, and the incessant rolling of drums came now, not only from the distant barrack across the river, but it seemed as if the whole air and the blue sky itself were full of this dread prophetic sound. At seven o'clock, Lizzie, slipping her arm quietly from under Violet, got up and dressed herself. When she came to the window, the first thing she saw opposite was Ella. She was standing in her little night-dress at the small top window in the roof. Her fair hair was partly tied back with a little white night-cap, but stray locks hung out disconsolately. Her face was supported by her two dimpled hands, and her elbows rested on the sill. It needed but one glance at the child's face and eyes for Aunt Lizzie to know who it was who had spent the night in such ceaseless bitter weeping. Even now, though her attention seemed temporarily attracted by the bustle in the street, she saw the white frilled sleeve from time to time passed quickly across the child's face. In a few minutes Fritz appeared at the other little window in the red roof opposite. He also was attired in his night-dress; but he had a drum hung round his neck by a piece of cord, on which, as he looked down into the street, he began to beat with a prodigious noise; and on his head was a newspaper cap, from which streamed ribbons of scarlet, yellow, and blue. When he was momentarily exhausted he flung open the window, and stretched out his head excitedly. "War, war, war!" he shouted. "Fritz will go to the war. Fritz will beat the drum and kill the French, and bang and hack and slash with all his might, till every man is dead." A brass trumpet which generally hung on a nail in the garret window, and which was often used by Fritz as a signal to attract Violet's attention, was now taken down and blown vehemently into the air; and then the drum was rattled upon more vigorously than ever. A few of those gathered beneath in the street looked up on hearing the noise, and recognizing Fritz, smiled somewhat sadly; but when Lizzie glanced across again at the little window of Ella's room, the child had vanished, and the drum having ceased clattering for a moment, she could hear that the crying in the room opposite had been resumed. "How she does weep, poor little girl! and what a noise the boy makes," said Lizzie, closing over the casement. "He will certainly awaken our Violet." She tried to attract Fritz's attention, to make him desist, but finding it useless, she fastened the bolt and turned back into the room. To her surprise, on looking round, she found Violet sitting up in her bed, her eyes wide open and her face very pale. "Aunt Lizzie?" "Well, darling, hast thou been long awake?" "A little while. When will father be here?" "Very soon now." "I do not want to say 'Good-bye,' Aunt Lizzie." "No, darling, it is a hard word to speak." "Will father say 'Good-bye' to Violet?" "I suppose so. It is at least likely; but wherefore, darling child, dost thou ask Aunt Lizzie this question?" "I do not want to say 'Good-bye,'" repeated Violet in the same sad voice. "It makes Violet cry to say 'Good-bye.'" "Ah"--Aunt Lizzie paused with a little start as she suddenly recognized the cause of the child's distressful thoughts--"ah, I understand it. Violet would rather that there were no 'good-byes' said. Aunt Lizzie will tell father so, and he will understand what Violet wishes. Is not this what thou meanest, dearest child?" Violet nodded her head. "Aunt Lizzie, what is Fritz shouting about over there at the window? and is not his father also going away to the war?" "Yes, my child; and Fritz is screaming out that he will be a soldier too. He is a noisy lad, that Fritz." "Violet wants to be a soldier too," said she in an almost inaudible voice; "but father is so long in coming, and Violet's heart goes so quick, Aunt Lizzie, and it makes her sick." "Here, let me smooth thy hair." Her aunt stooped quickly and kissed the little white face. "Let me bathe thy face and put on a nice clean pinafore, and then thou wilt look so bright and fresh for father. And now try and drink this cup of milk. It will do thee good." She offered the cup to her, but the child shook her head. "I could not drink it. All the morning something is in Violet's throat, just here, and she cannot make it go down." "Well, we will not mind the milk." Aunt Lizzie put the cup on the table, and brushed out her long fair hair and tied it up with her purple ribbon. She bathed her face with warm water from the sauce-pan on the stove, and the pinafore was already half over her head, when the door opened and John came in. "Aunt Lizzie, is it father? Tell him, tell him quickly," cried Violet in a sudden tremor. "Violet cannot be a soldier unless thou tellest him first what I said to thee." Lizzie turned from the bed, leaving the pinafore still over the child's face. John was already half-way across the room, and there was such a look of questioning anguish in his gaze as it met hers that she could scarcely frame the words of poor Violet's request. She whispered, however, something in his ear, which after a second's thought he readily understood; and stepping over towards the bed, he waited until Lizzie drew the pinafore down from his little girl's face, gazing at her with the expression in his eyes of one who waits with a speechless pain and dread to look on the features of the dead. But what was this! When the face was uncovered there was a smile, an actual smile on her lips, and one which grew with the mounting colour in her cheeks as she stretched up her arms quickly and said in a hurried whisper, "Father, Violet has been waiting for thee." "Yes, darling, I am somewhat late, but it was with difficulty I could push my way up here through the streets. I thought at one time I should hardly have been able to force my way through them at all, and that I should have been forced to say 'Good-bye' from the street." "From the street?" cried Aunt Lizzie and Violet in one breath. "Yes; the colonel has decided that we are to march through the Market-place and then down by the fountain and along past these windows to the station." "And I shall see thee again, father?" "Yes, my darling." "Aunt Lizzie will hold me in her arms, and I will look out at thee from the window." "Yes, little treasure, yes." "And Violet will watch thee coming up the street; and then she will see thee all the way along, along, until at last she will look, and look and will see thee no more." The smile had spread wider and wider, and the eyes fixed on his face had dilated and darkened to their deepest purple; but now there came a sudden pause, and the lips trembled. It was evident the struggle could not last much longer. The little heart was brave, but the flesh was weak. "Father, I have a secret." "Yes, my own Violet; what is it?" He stooped down, and Aunt Lizzie moved away. "Dost thou see my face, father?" "Yes, yes; the sweetest face in all the world. "But dost thou see it, father?" "Yes." "Put thy arms round my neck, and I will tell thee Violet's secret." He put his arms round his little daughter, and held her tightly to his breast while she placed her lips to his ear. "Violet is a soldier. The Lord Jesus can make even little sick girls brave. And, father, listen; look once more at Violet's face; look at her eyes." There was a pause, and then came the whisper, scarcely more than a fluttering breath--"Dost thou not see?--no more tears." He held her back for one moment and looked into her eyes. He kissed her passionately twice; then recognizing that this whisper was his darling's farewell, he drew her to his heart with one long, silent pressure, and turned away quickly. One moment he gazed from the window, then stretching out his hand to Lizzie with averted face, he passed out into the street. [Illustration: The Farewell Kiss. _Page 114._] CHAPTER XI. THE BUNCH OF VIOLETS. For a long time after John left the room Lizzie did not look round at Violet. She could not trust herself to do so. Bitter tears were running quickly down her own cheeks, and she dreaded to see the face of the child, so she sat by the stove and covered her eyes with her hands, grieving, oh, so sorely, that there was yet another farewell to be gone through, and that Violet's small stock of strength and brave little spirit must be tried still further. She was surprised, therefore, when about a quarter of an hour after John's departure Violet called to her in a low, quiet voice,-- "Aunt Lizzie, is the flower-shop far from here?" "No, my darling; it is only just round the corner." "I mean the stall where Fritz buys the flowers for mother. I forget the name." "I do not know the name either," replied her aunt, rising and brushing the tears off her face; "but yesterday afternoon, when I was walking from the station, I noticed beautiful flowers for sale in a shop close to this house." "Didst thou see any violets there?" "Yes, plenty of them." There was a short pause, and then Violet said earnestly,-- "Aunt Lizzie, wilt thou go to the shop and buy me some violets? It is not far, thou saidst, and I have some money in my new desk." "Of course I will go," said Aunt Lizzie, turning at once to look for her hat. "Never mind the money, darling; they will not cost much." "But I should like to give the money. And please, Aunt Lizzie, buy a large bunch, and very sweet. Sometimes Fritz buys violets that have no smell, and I do not care for them." "All right; Aunt Lizzie will choose the very sweetest she can find. And now here is the desk, and while Aunt Lizzie is tying on her hat thou canst take out the money." Violet opened her new possession, and with trembling, eager fingers, removed the little secret receptacle which held her newly-acquired money and drew out several silver coins. She placed them on the counterpane and waited for her aunt to turn round. "Aunt Lizzie, wilt thou do one more thing for Violet?" "Certainly, anything. What is it, my little darling?" for the child's face was covered with a crimson blush which darkened in its distress to almost a purple hue. "Darling, what is it?" "The cake, Aunt Lizzie, which father put by last night in the cupboard. May I have it?" "Certainly." Then, seeing her increased confusion, she added thoughtfully, "Aunt Lizzie is too glad that Violet should care to have the cake. It was made for thee, dearest, and madame would be so disappointed if thou didst not eat some of it." Violet did not speak. She lifted her eyes nervously to her aunt's face, and moved her hands restlessly to and fro on the counterpane. "I suppose I had better cut a slice for thee, the dish is so heavy; and now I may give thee some milk, dearest. Thou hast had no breakfast." "Please don't cut the cake, Aunt Lizzie." "Well, here it is. I will put it on the table beside thee; and here is the milk." Violet nodded her head with that silent acquiescence which so often with her took the place of words, and Aunt Lizzie went down the stairs perplexed and wondering. When she reached the little side street she found the flower-stall literally besieged with women and children purchasing bouquets and bunches of flowers, to give to their dear ones ere they started for the war--beautiful blue forget-me-nots, moss roses, lilies of the valley. It seemed this morning as if the poorest child in the town had a penny to spare for this purpose. Aunt Lizzie could scarcely force her way to the back of the stall, where a basket of sweet purple violets not yet unpacked had caught her eye. "No, no," cried the woman excitedly as Lizzie put down her hand to select a bunch; "these cannot be touched until the others on the counter are sold." "Oh, it is for a little sick child. I promised I would bring her home the sweetest in thy shop; and she will pay thee well, too, poor little girl." "Who is the child?" asked the woman, curiously looking up at the young wife's pleading face, a something in the eyes and the voice stirring up old recollections. "Is it little Violet who has sent thee for them?" "Yes, yes, the same." "Take then what thou wilt, and from where thou wilt. There are even better bunches in the little tub under the table--real sweet violets from the king's garden; but they are not too good for her." Lizzie knelt down and selected the finest bunch she could find in the tub--deep purple violets with the dew still on them and their stalks bound up with soft green moss. "Thanks a thousand times; these are real beauties," she said gratefully. "How much do I owe thee for them?" and she held out her hand, in the palm of which lay Violet's money. "Nothing," said the woman quickly. "Go, take them to her; she is welcome to them." "But Violet wished to pay; she will be grieved." "Don't let her grieve, then. She has enough pain in her heart for this day, I warrant. If she says anything, tell her that I will call some day myself for my payment; and that will be one look at her sweet little face. There, take a bunch of those blue forget-me-nots beside thee, and don't stop to thank me. My hands are too full this morning for such needless waste of time;" and she turned away quickly to attend to her other customers. Lizzie went back with her hands full of flowers and her eyes full of tears. How this little girl was beloved by all the town!--she a poor, sick, crippled child; and yet she seemed to have cords of love binding her to almost every heart in the town. Aunt Lizzie smiled as she said to herself, "For of such is the kingdom of heaven;" and a vision full of comfort passed before her eyes of the Lord Jesus standing with outstretched arms waiting patiently to gather this little suffering lamb into his arms. When she reached the house she paused a moment at the door, for she was anxious to give Violet time to eat some of the breakfast which she had left beside her, and, in the nervous state in which she had left her, she felt sure the little girl would not be able to do so if any one were beside her. So, leaning against the entrance door of the house with the flowers and money in her hand, she stood a little aside from the crowd, lost in a sorrowful reverie. It was not until a figure had darkened the doorway for a full minute or so that she looked up and perceived the policeman standing in front of her. "How goes it with the little girl upstairs?" he said, in a dry, matter-of-fact voice. "Pretty well, thank you," she replied, wondering at the interruption. "Does she sleep? can she eat? is she heart-broken?" He spoke abruptly, and Lizzie noticed with surprise that his lip was trembling beneath his thick frizzled mustache. "She is making a brave fight," replied she warmly; "but the worst is to come." "Yes, that is it," he said quickly. "Once he is gone there will be no keeping her. She will fade away, poor little flower, and be no more seen. Good-morning. It is well for her to-day that she has one kind heart to fly to." He touched his hat with military punctilio as he departed, but his eyes, which looked straight before him out into the street, were full of tears. "How does he know about her?" thought Aunt Lizzie wonderingly as she went slowly up the stairs; "and what a soft heart he must have beneath that hard and battered exterior." When she opened the door of Violet's room she found the child sitting up in her bed with her face flushed and her eyes unnaturally bright. She had her desk open on the counterpane beside her, and immediately in front of her, resting on her knees, was the piece of cake which yesterday she had refused to allow her father to cut. Her aunt went over to the bedside with her bunch of deep purple violets and the blue forget-me-nots and laid them on the coverlet. As she did so, Violet looked up and said, rather wearily,-- "Aunt Lizzie, canst thou help me?" "Certainly; what is it?" "It is so hard to print such a long word;" and she pointed with a nervous hesitation to the pink letters on the cake. Her aunt saw it all now--the little scrap of paper covered with almost illegible letters, and the shy action of the child to hide the effort from her eyes. "Couldst not thou hold my hand on the pencil and show me how?" she asked almost piteously. "Violet prints so badly." "Of course I can. Wait but one moment until I take off my hat and cloak, and we will do it beautifully together. It is not, after all, so badly done," she added comfortingly as she took up the paper and examined it. "I can read the 'Auf' quite plainly, and the other letters can be easily improved." In a little time the words were printed quite distinctly--"Auf wiedersehen" (To meet again). Violet drew a deep breath as they were finished, and lay back on her pillows; but after a time she roused herself up again and said,-- "Still one thing more, Aunt Lizzie. Violet wants to print her own name on the paper, all by herself. She must do it quite by herself alone; but thou canst print it first, and then Violet can do it afterwards ever so like." Aunt Lizzie saw at once what the child wanted, and so one letter at a time was drawn by her on a separate piece of paper, and Violet copied it painfully, until at last, with many shaky strokes and trembling uplines and places where there were no lines visible at all, the name "Violet" was printed in, crookedly enough, beneath the farewell words of love and hope. "'To meet again'--those are lovely words, Aunt Lizzie, are they not?" and Violet smiled, for her task of love was finished. Then with hands that trembled painfully she fastened the crumpled paper to the bunch of violets lying on the bed, and looked up at her aunt. "I will not put these," she said simply, touching the blue flowers, which lay beside the other bunch on the counterpane. "Father will not forget his Violet; for thou seest I am his little Violet--am I not, Aunt Lizzie? and he would much rather have those. I know he would." There was such questioning anxiety in her eyes that her aunt hastened to reassure her. "The violets are far the best," she said with decision. "The forget-me-nots are a present from the flower-woman to thyself." "Oh, how kind--how lovely!" she said, almost in a whisper, as she lifted the blue flowers to cover the fast-rising blushes which the painful excitement of the moment kept ever driving to her cheeks.--"Aunt Lizzie, what is that?" She started up with a bitter cry. "It is the drum, it is the drum, and Violet is not dressed." It _was_ the drum. Her aunt went over to the window and looked out. Far, far away, down at the foot of the hill close by the church, she could see soldiers marching out of the Market-place and defiling into the square in front of the large fountain. "Aunt Lizzie, is it the drum? Violet knows it is the drum, and she is not dressed to see father go by." The cry grew to a shriek. Lizzie's face was deathly pale as she turned round, but she said quietly,-- "Do not fret, thou dear angel. Aunt Lizzie will put on thy dressing-gown and hold thee in her arms at the window." "Quick, quick!" screamed Violet, snatching up the bunch of violets; "they are coming quite close; I hear them." "They are still a long way off," said her aunt reassuringly; "it will take them nearly ten minutes to reach to the top of the hill." "But my father--he will watch for me, he will look up for me; he will think I am not there." "Hush! quiet a moment, or I cannot lift thee in my arms. Oh, what a little tiny thing thou art! Now where are the violets?" "Here, here," cried the child, stretching out her hand; "now open the window quick! Aunt Lizzie, there he is; I see him. My father! my dear father!" The band was playing a familiar martial air, the drums thundered and shook the air, the trumpet-blasts seemed to cut all hearts in sunder; the old men and children in the windows screamed and shrieked, while the women in the streets, rushing along wildly beside the soldiers, uttered loud cries and bitter lamentations; and yet above all was heard one voice, one little child's voice, uplifted high in its misery. "My father! my father! look up, look at thy Violet; she is here at the window.--Aunt Lizzie, hold me tight. I cannot see. The ground is moving. My father, where is he? I saw him a moment ago." "He is just approaching; he is now beneath thee in the street, darling. Lean out; Aunt Lizzie will not let thee fall." "Father, father! farewell, farewell! come back to Violet." She flung the violets, as she spoke, far out into the quivering air. They fell first upon the heads of the surging crowd beneath, and then upon the ground. The men were marching on, John had passed by, and Aunt Lizzie groaned as she saw that in another moment they must be trampled under foot; but while Violet still cried aloud, "Farewell, farewell," some one in the crowd had pushed forward, stooped down hurriedly, and picked them up. It was the policeman; and with a quick onward rush he had overtaken John in his march and thrust the flowers into his hand. John gave one glance at the little paper, which had unrolled itself in its fall and displayed its farewell message to his aching eyes. He turned his head, waved the violets high above his shining helmet, and looked lingeringly back at the face so deathly pale at the open window. "He sees thee, my darling; he is waving his hand to thee," cried her aunt with choking tears. "Farewell, farewell, farewell--'To meet again,'" cried Violet with failing voice. "Dear father--'To meet again'--to--;" but the black moving mass had passed out of sight, the helmets had ceased to glitter, and Violet's head sank on Aunt Lizzie's shoulder with a sob. CHAPTER XII. THE SILVER WATCH. The regiment had at length passed by, and the sound of the drums and trumpets had become almost inaudible, when Aunt Lizzie rose to lay her sobbing burden on the bed. "So, my little loved one, we must rest now," she said softly; "and Aunt Lizzie will lie down beside Violet while she tries to sleep." But at this moment a bell over her head rang with a somewhat sharp clang. "What is that?" she said, pausing astonished with the child in her arms. "Oh, it is nothing; only the basket-bell, Aunt Lizzie." "The basket-bell? what is that, and where is it?" "The bell is over Violet's chair, and the basket is in the street," replied the child wearily. "Lay me down, Aunt Lizzie, for Violet's head aches so." Lizzie laid the child on the bed, and shook up the pillows. The bell rang again. Aunt Lizzie crept over to the window quietly and looked about her curiously, till presently, catching sight of a red cord attached to Violet's chair, she imagined she had lit on the right object. She drew it up inch by inch, and by-and-by the little straw basket made its appearance at the window, and she lifted it in. She hesitated a moment, then seeing Violet's eyes open she asked her softly,-- "Am I to open it, darling? or shall I give it to thee?" "Do thou open it, Aunt Lizzie; Violet is too tired." Her aunt drew out with some surprise a small package, most carefully fastened up and sealed. On the outside was printed in a clear strong hand,--"For little Violet, from a friend." "This must be a present for thee, my child; something very precious it seems too." "Oh, not now; put it away, Aunt Lizzie; Violet's head aches so." "What! thou wilt not even look at it?" cried her aunt, whose own curiosity was now somewhat raised, and she carried the package over to the side of the bed; but Violet only pressed her head down into the pillows and waved the gift away with her hand. "Aunt Lizzie, Aunt Lizzie, my head it aches so. Come and sit beside Violet; for her father, her good, dear father, is gone away, so far away; and what can she do--what can she do--what can she do?" There were sobs, but as yet no tears. "Thou canst pray to the good God to keep him safe and well," said her aunt softly, as she laid the packet on the table; "that will do thee good." But while she stooped down and comforted the child with kisses and loving words, there was a knock at the door, and she cried softly,-- "Oh, who comes now? the child is tired and must sleep." But it was the doctor who opened the door and walked in. He had promised John, the night before, to look after little Violet in the first access of her trouble; and as he walked towards the bed, she gave him a little smile of welcome. He sat down beside her, drawing his chair quite close up, and took the little girl's hand in his, looking earnestly at her for a few minutes without speaking. Violet blushed one of those painful blushes so common to her now, which flooded all the poor pale face with vivid carmine. "What is this?" said the doctor, turning his eyes slowly away from her and looking at the sealed package on the table close to him; "what have we here? A present for Violet, 'from a friend.'" He took it up in his hand and examined it carefully. "Thou hast not opened it yet, I perceive." "No; some other day," she said softly. "Why some other day? why not now?" and the doctor held out the packet to her. She stretched out her hand nervously; but it trembled so, and the parcel was so weighty for its size, that it fell from her grasp on the counterpane. "There, there, that is enough; I will open it for thee." The doctor took it up and broke the seal, looking at it curiously as he did so. It had on it a little bird flying out of a cage, with the simple motto over it, "Free at last." Inside the first paper was a layer of soft pink cotton wool. "It must be something very precious," said the doctor, adjusting his glasses. Violet rose a little on her elbow and looked also. "Ho! I have a guess; but I can scarcely believe it possible." "What?" she asked in a low voice, scarcely conscious even that she spoke, and with her eyes riveted on the parcel, from which the doctor was now slowly removing the pink wool. "Oh, wonderful! I have guessed rightly. It is what I thought; and this is a gift for thee, Violet." "But what is it? I cannot see it." She rose now entirely from her pillows. "O Aunt Lizzie, see--it is a watch!" "A watch!" cried her aunt excitedly, who had been standing all this time by the bedside with her eyes full of tears; "is it possible?" "A watch for me!--how beautiful!" Violet held it in her hand, gazing at it with those deep purple-coloured eyes which spoke so often to those she loved, even when the mouth was silent. "Let me look at it again; it is quite a beauty." The doctor took it in his hand. It was a silver watch with a double case--a case which opened with a spring to show the face. The back was all chased with the ordinary criss-cross lines, only in the centre there was a small round space with a name carved on it; and on the opposite side there was a space also, filled in with a wreath of blue forget-me-nots in enamel. "Oh, how strange! I have certainly seen this watch before. Let me try if I could read the name." The doctor rose, and going over to the window adjusted his glasses with great accuracy. "It is just as I thought--'Margaret.' And who is the friend who has given our little Violet this beautiful present?" "I do not know," she said, shaking her head; "it came in the basket." "In the basket?" said the doctor; "and there was no name?" "None," replied Aunt Lizzie. "I drew it up myself, and took out the parcel; that is quite certain." "Then I must tell no tales," said the good old man smiling; "only Violet, I know, will take great care of the present;" and turning back he replaced the watch in her hand. "Yes," said she softly; but her eyes were full of question. "It belonged once to a little sick girl whom I knew well, and who is now an angel in heaven," he said in a low voice. "A little sick girl," repeated Violet, gazing at him with eyes widening and darkening. "Yes; she died early this spring, just when the flowers were beginning to shoot up and the larks to sing. She just stretched out her wings like the little bird on this seal, and flew straight up to heaven." "Her wings!" cried Violet with a gasp; "was she--;" she paused again, colouring painfully. "Was she what? what is it, my poor little girlie?" asked the doctor kindly. "Was she a little hunchback like me?" "A what? what does the child say?" cried the doctor in evident distress.--"Yes, she was like thee; and I will tell thee why: Because she was one of the sweetest little maidens in the world;" and with a sudden tenderness he stroked back Violet's hair and kissed her on the forehead. "She was one of the Lord Jesus' own little lambs; and when she was very tired and very sad she told him all her trouble, and he loved her and comforted her." "Yes," said Violet with a little trembling sigh, and enormous tears rising up and clouding her eyes. "And now," he said, sitting down by the bedside and taking the child's hand, "we must feel Violet's pulse with this new watch and make it useful." What a burning little hand it was, and how the poor heart was beating! There was no need to look at the minute hand, for the thread of life leaped on at a countless speed, and the doctor closed the cover with a snap. "Violet is a good girl; she will take the medicine I shall send her presently." She nodded her head, and as she did so the tears fell out of her eyes upon the linen sheet. She looked up swiftly, deprecatingly at her aunt. "She has been such a good girl all the morning," said Aunt Lizzie; "she has been so brave, our Violet. She would not shed a tear to fret her father or make his heart ache. I think now we may let her cry a little; is it not so, sir?" "Certainly; it will do her good to cry." The doctor's voice was husky, and he dropped his glasses quickly, so that they clicked against the buttons of his coat. "I shall send her up now at once a little draught, very small, and without a bad taste; let her take it the moment it comes; and try and keep the room and the house quiet. We must get her over this day and night somehow," he added as he reached the door. "Of all the patients I shall have to see this afternoon there is not one for whom my heart aches as it does for the little maiden yonder. The sorrows of this world will not trouble her long. Good-evening;" and going down the stairs, the doctor blew his nose sonorously and went out into the street. The thoroughfare was almost deserted now. The women had gone back into their houses to weep and pray; and the men, what able-bodied men there were left, had resumed their daily toil. It seemed as if a great fire had died out of the heart of the town and left nothing but ashes behind it. Only the clank of the policeman's sword could be heard resounding through the empty street, clinking slowly against the stones of the pavement. "Good-evening," said the doctor as they met presently face to face; "how goes it with thee, William? I suppose thy son is off with all the rest of the lads this morning." "Yes, doctor." "It has been a hard day for thee, no doubt." "Yes, hard enough; though, the good God pardon me, I nearly lost sight of the poor lad, watching the girl up at the window yonder throwing the violets to her father. It was enough to make one's heartstrings crack." "She reminds thee of thy little Margaret, no doubt," said the doctor kindly. "I have seen the likeness; and I have also seen the joy which thy kind heart has procured for her this afternoon, at perhaps the most critical moment of her life." "God be praised!" said the policeman earnestly. "Can she, will she live, do you think, until he returns?" "Heaven only knows," replied the doctor as he nodded his farewell. "It is well for those good friends who are already at rest." CHAPTER XIII. NOISY FRIENDS. The next morning Fritz and Ella came over quite early, before Violet was up, to see her. Her head ached still, and Aunt Lizzie had advised her to stay in bed until after her dinner. All night she had lain with the silver watch clasped in her hand, and all the morning too she had held it tightly pressed in towards her. "It had belonged once to a little girl who was now in heaven;" that had been the burden of her thoughts ever since she had heard its history. "This little sick child had stretched out her wings and flown straight up to God." The doctor had said so; and she remembered a day, long ago, when she had heard her father say to her mother that the doctor was the best and kindest man in all Edelsheim. And then poor Violet, burying her head deep down in the pillows, had said, in a low voice of entreaty, "O good Lord Jesus, give Violet wings, too, and take her soon to heaven." Fritz was, for him, quite nervous when he first entered the room, and Ella kept as much in his shadow as possible. Every one in the house and in the street had been talking about Violet, and her great trouble since the departure of the regiment; and Fritz had come to look upon his little friend as a kind of curiosity, to be approached with an unusual degree of compassion and gentleness. But the ruse of the old policeman, to distract her thoughts for a time, had succeeded almost beyond his hopes. She was quite like herself this morning, and stretched out her hand at once to her playfellows affectionately, and said with some excitement,-- "Fritz, look at my watch." "Thy watch! Who gave it thee?" "I do not know," she said, with a slow, sweet smile; "it came in the basket. It has got forget-me-nots on one side, and Margaret on the other; and the little girl it belonged to is in heaven." "How dost thou know?" "The doctor said so. She was very very sick, and when the flowers and the larks came, God gave her wings, and she flew right up there." "Where?" asked Fritz. "There; far away, over the roofs and over the steeple, high, high; ever so high up, up, till at last she was with God." "And who was she? what was her name?" questioned Fritz. "I do not know," said Violet, shaking her head. "But, Fritz, I was wondering. I was thinking all last night that perhaps it was the same little sick girl who had the book. Thou rememberest, dost thou not? It came in the basket too." "What book?" "About the little hunchback," said Violet in a whisper. "Oh!" cried Fritz, with quite a visible start; "yes; of course I remember the fairy-tale book. We thought at first it was the girl with the oranges; but she cannot be in heaven, because I saw her to-day." "No, not a bit of that girl is in heaven," cried Ella joyously. "Fritz and I saw her to-day. Fritz climbed up the steps, and gave her hair a chuck; and she jumped round so fast that she fell over, and bumped down every step--bump, bump, bump--and all the oranges galloped after her. When she got to the bottom," screamed Ella, "she was sitting in the middle of her own basket, and her heels up in the air--so;" and Ella plumped down on her back on the floor, and elevated two of the stoutest legs imaginable. "She bellowed after us that she would call the police," cried Fritz, continuing the story with much zest; "but I screamed back to her that the police would put her in prison for sticking pins in her oranges and sucking them, as I have seen her do hundreds of times. Then she flew into a worse rage, and said that she would run home and tell her father. So Ella and I laughed, for she would have a long way to run to tell her father--would she not, Violet?" "Yes," she said quickly; but the smile which had risen at the children's story suddenly died out from her lips. Fritz said, "Perhaps she would have to run all the way to Paris; and it would be nicer to pick up oranges out of the gutter than cannon balls, and be bursted all to pieces by powder." Aunt Lizzie cried "Hush!" and rose from her chair by the stove; but the children did not hear her, and went on excitedly,-- "And do you know, there has been fighting already, and lots of people killed; but not in our regiment," added Fritz hastily, for he was alarmed at the sudden agony that came into Violet's face. "I saw the picture," cried Ella at the tip-top of her voice. "I saw it in the shop window--a man climbing up a great steep rock with no head on him at all. It had just been banged off his body by a gun. And another man on his face, with only one leg. And dost thou know what Fritz said? If he had been there the French people would never have got into that town--not they, old blockheads as they are." "What town?" asked Violet, almost in a whisper. "Saarbrück, near the Rhine. But it was all a shabby trick of the French; so all the people say. And we will make them pay for it by-and-by; see if we won't. We will hunt them out of it again with cannons, and powders, and drums." "Yes, with powders and drums!" shouted Ella.--"And dost thou know, Violet, Fritz wanted to go to the war with father, and beat a big drum all day with an apron on him; and he screamed so, father said 'Perhaps.' And all night Ella cried and cried, and never stopped; and in the morning father got out of his bed and kissed Ella, and said Fritz must stay at home and take care of me. And Fritz was in such a rage he tore Ella's night-cap in two, and flung it in the bread-oven." "Come, now, we have had enough noise for one afternoon," said Aunt Lizzie quietly. "Suppose we all sit round the stove and let Violet rest; her head has ached all the morning, and she looks very tired." "Oh no, Aunt Lizzie; let them stay," said Violet and she stretched out her hands to the children. "I have not seen Fritz for so many days, nor Ella either." "Mother would not let us come," said Fritz bluntly. "She said thou wouldst be busy saying good-bye to thy father and crying, and it would be no use bothering." "Yes, very busy crying," said Ella plaintively. "And I am going to begin now and say my prayers," observed Fritz, whose eyes had suddenly rested on Violet's Bible lying on the table beside her bed. "Mother says Ella and I ought to pray every morning and every night for father to come home safe; and so I am going to begin to-night." "And didst thou not always say thy prayers every morning and every night?" asked Aunt Lizzie in some surprise. "Oh yes, I always say them," observed Fritz; "but I don't think about them; at least not much." "He does not think about them one scrap," said Ella cheerfully; "he stares at the wall, and goes sound asleep; and sometimes he looks round at me, and begins to laugh; and sometimes he rattles his heels on the ground until mother comes up and smacks him." Aunt Lizzie shook her head at this history; and Violet said in a very low voice,-- "O Fritz, is not Ella joking?" "No," replied Fritz truthfully. "I don't much care for saying prayers. I like to ask God for things which I think he will give me, but it tires me to say the same thing so often. At least one month I used to pray every day for a lovely gray pony that was in the field, and I never got it. And, besides, every morning when I woke I used always to say to God, 'Good Lord God, make little Violet well;' and yet thou art still sick, and weaker and weaker. And then," continued Fritz, bending close down beside her, and speaking in a whisper, "once I prayed in the day, too, when I read that book about the little hunchback girl. I went straight home and asked God to give thee wings too; and yet thou hast never got them." "Yes," said Ella in a very grave tone, having overheard the whisper, "he went straight home and locked the door, and would not let Ella in; and Ella banged and banged, and it was all no use. And then she put her eye to the keyhole, and Fritz was saying his prayers at the kitchen table; and Ella heard him say, 'Please, good Lord Jesus, put wings on Violet's hump, like the little girl in the story. Amen.'" "Hush! we have had quite enough talking for one day," cried Aunt Lizzie again hurriedly, her face flushing crimson, as she gazed in anguish at the little sick girl in the bed. "Away with thee, Ella! away with thee too, Fritz! I cannot have my little girl tired." But Violet flung her arms round Fritz's neck affectionately, and cried out gratefully, "Thou dear, good Fritz!" Then putting her lips to his ear, she said in a low whisper, "The Lord Jesus does always hear when Fritz prays, and he will give me wings, and he will do all that Fritz asks him." CHAPTER XIV. EVELINA. The next day, about four o'clock in the afternoon, Evelina arrived from Gützberg. Violet had been told that she was coming, and that she was to be her own little maid and companion until her father returned to Edelsheim from the war. Aunt Lizzie, too, had promised that she would often come over and see her, and Fritz and Ella would meantime be her daily companions; and Madam Adler, too, had promised John that she would be constantly on the watch, coming to see that the child was well and happy. "It will not be for _very_ long, will it?" she had said to her Aunt Lizzie, as she was being dressed that morning for the first time since the departure of the regiment. "What will not be for long?" "Until father comes home," replied Violet smiling. "I heard him tell thee so that night when the moon was shining through the window. Did not he, Aunt Lizzie?" The child's eyes deepened with prophetic joy as she gazed full into her aunt's face, waiting for a reply. It did not come at once, and she added with an ever-increasing smile, "And when the war is over I shall see him again, ever so soon. He will cry out, 'Where is my own little Violet?' and look up; and I will stretch out my arms--so--Aunt Lizzie; and then all the fighting will be over, and we shall never have to say good-bye any more." Aunt Lizzie was drawing on Violet's stocking, and she bent her head very low to see that the seam was straight at the ankle. When she looked up again, the smile was still on Violet's lips, but her eyes were looking far away up into the blue sky, high, high up above the roofs and the steeple, to where the little sick girl, whose watch was beating so close to her heart now, had gone up to be with God. When Evelina arrived, there was quite a little company gathered together to meet her--Aunt Lizzie, and Violet, and Fritz, and Ella, and Madam Adler, who had baked a special loaf for the supper, and who had also a curiosity to see the new girl, and form her own opinion as to her capabilities. "What a huge box she has!" cried Fritz, who, full of interest, was kneeling on the cushioned window-sill, and could thus overlook the whole street. "And another box, too, stuck up beside the driver; and here she is herself, and two more boxes in her hand." "Yes, two little, tiny baby boxes," shouted Ella, whose rosy face was spread out against the windowpane, "and two very black hands." "Those are not her hands; those are her gloves, little donkey," cried Fritz contemptuously. "I saw her face; and she is ever so pretty.--She is indeed, Violet, ever, ever so pretty." Violet nodded her head in her grave, peculiar way. It was a moment of intense excitement to her the advent of this new girl, the friend who was to be always with her until her father's return; but no one could hear the throbbing of the little girl's heart. And though her eyes darkened and the pupils grew wider and wider, no one knew the tumult going on within her breast. As a rule, she took no interest in strangers. Like all invalids, she shrank from the entrance of those with whom she was not intimate; and those who knew and loved her pitied her distress when the crimson blushes, rushing in waves over her pale face, showed the nervous tremor of her heart. But to form a really new friendship was a thing almost impossible to her. She loved those whom she had known all her life, with a tenacity far beyond the usual love of children. She clung to them as all sick people cling to those who daily watch and tend them; and though Aunt Lizzie had sought in every way to inspire her with a feeling of confidence and interest in Evelina, she shrank from the thought of their first meeting. And now, as she heard the ascending footsteps, a sudden rush of unreasonable distrust and premature dislike seemed to fill her heart, and she turned her face quickly away towards the window, and held fast hold of Fritz's hand, who was standing with gaping mouth and eyes riveted on the doorway. There was a little flutter in the room. Aunt Lizzie rose and moved towards the door; Madam Adler, too, went forward; Ella drew back a step or two from the stove; and Violet, still looking with straining eyes at the houses opposite, heard, as the door opened, a sweet voice saying, in reply to some question of her aunt's,-- "Yes, thank you very much; I have had a very good journey. It was almost stiflingly hot in the train, but the air is cooler now." "And the children?" asked Aunt Lizzie. "Oh, the little angels, they are as well as possible. They cried, of course, when I took leave of them; but the master is taking them out this afternoon for a walk in the gardens; and the little one is quite happy.--Ah, is that the little sick girl yonder?" Violet turned her head quickly round and looked up. "Oh, how white she is!" Aunt Lizzie hurried forward and stood beside Violet's chair. "Here, sweet one," she said, kissing her on the forehead, "this is Evelina of whom we have talked so much. Thou and she will be great friends by-and-by. She has come all the way from Gützberg to take care of thee; is it not so, my treasure?" Violet nodded her head and smiled nervously, then stretched out her hand to take Evelina's, but there was no enthusiasm in the movement. "Ah, the poor child, she is nervous, she is shy, but we shall soon be the best of friends," cried Evelina pleasantly; "one cannot expect the little one to take to me all at once.--And who is this lad who looks as if he would eat me with his eyes, eh?" "I am Violet's own friend," replied Fritz, colouring purple, but placing his hand firmly on the back of Violet's chair. "Ah, it is very pleasant for her to have such a good friend," observed Evelina, laughing and throwing back her head so that the little gold bells on her ears tinkled;--"but by-and-by you must be my friend too; is it not so, eh?" "Perhaps," said Fritz shortly, while poor Violet looked down at her pinafore and blushed because Fritz was somewhat uncivil in his reply. "And who is this little cherub with the red cheeks? is she also a friend?" asked Evelina, as she sat down on the cushioned window-seat and tried to lift Ella on her knee; but the child wriggled somewhat roughly away from her, and a shower of wooden animals--ducks, pigs, and camels--which had been arrayed along the ledge overhead tumbled down in confusion over Evelina's hat, shoulders, and lap. This created a general laugh, in which even Violet joined, and the first stiffness of the introduction was in this manner happily got over. Evelina had a very pretty and pleasant face. There was certainly nothing to frighten one in it. Her hair, which seemed one mass of frizzly, golden threads, was brushed back from her face and pinned at the sides with somewhat large gold pins; she had eyes that seemed ever sparkling and smiling, rosy lips, and cheeks with dimples in them. When she took off her hat and put on a very dainty white cap with crimped frillings of lace, and a snowy linen apron also edged with carefully-goffered frills, she looked so fair and sweet and happy, that Violet's eyes became riveted upon her, and she followed all her movements with an unconscious interest. At last the moment came for Madam Adler to say good-bye, and Fritz and Ella as usual took a loving farewell of their little play-fellow. As Fritz flung his arms round Violet's neck, he said in a whisper,-- "She is very pretty this Evelina, but--" "What," cried Violet, a sudden distress coming into her eyes; "what is it, Fritz?" "Nothing--I am not sure--I do not know; some other day I will tell thee;" and before she could drag his meaning from him he had marched across the room with head erect, and so he preceded his mother down the stairs. CHAPTER XV. WEIGHED IN THE BALANCES. That "but" of Fritz's rested all the evening somewhat heavily on Violet's heart, otherwise there was something about Evelina that would perforce have fascinated the child. It was a face that seemed to grow prettier each time she looked at it; and her voice was so sweet, especially when she sang little snatches of song, which she did apparently unconsciously, as she went about the room setting everything in apple-pie order, and dusting the ornaments and furniture with an easy grace, as if all she did were a pleasure to her. In the evening, after Violet had been put to bed, Aunt Lizzie went out to get some letters, and Evelina and her charge were left alone. The moment the door closed on her protectress, the nervous look came back to Violet's eyes, and she gazed with a distressed intentness at the shining brass balls at the foot of her bed. Evelina, however, appeared quite unconscious of any difference in her manner. She added wood to the stove, polished the brass kettle, chirruped to the canary, and then seating herself at the window, she took out her knitting, and with swiftly-flying fingers went on with a stocking which she was making for one of the little boys at Gützberg. This she told Violet presently with much laughter, describing how the little tease Henry had pulled all the needles out of her work just at the most critical part, to make sticks for his soldiers' flags, and how she had had to go back and knit half the leg over again; and all the time that she laughed and told her story she was knitting away without once looking at her work, but straight out of the window at the houses and shops opposite. Once when she looked up hastily, she became aware of two faces placed against the high-up window of a house almost exactly opposite, and she saw that four eager eyes were following all her movements with an intense interest. In the fair, round, smiling face, with its great blue eyes, and its golden curls all tucked away inside a plain white linen nightcap, Evelina did not at first recognize Ella; but a glance at the burning eyes of the little boy who stood beside her, and who seemed to watch her own actions with an almost jealous anxiety, was sufficient to make her recognize the lad who had stood by Violet's chair that afternoon, and had replied so shortly to her question "that he was Violet's own friend." "Ah, that is where he lives, thy little friend. How he does stare!" Evelina put down her knitting for a minute, and nodding across to Fritz, drew out her pocket-handkerchief and waved it through the open pane beside her. Fritz bowed in reply rather stiffly. Ella pranced about in some excitement for a moment, but noticing that Fritz's expression was somewhat gloomy, she became grave also, and in a few minutes they both disappeared from the window. Then, almost without being aware of it, Violet and Evelina fell into quite a natural talk. Evelina had so many questions to ask about Ella and Fritz, and their parents, and the people who lived on either side of them, and how they all were, and what occupations they had; so that when Aunt Lizzie returned from her walk she was quite delighted to hear, as she placed her hand on the door, a quiet little laugh from Violet, as she exclaimed in evident amusement--"Indeed he is not; he is a grand old fellow, and I love him." "Old!" replied Evelina; "why, I should not call him old, and he is very handsome. I can see him now quite plainly, for he is looking up at me this moment." Evelina had risen, and was gazing out through the casement as Aunt Lizzie entered, so she did not hear her mistress's step until she was quite close beside her. "Of whom art thou speaking, darling?" asked Aunt Lizzie, glad to notice the smile which was still lingering on Violet's face. "Of the old policeman. Evelina asked me if he was a very cruel man, and he is so good, Aunt Lizzie; he sometimes kisses his hand to me; and dost not thou remember it was he who picked up my violets and gave them to--to father;" there was a sudden break in the child's voice, and the smile died suddenly away. "Ah yes, he is a good old fellow," replied her aunt quickly; "he spoke to me the other day and asked me all about thee." "About me, Aunt Lizzie?" "Yes, darling, about thee. Violet has many friends in the town of whom she knows little, or perhaps nothing; but they know her--they look up at her as they go past the window, and they love her." "They love me?" Violet smiled again, an inquiring, happy smile, and her little white face mantled with modest blushes. "So many friends," she said softly; then added almost in a whisper, "and also, Aunt Lizzie, the Lord Jesus; he is my friend too, is he not?" "He is indeed thy best friend; so good a friend, that no matter who else goes away and leaves little Violet, he is always beside her; and when she is very tired, and her back aches, and her heart is sad, then she has only to think how close he is beside her, and rest her little tired head just so against his breast." And as Aunt Lizzie spoke she drew Violet close beside her, and covered her upturned face with loving kisses. Evelina was seated again in the window as Aunt Lizzie turned round from the bed. Her fingers were flying swiftly, the steel needles clattered and chinked, but there was a moisture in her usually bright eyes, which her mistress understood and was glad to see. Two days afterwards Aunt Lizzie returned to Gützberg, leaving Evelina in sole charge of Violet. She had almost grown accustomed to her now. At first it was a sore trial to her that Evelina slept in the room which used to be her mother's. When the door of it opened and shut, her heart gave sudden leaps and starts, which made her sick and wretched. When she saw Evelina's hat hanging on the same nail where her mother's used to be, she turned her eyes away quickly; but even to this she soon grew accustomed, and said to herself, with a long, wishful sigh, "When father comes back all will be like home again." Fritz, too, became much more friendly with Evelina as the days wore on. She had quite a fund of fairy tales and children's stories, which she used to tell them in the evenings. It was after supper was finished that they used to gather round her in the window; and Violet's eyes grew and darkened and deepened in the summer twilight as she listened, inthralled, to the stories of forest gnomes and elves that hid themselves beneath the fragrant ferns and mosses of the woods. Evelina could sing, too. She had the sweetest voice imaginable, and she knew heaps of ballads; and when the song was an exciting one, she would act it with quick gestures and flashing eyes; or when it was sad, real tears sprung to them with an almost unnatural swiftness. Violet listened and pondered and watched every movement of the face before her; and yet, with an unconscious distrust, still kept the whole freedom of her loving heart uplifted in the balance. "Fritz," she said one evening suddenly, as he and she sat alone in the deep window-seat, "Fritz, tell me this one thing: dost thou love Evelina?" "I like her," replied Fritz quickly. "I like her too, she is ever so kind to me, and she never says a cross word, like old Kate; but I like Kate better." "I know," cried Fritz, who was busy peeling a stick and throwing the shavings on the ground, "she looks in the glass so often, and she is always twisting up little curls on her forehead. I can see her from the window opposite. And once she was smiling and bowing at herself in the glass, and she suddenly looked up and saw me; and she was such a little fool, she ran away with her face covered up with her hands and threw herself down on the bed. Still she is not too nasty," added Fritz comfortingly, "and I like her. She tells grand stories, and she is awfully good-natured." Violet listened almost awe-struck. Fritz was certainly wonderful at guessing and seeing things; he knew much better all about Evelina than she did, and he was able to explain things so easily. "She often says 'Yes' when she is not listening to one word any of us says; and when she leans out of the window and sings, she pretends she does not see the people in the street stopping to hear: she pretends lots of things; that I see well enough," cried Fritz, waving the newly-peeled white stick triumphantly over his head, and bringing it down on the cushion with a bang. "Still I like her, and Ella thinks her simply an angel." Violet grew more reassured; and when Evelina returned smiling and pretty, and with a lovely fresh cake full of currants in her hand for Violet, the room seemed quite bright again; and Ella coming across the street, and up the stairs with great bounds, was kept for the evening meal, and sat on Evelina's knee all the afternoon happier than any queen. CHAPTER XVI. FATHER'S LETTER. So the long days deepened, and the sun grew hot and strong over the town of Edelsheim. In the middle of the day the streets were almost deserted, except by those who, under cover of huge, mushroom-shaped umbrellas, ventured out to make their purchases. Even the roofs opposite had been almost deserted by the birds, which only twittered in the early morning; and the pigeons pattered up and down in the shadow of the eaves, or sat huddled together on the chain which hung across the street opposite Violet's window, for at mid-day their pink feet would have been scorched on the hot tiles of the houses opposite, where they generally congregated. Violet's canary seldom sang now. In the evening sometimes it trilled out a delicious song, with its head bent on one side, as if it were looking out through the opening in the roofs opposite to the hill, with its crown of trees and the blue sky over it so fresh and free; but in the morning it never sang. Evelina would not allow it to sing; its chattering and loud rejoicing as the sun arose had disturbed her sleep, and rising up early one morning, she had opened the door of her room suddenly, and with smothered, angry words, had rushed in and thrown a black shawl over the cage, which she had carried with her in her hand from the inner room. Violet, who was awake, and listening to her favourite's song with silent pleasure, protested loudly, but it was all of no use; Evelina was really angry, and she said sharply that if Violet chose to make a fuss about it she would remove the cage from the room altogether. Violet's heart beat and her eyes flamed, and she cried hotly after Evelina's retreating figure. "Father will soon come home, and then--" "Yes; and then thou mayest do as thou choosest, no doubt, and eat the little beast, head and tail, if it pleases thee; but it shall not keep me awake, that is all." Evelina closed the door sharply after her, and flung herself back into bed, angry with Violet and angry with herself. Both their voices had been raised, and the windows of the room lay wide open to catch even a passing breath of the cool morning air. And as Evelina had hurried past the window of her room she had caught a glimpse of the old policeman standing on the pavement opposite, and looking up anxiously with strained inquiring gaze at the projecting casement of Violet's room. He must have heard her anguished cry of protestation, "Father will come home soon, and then--" But her own voice, she hoped, had not been raised so loud. "The little spoiled thing! she thinks she must not be crossed in anything," she said pettishly to herself; and so turning on her pillow fell fast asleep. The same morning brought a letter from Violet's father, and her trouble about the canary bird was soon forgotten. It was such a long letter. Her eyes deepened and her cheeks flushed. She begged of Evelina to go across the street and ask Madam Adler to come over and read it out to her. Evelina took the message somewhat unwillingly, saying that she could read it for her with pleasure. But Violet shook her head and replied nervously, "Madam Adler knows father, and she will understand." "I suppose," replied Evelina with a short laugh, "any one who does not know thy father must be a blockhead, eh?" and running lightly down the stairs and across the street, she came suddenly face to face in the Adlers' doorway with the policeman. Evelina blushed a deep conscious blush and tried to hurry past; but laying his hand a moment on her arm he said gravely, while he pointed across at the window opposite,-- "How is the little maiden up yonder?" "Oh, she is like a mad thing this morning. She has got a letter from her father, and I have just flown across to call Madam Adler to read it to her." "So; that is good," he replied, still looking fixedly at Evelina's blushing face, and seeking to fix the eyes which looked every way except at him. "Let me pass, if you please," she said nervously; "the child will be impatient if I delay." "You are very kind to our Violet?" he said, moving a little aside. "She is happy?" "Oh yes, happy enough; that is to say when she gets everything she wants. She is a trifle peevish sometimes, and hard to manage. But we are great friends." "I fancied I had heard her crying this morning very early; was it not so?" "Pah!" cried Evelina with a toss of her head, "one must not stand in the street and count every cry a sick child gives. The canary bird chattered so that she could not sleep, nor I either, so I threw a shawl over its head, and there was an end of the matter." "So," said the policeman again, only this time more gravely, and allowed Evelina to go past him up the stairs. Madam Adler did not lose a moment in hastening to come at Violet's call. She too had had a letter from her husband, and had only just read the first line; but she thrust it into her pocket and hurried across the street. Little Violet's trembling heart must first be quieted, and then when she was satisfied Madam Adler would return and read her own letter in the quiet of her room with many thanks to the good God who had spared her husband so far. [Illustration: Reading the Letter. _Page 163._] She drew her chair beside the bed, and having kissed the little white face with its ardent, loving eyes, she took the letter from Violet's hand and read it out to her slowly. It was just such a letter as she had expected it would be--overflowing with love, and with almost no allusion to the war or its horrors, but giving accounts of their camp-life,--the bivouacs under the trees, the fires lighted on the grass, and the large camp-kettles swung upon poles over the blazing logs; and of the little children who came out of the villages and stole through the woods to stare at them; and of one little maiden who had made so bold as to come and sit on John's knee, and had stroked his beard and chatted to him in French, and finally had kissed him ere she went away. Sometimes they slept on the ground with nothing but the bright stars overhead, and sometimes they made houses of leaves and boughs, into which they crept at night, and were as comfortable as could be. But the chief part of the letter was taken up with home affairs. John wanted to know all about his Violet;--whether she was happy; what she did all day; whether she went out to drive in her carriage; if Fritz took good care of her, if Madam Adler came often to see her. Had the good doctor been to pay her a visit; was the canary well; did the poor back ache much? And inside the envelope, folded up carefully in a small piece of tissue-paper, were some wild flowers gathered from under the trees where they had bivouacked the night before. Violet could put them into mother's Bible. The flowers which she had given him were quite safe. He kept them always in a little package near his heart, and he loved to think of the words which Violet had printed for him--"To meet again." It is needless to say that Violet's eyes were full before this letter was ended, and Madam Adler had to speak quickly of the one which she must write to him in answer, and of all the news she would have to tell him--about her watch, and about the doctor's visit, and how Ella's front tooth had fallen out, and she could no longer eat the hard ginger-bread nuts in the bakery. Madam Adler promised to come over the next day to help her to write this letter, and having placed her mother's Bible on the bed beside her, she returned with an anxious heart to her own house to finish the closely-written page which lay hidden away in her pocket. CHAPTER XVII. THE KIND PHYSICIAN. The next morning Violet waited with some impatience for the time to arrive at which Madam Adler had promised to come and help her to write her letter. She made Evelina put her desk upon the bed, and her mother's Bible; and she had on a snowy clean pinafore and a fresh purple bow tying up her hair. Evelina looked very white this morning, and often when the child spoke to her she did not answer her. She went in and out of the room perpetually, and once or twice Violet heard her chattering in the street below in a low, excited voice; and when she did return, she did not look at Violet at all, but walked to the window and stared across at the house opposite. "Is Madam Adler coming?" asked Violet a little wearily, as for the twentieth time she pushed the desk to one side, for the weight of it on the counterpane tired her so. "I heard the clock strike twelve ages ago." "I do not see her coming," replied Evelina evasively. "Is Fritz at the window?" "No." "Or Ella?" "No." "Couldst thou not go across and see if she will soon be here? Do, Evelina, please." Evelina turned slowly away from the window and went downstairs, while the little girl once more drew the desk near her, and, opening it, took out a sheet of paper and a pen. But Evelina did not return for a long time, and Violet's head ached so much she had to lie back on her pillows. So the weary minutes dragged on, and there was no sound of any one coming. She drew out her watch and looked at it. It wanted but a quarter to one, and then it would be dinner-time, and the letter would surely be late for the post. How fast the watch ticked, and yet how slowly the hands moved on. Her heart too was beating so loud and so fast she felt as if she were a part of the watch, and it made her more restless and impatient. So she put it back under her pillow and tried to lie quite still. It was such a hot morning, and the sun was beating straight in on her bed. "If only Evelina would come back and draw down the blind," she murmured, for it was useless now to think of writing a letter before dinner-time. There were ducks quacking somewhere down in the street, too, and making such a noise. When Evelina returned she must ask her to shut the window; and perhaps if she fell asleep for a few minutes her head would cease aching, and the sun would have moved away from her bed. All at once, just as she had pushed her desk quite away and lain down with her back to the window, she heard Fritz's voice raised quite loud and high in the room on the opposite side of the street; he was evidently calling out to some one in a tone of entreaty and dismay. Violet with a sudden eagerness struggled upwards in her bed and listened. "Mother, mother, look up! thou must look up! Father is not dead! father is not dead! Speak to Fritz!" "What is it?" murmured Violet to herself with a sudden catch at her breath; "what is Fritz saying?--Oh! here is some one coming." For there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs, and then a low knock at the door. It was the doctor. Violet recognized his kind good face with a start of joy, and stretched out her little white hands lovingly. "So," he cried, looking first at her and then with surprise round the room. "How is this?--quite alone, little one?" "Yes, Evelina is gone out; she went across to call Madam Adler to come to me again." "So," said the doctor again, his face growing somewhat graver as he looked earnestly at her. "I do not think that Madam Adler can come to see thee this morning. But first I must tell thee some good news: I have just heard that thy father is quite well." "Yes?" said Violet questioningly. "I also had a letter from my father;" and she held up an envelope which she had kept tightly pressed until now in her left hand. "But mine was not a letter; it was a telegram." "A telegram?" she repeated, puzzled and distressed. "Yes, dearest child," said the doctor, taking her hand in his and half turning aside his head. "Thank God thy father is safe and well. I have made that sure for thee. But there has been a battle--a great battle; and our regiment was given the honour of being placed in the front; and some, of course, have been wounded; and some will never suffer any more; and some are safe, and thy father is amongst those whom God has spared." "My father!" cried Violet excitedly; "he has been in a battle, and he did not tell me so in his letter; and--and he is safe!" "Yes. He could not have told thee in his letter. The battle was fought yesterday, and the news only came in last night." "And is any one hurt?" she cried, clasping the doctor's hand with her burning fingers. "Is Fritz's father safe?" "I am afraid he has been very seriously hurt," he replied. "He is not dead?" gasped Violet. "No, no; not dead. But it is uncertain whether he can recover." "Poor, poor Fritz! that is why he cried so loud this morning. I heard him in my bed here calling to his mother." "Just so. Madam Adler is in terrible distress; and Fritz, like a brave boy, is doing all he can to comfort her; and when Fritz comes to see thee thou must be brave also, my Violet, and try to comfort him." "Yes," she replied, nodding her head in assent, for words were growing difficult to speak, and large tears were rolling down her face. "I never thought of battles," she said pleadingly, as if in excuse for her tears. "So much the better," said the doctor, pressing the little hot hand in his. "It is much pleasanter to think of peace." "And soon there will be peace," she said, lifting up her dark, pitiful eyes to his face, heavy with tears. "Yes, soon there will be peace," he replied, looking at her with a strange, long earnestness. "And then I shall see father," she added softly, while through the troubled darkness of her eyes there came a slow sweet smile. At this moment Evelina came into the room; and the doctor hearing her enter, rose up to take his leave. "Do not leave the child again to-day alone," he said in an undertone as he walked on towards the window where Evelina stood; "and watch her carefully. People may come in and tell her things which may excite and pain her, and her little thread of life will not bear it. We must try to keep it going for a little longer. She is very weak this morning, and seems excited and restless." "It is all about a letter to her father which she wishes Madam Adler to write for her; and now the thing is impossible." "Why cannot you write it for her, eh?" "She will not have me to do it; no, not on any account," replied Evelina somewhat pettishly. "Humph!" The doctor gazed out of the window for a moment, and then turning to her he said quickly,-- "You are very good to the child--careful, gentle, patient? These things are an absolute necessity." "I do all I can to please her," said Evelina, blushing hotly under the doctor's earnest gaze. "But sick children are full of fancies." "It is a privilege to nurse such a child. Had I not my own hands full of work, and the sick and the dying to think of, I should come and sit here day and night to watch by her and comfort her.--Eh, little one," he said, turning suddenly round and moving again towards the bed, "shall I come to-morrow morning early and write that letter for thee to thy father?" "Oh, wilt thou?" cried Violet with a sudden access of unmeasured delight as she stretched out her arms gratefully. "That will be too lovely;--and thou canst tell him everything, and that Violet is quite well, and so--so--" "Happy," suggested the doctor. "Yes." (A faint blush.) "Yes, so happy waiting for him to come home." The blush deepened as the truthful heart sought about to extricate itself. "I understand," he said, taking both the little hands in his. "So happy when thou thinkest of father coming home, but often a little lonely and a little tired of waiting; and often the head aches, and one cannot be very happy when one's head is aching, can one?" "Yes, that is it," replied Violet. "But I was not thinking of headaches, only sometimes--I am too tired; and then--" (she glanced towards Evelina nervously), "and then I am sorry if--" "Exactly; so am I," cried the doctor laughing. "When I am too tired I feel as if I must take a stick and beat some one; and I am sure Evelina must be black and blue with all the bruises thou givest her. I should not at all like to receive a blow from this powerful wrist." The doctor stooped as he spoke and kissed the little hand he held in his. Violet laughed, and the rain of repentant tears was averted. When the doctor left the room Evelina came and sat by Violet's bed. She drew her chair quite close, and speaking very gently to her she lifted the heavy desk off the counterpane and put it aside on the long walnut-wood chest, which, standing close to the bed, served as a kind of table. "What a kind old fellow that doctor seems," she said presently. "He appears to be a great friend of thine." "Yes," replied Violet softly; "father's friend and mother's, and now mine." "Ah, so. And he has known thee all thy life?" "Yes, all my life." "And hast thou been sick always?" "Yes, always." Violet sighed a little and moved somewhat restlessly on her pillow. "And thy mother,--canst thou remember her?" "Oh yes, quite well. She has not left me so very long. She slept there in that very room. She was too beautiful. All day long she sat with me, and I was always happy." "And thy father--what is he like?" "My father? Hast thou not seen him? He is, oh, so tall--almost up to the ceiling. He is the--but thou wilt see him for thyself, and then thou wilt know how splendid he is, and how good. When the war is over he will come home ever so fast to Violet." "Without doubt," replied Evelina cheerfully. "And is he dark, or fair?" "Quite dark." "And thy mother--was she dark also?" "Oh no. My mother, she is quite, quite fair. She has yellow hair. I will show thee some of it." Violet put out her hand and drew over her mother's Bible, which lay on the counterpane. She touched it so reverently, and opened it with such a nervous thrill, that Evelina watched her movements with a growing interest. Between the fly-leaves of the book there was a small package folded up in silver paper. The child opened this with nervous, trembling fingers, and revealed a lock of soft golden hair tied up with a black ribbon. "And that is thy mother's hair? How fine and soft and golden it is! Why, it is almost the very same colour as mine. Let us see." Evelina stretched out her hand to take it, but Violet drew back the book quickly; and then, blushing painfully at her own rudeness, shut up the little packet and closed the cover of the Bible. "Ah, there is a page of thy book coming out now," cried Evelina, taking no apparent notice of her distress, and pointing to a loose leaf which stretched some distance beyond the cover. "No, it is not possible!" She lifted up the book with a gesture of horror, but soon recovering herself said quickly,--"Ah, see, it is not out of the Bible. It is only the picture of the poor little hunchback. It fell out of its own cover, so I put it in here." "A picture of what?" asked Evelina, looking curiously at the loose leaf which Violet had drawn from its resting-place. "It is only a fairy tale," said Violet somewhat sadly as she placed the old faded print in Evelina's extended hand. "How comical!" cried Evelina laughing. "The child has a face like an old man; but then all hunchbacks have got that kind of dried-up, wizened expression." Violet bent her head low down over her mother's Bible to hide the sudden vivid colour which flooded all her face; but presently lifting up her head and seeing that Evelina was still staring curiously at the picture, she said very softly, almost in a whisper,-- "Thou knowest, dost thou not, that I am a little hunchback?" "Oh, what folly!" (It was now Evelina's turn to grow confused and absolutely awkward.) "Why, thou little vain monkey, thou art fishing for compliments. It is useless for me to tell thee what thou art. Thou knowest well enough--'the sweet Violet of Edelsheim, the flower of all the town.'" No responsive smile lit up Violet's face at this sudden outburst of flattery. She only added, as if following out her own thoughts,-- "Fritz knows I am a hunchback, but he does not believe about the wings." "What about the wings?" "Dost thou not see in the picture there, low down on the page, where it is written, 'No more tears'? for dost thou not see God gave the little hunchback wings, and she flew quite away with the angels up, up to heaven." "Oh, yes, of course," cried Evelina. "I have read the story in another book, only it was about a boy. He had, oh, such a dreadful hump on his back, so ugly, people could not bear to look at him; or if they did they made faces at him and pointed their fingers at him, and even his own mother was ashamed. But all the time there were beautiful golden wings folded up inside his hump; and one day when--when--;" Evelina hesitated a little and pinched up the frilling of her cuff nervously. "Yes, what?--go on," cried Violet. Evelina looked up. The child's eyes shone with a purple light of joy; her face was radiant, her lips trembled. "Go on, go on." "Well, one day when he was out walking in the street, a wicked, cruel boy threw a stone at him--a large, heavy stone--and it struck him on the back." "Go on," cried Violet, clutching Evelina's wrist with her burning little hand. "God helped him, I am sure." "Yes, God helped him; for when all the people cried out and ran to him suddenly, there came a great light all round him, so that they could not see where he lay, and there were angels all round about him comforting him; and then out of his poor aching shoulders there sprang up all at once two great shining wings, and the angels whispered something in his ears, and he stretched his wings wide out, and away he flew with them right up to heaven; and God opened the gates and took him in, and he was at rest." "Yes, quite at rest; and he too had no more tears, and he was quite, quite happy," said Violet. "And this is all true, is it not, Evelina?" Evelina caught one glimpse of the little quivering face, and she replied quickly,-- "Without doubt; at least it is just as I read it in the book." "It was not a fairy tale?" "No, certainly not." "Evelina, come closer. There, put thy arms round my neck." Violet pressed her little burning lips on Evelina's cheek. "I will never be cross with thee any more--never, never. I will try to love thee better every day.--And all the poor sick hunchbacks have wings, have they not; and I, too, I shall have wings?" "Oh yes, beautiful shining wings." In Evelina's own throat there was a catch now, and she breathed painfully. "There, let me settle thy pillows, and try and rest a bit; it will do thee good to sleep awhile." "Yes, I am so tired; but that story thou toldest me is too, too lovely." She loosened her arms from Evelina's neck and lay back with a long contented sigh. "Where shall I put this Bible, darling?" "On the chest, please; or stay, it is better to put it inside. Open the lid and lay it down in the corner quite close to my bed." Evelina raised the cover, as she was told, and placed the book in the spot indicated by Violet. "Take care that thou dost not crush the hat. Just lift the muslin and see." Evelina lifted a long strip of muslin which lay all along the inside of the chest. In the corner next the bed there lay a large Leghorn hat, trimmed with pale blue ribbon and forget-me-nots. "Ah, how beautiful! Whose hat is it?" she asked, stooping quickly to examine it. "It is my mother's. She always wore it on Sundays. And father put it by there with all her other clothes when--when--; but please cover it up and shut the box." Evelina closed the lid very slowly, her eyes to the last moment dwelling on the forget-me-nots and the trimming of pale blue satin. "Lovely!" she said again to herself as she shut down the cover. "Yes, lovely!" murmured Violet, whose eyelids were already closing; "and when Violet has wings mother will be standing there, beside God, waiting for her." "Poor child!" said Evelina, turning and looking compassionately at the little faded face on the pillow; "she has but one idea, and that is heaven." Then crossing the room and opening the door of the inner apartment, she walked gently over to the glass which stood on the dressing-table, and gazed at herself for a long time in the mirror. "I am sure I should look lovely in that hat," she said presently. "I have just the complexion for forget-me-nots, and besides, my hair is just the same colour as the lock she showed me." And then taking up her knitting from the table, she returned to Violet's room and sat down in the window to work. CHAPTER XVIII. SORROWFUL TIDINGS. The next morning the doctor came early, and, true to his promise, acted as scribe for Violet. Such a long letter as was despatched to poor John, full of all the little scraps of news that Violet had been treasuring up for ever so long, and a few leaves of the ivy which grew up the side of the house and in at the window where she generally sat, and one yellow feather which had dropped out of the canary bird's wing. Violet felt quite elated when the letter was finished, and the doctor himself carried it off to the post, leaving her smiling, with eyes bright with pleasure and cheeks just a little flushed by the unusual exertion. When the doctor was gone she insisted on being lifted up and placed as usual in the window. Evelina was surprised at the energy she showed in all her movements, and the weary time of her dressing went on with fewer sighs than usual. It was not until she was actually seated in her old chair in the embrasure that she seemed for the first time to realize the terrible trouble that had come upon her friends in the house opposite. She had been so busy thinking of her father and of the letter which was to go to him, that she had not taken in all the sorrow that had fallen on the town and its inhabitants; but she could not sit long at the window this morning and not see or hear something of it. It seemed to her, after a little time, that all the people in Edelsheim were weeping. There were women standing at Madam Adler's door wringing their hands, and others with aprons to their eyes sobbing. Many of them had slips of paper in their hands which they gazed at every moment, and then burst out crying afresh. Even the policeman, as he passed down the street opposite, had tears in his eyes, and as he tried to smile up at her window Violet saw how they fell on the breast of his coat. "What are they all crying for in the street below?" she asked plaintively, as Evelina came out of the inner room and sat down in the window seat opposite her: "is Fritz's father so very, very ill, or what is it?" "It is not only for him they are weeping, poor creatures," cried Evelina, gazing earnestly after the policeman, who was slowly pacing down the street with his head bent upon his chest. "They have all suffered, poor souls. There is not one in Edelsheim that has not lost a friend, or a brother, a father, or a husband, or a lover. The regiment was in the very front of the battle, and the men were mowed down like grass; at least so the paper says." "What paper?" "The newspaper: but the doctor said thou wert on no account to see it; indeed I ought not to speak to thee of such things at all, only one must answer plain questions when they are put to one.--Oh, here comes the little Ella and her brother; they are crossing the street, and they will bring thee all the news." Violet turned quickly round, for her eyes had been fixed with an ever increasing horror on Evelina's face, and now she just caught a glimpse of Ella's fair hair floating behind her as she passed under the overhanging eaves of the window. In a moment more both children had burst into the room, Ella a little in advance of Fritz, who was quite breathless and red in his endeavours to keep pace with her, and had his hand tightly locked in the gathers of her dress, by which he vainly tried to hold her back. "Hast thou heard, Violet?" cried Ella, her voice raised almost to a scream as she endeavoured to be the first to tell the news,--"hast thou heard that father has lost his leg, one whole leg? It is quite true: first they shot it off, and then they cut it off, and now he is in the hospital. And the policeman's son has both his arms shot off him; and the father of the orange-girl is dead, and she was screaming all the morning on the steps of the chapel, and no oranges in her basket at all." "Silence, you little dunderhead," cried Fritz, shaking Ella so violently by her skirt that she was forced for a moment to pause and resent his rudeness; "did not mother tell thee this morning that thou wert not to frighten Violet with all these stories?" "But are they true?" asked Violet eagerly. "Yes, quite true," echoed Ella. Violet still looked towards Fritz for confirmation. "Yes, they are quite true," he said gravely; "but thy father is safe. Mother said so; she had a telegram from him this morning." "A telegram?" "Well, yes. A message to say father was going on well, and to give thee his love." "His love," echoed Violet in a whisper. "And loads and loads of people are dead," continued Ella, who had not half exhausted her store of news; "and the little man who used to sell the peppermint sticks has had his whole head blown off. His wife says it is not a bit true, and she wanted to go off in a cart this morning to look for him, only the doctor would not let her. Mother said the poor woman's head was gone; so then, you see, they would neither of them have heads, I suppose; and would not that be rather funny, Violet?" Evelina tittered a little, and went into the next room to hide her laughter; but Fritz grew very red, and said angrily, "The little donkey! she does not know what she talks about, only picking up what other people say." "I don't pick up what other people say. I heard every word, and lots more," rejoined Ella stoutly; but still she blushed at Fritz's reproof, and shuffled her shoulders along the wall uneasily. "And is thy father very sick? will he come home soon?" asked Violet, whose face and lips had been gradually whitening as the children's talk went on. "Ah, that I cannot tell thee. Mother says it will be a long time before he can move at all, and then he will have to get crutches." "And must he always walk with crutches, always, always?" asked Violet, whose mind was only gradually opening up to all the sadness of the occasion. "Yes, always," replied Fritz; "for, of course, he could not walk on one leg." "I can hop on one leg," observed Ella from the corner into which she had been gradually retreating. "This morning, when I heard all about father, I hopped six times up and down the kitchen and never put my hand on anything." "And can thy father never bake any more bread, nor stand any more at the door in the evening and kiss hands up to me?" "That I do not know. He will stand, perhaps, in the bakery and look on; and then, thou knowest, he can have a chair put down in the doorway, and he can see thee from there.--O Ella, canst thou not keep still?" For Ella had now emerged from her corner near the stove, and with the handle of the little stove-brush planted under her arm, was prancing up and down the floor with one leg drawn up behind her and the other coming down at intervals with tremendous thumps on the floor. "Do keep still," cried Fritz again. But Ella, who had sat all day long silent and miserable in the house opposite, was now flushed with the excitement of freedom both of limb and speech, and up and down the room she hopped and bounded with glowing cheeks and flying hair, crying out, "See how I can hop!" until at last the brush-stick slipped with a sudden jerk from under her arm, and she came crash down on the floor on her face. "Ha, ha! that comes from pretending to have only one leg," shouted Fritz, half laughing himself at the catastrophe. But when he picked up poor Ella and found that her lip was cut and swelled, and her little fat elbow all scraped and bleeding, too, he carried her over in his arms to a chair and kissed her a hundred times. It was all, however, of no avail. Ella, it is true, made no sound whatever for a moment or two, and Violet, quite terrified, leaned forward in her chair anxiously. But Ella was only waiting to recover her breath: her nerves had been strained to the highest pitch, poor child, and now with almost a convulsive struggle a piercing cry burst forth, loud and long, and terrifying to hear. Evelina came rushing out of the inner room, and snatching the child from Fritz's arms, without listening to explanation or remonstrance, she carried her down the stairs and quickly across the street to her mother. Fritz sprang up to follow, but looking round at Violet's pale face, he paused and hesitated. "I will stay with thee till she comes back," he said comfortingly, and he returned and stood by her side, though his lips and hands trembled with the passion he strove to repress. They could hear poor Ella's cries all the way up the stairs and long after she entered the little sitting-room opposite. They saw her mother take her upon her knee, and press her head against her bosom, and dry her eyes softly with her handkerchief, and wipe the blood from her lip. And then Fritz saw Evelina come out of the door again; but she did not cross the street or look up at their window as he expected she would do, but instead she walked for some distance along the narrow pavement until she met the policeman, who was slowly returning on his beat. "Pah!" cried Fritz, shooting out his lips with a motion of the supremest contempt, "she is a sly old fox, and I hate her." "Whom?" asked Violet, whose mind had wandered far away, and whose hand was resting wearily on the cover of her mother's Bible. "Evelina," cried Fritz stoutly; "she is a vain old chattering pea-hen." "Ah no, thou must not say so, Fritz." "Why not? she does not care one straw for thee." "Yes, yes, she does; she has told me such lovely things." "What about?" "Ah, about a poor sick boy. It was not a fairy tale; it was quite true. He was a poor little hunchback like me, and God gave him wings, beautiful silver wings; and some one threw a stone at him, and all at once he stretched out his wings, and angels came to meet him, and he went right up to heaven;--and this story is true." Fritz coloured violently and made no reply. He looked a moment into Violet's eyes and then gazed nervously aside. Presently he came over to her chair and put his arm round her neck. "No, no, it is not true," he cried in a sudden anguish; "it must not be true; I do not want thee to have wings. Thou must get well. I do not want thee to die and go away and leave me." "To die?" said Violet with a little gasp; "ah no, I do not want to die; only mother said when I had wings I should have no more pain and no more tears. And now thou art crying, Fritz, and I do not like to see it." "I cannot help crying," sobbed Fritz. "Then thou hadst better take up thy cap and go away," said Evelina somewhat sharply from the doorway; "we have had tears enough in this room for one day." Fritz rose up proudly and took his cap from the table at the foot of the bed. "And when thou talkest to the policeman next time," continued Evelina in the same unpleasant tone, "thou mayest find some other subject more interesting to him than to talk about me, and tell tales of--" "I told no tales," cried Fritz hotly; "he asked me wert thou very good to his little friend Violet, that was all." "Well, and what didst thou say?" "I said nothing; I did not answer him. I went into the house and shut the door." "That was the most unkind thing thou couldst have done. It was worse than telling tales." "I will be kinder next time," cried Fritz with a sudden spirit; "I will tell him everything." "Thou hast nothing to tell," screamed Evelina down the staircase. "Ha, ha!" laughed Fritz; "ask the looking-glass,--it sees more of thee than any one else." "Little villain! he shall not see much more of us," said Evelina angrily, as she shut the door and came back into the room. "The children at Gützberg would not dare to speak to me like that; they have better manners.--Wilt thou have thy dinner now?" she added more quietly, as she caught the look of weary pain and deep distress on Violet's face. "No, thank you; I could not eat, I am so tired; please let me go back to bed." Evelina undressed the child in silence; she was not cross, but her cheeks burned and she seemed engrossed in her own thoughts. Violet was not long in bed before she fell asleep. She was very tired, and she slept heavily. When she woke again the afternoon was almost spent and the room was empty. She raised herself a little on her pillows and looked about her. The door of the inner room was slightly ajar, and she leaned forward to see if any one was there. She could just catch a glimpse of Evelina's figure. She was standing opposite the mirror and was trying something on her head. "It is mother's hat," gasped Violet; "I see the blue ribbons." At this moment Evelina turned round quickly, and catching a glimpse of the child's face, she shut the door with a snap. CHAPTER XIX. A BRIGHT PROSPECT. It seemed to Violet, as the long autumn days went by, and she sat in the old place in the window, that the town was changed. All the people who went by in the street were dressed in black; very few smiled as they looked up at her, though they kissed their hands as usual and nodded their heads. The basket-bell seldom rang now; and, worst of all, Fritz never came to see her. It was not that Evelina had carried her threat into execution; but, alas! Fritz had got the hooping-cough, and the doctor had forbidden him to enter Violet's house. It would be fatal to the child, he said, to catch such an illness; and one must remember not only her weakness, but also the great love of poor John away at the war, who was ever, day and night, thinking of his darling, and wondering whether God would spare her to him until his return. So the days dragged on somewhat heavily, and Violet grew very weary. No air seemed to come down from the hill far away. The little children who went on expeditions to gather nuts were nearly all dressed in black, and they did not come back singing and dancing as they used to do. Evelina once brought in an apronful of nuts and poured them into Violet's lap; and Ella, too, came bouncing in one afternoon with an old cap of Fritz's full to the brim with the choicest hazels; but Violet had no fancy for them, though she kissed Ella and thanked Evelina for remembering her. "When father comes home," she said to Ella, "then he will take me in my carriage to the hill, first to see mother, and then all the way up the hill; the nuts will not be gone by that time?" she said questioningly. "I will take thee out to-morrow to the hill, if thou choosest," said Evelina, looking round towards the corner of the room where the carriage stood covered over by a rug; "it would brighten thee up a bit, and Miss Ella could come too if she liked." "Yes, yes!" cried Ella, jumping about wildly and flinging her arms around Violet's neck. "Come, come, come, come to-morrow and gather nuts with Ella!" "I should like to go with father first," said Violet nervously, for the temptation was great; "and my back aches so, I should be frightened." "Thy back will not ache less for waiting," observed Evelina shortly. "No, not one bit less," urged Ella with the broadest smile of satisfaction on her face. "And as to waiting for thy father," continued Evelina, "goodness knows when he will be back again; the leaves and nuts and all may be off the trees before the war is over." "Yes; leaves and nuts and all," echoed Ella; "and mother says perhaps the snow will be on the ground before our soldiers come home, and battles and battles and battles. And do you know they tumble all the dead horses into great big holes--fifteen great horses into one hole; and one great enormous shell which a man shot out of a gun, it first went through a house, and then it went through a garden, and then it went through a wall, and then it went through a woman who was baking a cake, and at last it went through a steeple, and down tumbled the whole church, and every one was killed; and was not that a grand shot, Violet?" Ella spread out her arms triumphantly and laughed in concert with Evelina, who shrieked in the corner. "The policeman said it was not one bit true; but he is a mouldy old fellow," cried Ella excitedly; "he was never in no battles, only marching up and down and up and down. He gave me a flower for thee, Violet, yesterday, and as I was standing in the street it fell in the gutter, and the water carried it off in one moment under the stones." "A flower? for me?" "Yes; he had it in his hand, and he said, 'Give this to my little friend in the window up there;' and while I was looking ever so high up trying to see thee, down fell the flower in the water, and away it goes. But what harm? it was only a little violet," cried Ella, drawing close to Violet with eyes full of a great mystery. "What is it?" "Fritz found it out himself the other day and showed it to me and to mother." "What?" again asked Violet, her eyes gazing eagerly into the little face before her. "Violets have got humps on their backs; and thou--thou--art a violet too, and thou hast a hump on thy back; and is not that funny?" "Hush!" cried Evelina, catching Ella by the skirt of her dress and trying to draw her back from Violet's chair; "such talk is not allowed in this room." "Oh yes, let her tell me; I love to hear what Fritz says about the violets." "What a strange child she is!" cried Evelina to herself as she let go the skirt. "Go on," said Violet anxiously; "what more did Fritz say?" "He had seven violets in his hand. He spread them all out on the table and counted them, for he had sent me with a whole penny to the shop, and only got back seven flowers. The woman had no flowers in her shop, only lovely yellow wreaths with writing on them to hang on dead people's graves; and when I brought one back to Fritz he was mad angry, and said he would not send thee over such a thing for all the world. He called me a blockhead, and said thy father was not dead, but quite alive and well, and it was no use; and so the woman gave the violets." "Yes," said Violet somewhat faintly. "And Fritz was so angry. He spread them all out on the table, and was going to chop off all their heads with a knife, when he found out about the humps; and then he called mother up from the bakery and showed them to her." "And what did she say?" asked Violet, deeply interested in Ella's recital. "Fritz asked was that why they called thee Violet, because thou also hast a hump? and mother said, 'Hush, foolish boy.' Violet was like a little angel when she was born, and soon she would be an angel again. And then Fritz got his penknife and cut open all the humps, to see what was in them; and there wasn't anything to see, only things all folded up, and quite shining." "Ah," murmured Violet faintly. "And then Fritz gave a great cough, and away flew all the violets off the table--heads and tails, and humps and all; and mother had to hold Fritz by both the hands, for he coughed as if his head would have fallen off too." Ella laughed heartily at the recollection, and letting go Violet's dress clambered up into the window, where, kneeling on the window-sill, she seized upon some of the wooden animals ranged along the ledges, and began with infinite pains to make the camel try to kiss the elephant. "Only I don't know where the elephant keeps his mouth," she said plaintively. By-and-by she ceased playing and fell to singing, her round face pressed against the window-frame, and her eyes looking out towards the hill. Evelina put down her knitting and listened. The child had the sweetest voice in all Edelsheim--clear, fresh, and true. She sang unconsciously a hymn about green pastures and lambs who followed their Shepherd by the side of still waters, and whom, when weary, he carried in his bosom tenderly and full of care. Evelina looked across at Violet to express her admiration and amazement at the beauty and pathos of the child's voice; but Violet did not see her, for her eyes were fixed on the little cap beside her filled with the fresh hazel-nuts, with their pale green leaves, and rich with the odour of the trees which grew on the hill yonder still hanging about them. A great longing was beginning to fill her soul--to go out like all the other children and see the woods and the squirrels and the boughs laden with their fruit; to see the cattle and the fields and the little waterfall close by the road, at the foot of which Fritz had told her one could always find lovely damp moss with leaves which looked like trees. She had some of these leaves put away in mother's Bible, and she would like to see them and gather them for herself. And now so deep was her reverie that she did not even notice Ella's descent from the window-sill, and was scarcely conscious of the parting kiss, given in some haste as Fritz had signalled to Ella to return home at once, and had held out to her view a tempting cake full of currants, and covered over with pink sugar. When Ella was gone Evelina rose up to prepare the dinner; but her attention was once more drawn to the child's deep reverie, and to the earnest gaze fixed so immovably upon the cap full of green nuts which rested on her knees. "Well, Violet, what art thou thinking of, with thy great big eyes so wide open?" she asked, turning round with the wooden bread-plate in her hand. "Art thou searching for a wood-fairy amongst the leaves?" "No; I was thinking." "Thinking of what?" "I was thinking of the hill, and of the carriage father made for me, and of what thou wert saying a few minutes ago about--about--about going to the hill." "Yes, certainly; why not? We will put thee in thy carriage after dinner, and away we shall go all the way up the hill; and we shall have rare fun. I shall send across after dinner for Miss Ella, and she shall push and I will pull; and then, when we are there, we can pack all the nuts into the foot of the carriage, and then we will cover thee all over with boughs, and every one will say as we return, 'Oh, look at our little Violet hidden among the sweet green leaves.'" Evelina was in her best mood to-day; and, besides, when she looked into the child's eyes she always felt a stirring in her heart, like the good seed trying to thrust itself up amongst the tares and follies of her vain and wavering nature. Violet could not eat much of the dinner Evelina had got ready for her, though it was hot and tempting enough. Evelina had a taste for cookery, and the meals were always well and skilfully prepared. To-day her mind was too disturbed to be conscious almost of what she was eating. This expedition to the hill was full of an excitement which choked and stifled her. To be out in the fresh air, to hear the birds sing, to see the trees waving, to watch the children gathering nuts; perhaps they even might hold down some of the boughs close enough to her carriage, so that she might gather some herself! And then only to think what a letter she could write to her father! how rejoiced he would be to think that his carriage had been used at last, and that the expedition to the hill had been such a happy one. Evelina ate her own dinner very happily, and tried to induce Violet to do the same. She laughed and chatted, and was herself quite elated at the thought of the expedition. The little girl grew more and more excited as Evelina described all the things they would see and all the people they would meet. Her eyes glowed and her cheeks burned, and when the dinner was over she watched with an ever-increasing anxiety the preparations which Evelina began to make for their expedition. The carriage was drawn out from its covering; the cushions were dusted; pillows with clean frilled covers over them were placed carefully on the cushions to support Violet's back and shoulders. Then on the rail at the back was hung a basket for the nuts; and on the foot Evelina threw a scarlet shawl of her own, which gave a bright and glowing finish to it all. "Evelina, thou art too kind," cried Violet, stretching out her arms suddenly. "I will tell father--I will tell everybody--how good thou art to me." Evelina returned the child's embrace warmly, blushing a little as she did so. "Ah, if so, thou wilt be better than Master Fritz yonder," she cried, looking quickly across at the house opposite. "A nice character he gave of me to the policeman, who will not so much as look at me now if I meet him in the street. But what do I care?--not one hazel-nut for him or his long sallow face, the old stick-in-the-mud. He asks every one as many questions about thee as if he were thy father." "He is my friend," said Violet nervously, as she heard the thrill of anger in Evelina's tones. "Bah! I suppose because he walks up and down the street, and kisses hands to thee now and again as he goes by, he reckons himself thy friend--much more of a friend than those who take care of thee all day and all night. But what is the use of talking? It is not of him we are thinking, but of the lovely ride we are going to have to-day to the woods. Let me see now;--where is thy hat? and thou wilt want some little coat, I suppose, to put over thy dress." "I have no hat," replied Violet, looking up with suddenly clouded eyes--"no hat, and no coat." "How is that?--neither hat nor coat?" "Father said he would buy me a hat and cloak when he took me out in my carriage; but he is not here now. O Evelina, cannot I go in the carriage as Ella often goes in Fritz's wooden cart? Or Ella, perhaps, would lend me a hat. Do go across if thou canst find me one somewhere." It seemed to Violet as if some great impediment had suddenly started up in the path of her promised happiness. "I need not go to trouble Madam Adler about hats. I could put something better on thy head than anything she could lend thee," said Evelina with a little laugh. "Why, a beggar child in Edelsheim would not pick Miss Ella's hat out of the gutter." Violet did not hear this remark about Edelsheim or her little friend Ella. A thought had suddenly come into her head, and she was struggling with herself how best she could make it known to her companion. "Evelina!" "Well, what is it? I suppose thou art too grand to wear one of my hats?" "No, no; but I have thought of something. I would like to wear mother's hat, which is in the box." "What! the splendid Leghorn with the blue silk ribbons? Impossible." "Why?" asked Violet, colouring violently as she met the astonished eyes of Evelina. "It has forget-me-nots on it, and I would love to wear it--oh, this one day. Do not shake thy head so, Evelina. Father said that by-and-by, when I was big, I might wear it." "Thy father, of course, can give thee leave to do what he likes when he is here; but to wear such a hat to go to the hill, the very thought of it is ridiculous." "But mother would love me to wear it. She gave me always what I asked for," pleaded Violet with tear-choked earnestness. "And that is just why thou art such a little spoiled brat, who must have everything thine own way. Then let us talk no more about it. The hat would be destroyed if it were crushed up against the pillows, the brim would be broken; and the dust and leaves and dirt off the trees would ruin the trimming. Wait some day until I take thee to church, and then--" "To church!" cried Violet, stretching out her hands suddenly, and uttering a cry of joy. "Yes, yes; why not? We can draw thee there some day in the carriage, and I can carry thee inside in my arms." "And I shall see where mother is asleep. Is it not so, Evelina?" "Yes, yes. Now dry up thy tears, and think of the nuts and the trees, and all the fun we are going to have." Violet drew a deep sigh of relief, and turned her eyes once more towards the carriage. Her heart was too full for any words as she wiped the tears off her cheeks and pinafore, and gazed with interest at Evelina, who, having finished setting the room in order, began to prepare herself for the expedition by putting a little muslin tippet on her shoulders, tied up with blue bows; and the daintiest white frilled cap upon her head, which sat just far enough back to show the pretty golden curls which clustered round her forehead coaxingly. "Now, little lovebird," she said, turning with her pleasantest smile towards the sick child, whose eyes, she could see, were following all her movements with an almost ardent admiration,--"now I am off to look for a little hat for thyself. I saw one in a shop yesterday, just beside the flower-shop, and it is just the very thing for thee. It is made of brown straw, shady, and yet not too large. I shall not be a moment away." "Thou art too good, Evelina," cried Violet eagerly. "And if thou seest the policeman tell him that I am going out to-day in my carriage. He will be glad, I know, to hear that, for he is my friend; and I will say to him how good thou art to me." "Yes, yes," shouted Evelina, turning briskly down the stairs; "if I see him I shall tell him." And Violet, leaning back in her chair, folded her arms on her lap and looked across at the top of the green hill, in whose cool shadows she hoped so soon to be resting. Evelina was not very long away. She returned blushing and smiling with a pretty brown hat in her hand having a wreath of yellow buttercups twisted round its crown. "There, darling," she cried, placing it on Violet's head, "is not that lovely? The woman in the shop nearly wept for joy when she heard it was for thee; and she chose this wreath for thee herself. She actually refused to take any money for it, not a penny, though I said if thy father were at home he would insist on paying her. 'Ah, that is another thing,' she said, pinning the flowers round the hat so tastefully. 'I would accept twenty shillings this moment to know he were safe at home.' Was not that good of her?" asked Evelina, tilting the hat a little back on Violet's head. "We must not quite cover up thy face for all that, my angel," she added laughing, "or what would the old policeman say?" "The policeman!" cried Violet eagerly; "why, didst thou see him?" "Ah, now indeed I have some news for thee. I met him just at the corner by the flower-shop, and told him all about that promised drive to the hill this afternoon; and what dost thou think? He said if we could wait a while, until his duty was over, he would come with us there himself, and that he would rather draw thee one mile in thy little cart than the king himself in his state coach. I laughed at the old silly. As if he could draw the king one step, let alone the heavy state coach! But he is, after all, a good soul, for he nearly wept with joy at the news that thou wert going out, and asked so many questions about the carriage and the cushions that I thought I should never get home. So now I have been across and told little Ella that we shall not be ready just yet awhile; and her mother is delighted at the delay, for the child had just spilt a whole bottle of ink over her dress and pinafore and stockings, and she will require time to make her neat again. She had been crying, too, poor little wretch! for her eyes were sticking out like crabs' eyes; and Fritz had her on his knee, and was cramming bon-bons into her mouth." "Good old Fritz," said Violet softly. "Oh, good indeed! thou shouldst have heard all he said, and the names he called me; because why? he thinks thou shouldst not go to the hill without him. But his mother told him that was folly, as the summer would be over before he had done coughing. And then he talked a lot of rubbish about the doctor, and asking his leave; but bah! who listens to such a chattering magpie?" "Poor Fritz! father promised him that he should be the first to draw me in the carriage to the hill," said Violet, half speaking to herself; but Evelina, who had grown angry, caught the words, and said quickly,-- "Very good. Let Fritz be the first to draw thee to the hill! the policeman and I can well afford to wait for such an honour." Then seeing that the child had quite failed to take in the meaning of her cutting words, she added in a more kindly tone,-- "See now, it wants nearly two hours to the time when the policeman can come here, and--" "Two hours!" interrupted Violet, with almost a cry of disappointment. "Yes, two hours; and so much the better for thee, for now the sun is so hot it would just bake thee into a little pie. There was a child yesterday, Master Fritz said, who went to the hill and got such a headache from standing in a cornfield beside the river that last night they thought it was going to die." "Oh," said Violet thoughtfully;--she was thinking of the story in the Bible which Fritz had told her one time long ago. "And is it well now, Evelina?" "I do not know; I did not ask. The policeman can tell thee. He is not such a bad old fellow, after all. He is going to bring out cakes, and strawberries and cream, and a kettle, and I don't know what else, and we are to have tea under the trees. Is not that lovely?" "Lovely! too, too lovely!" replied Violet, her eyes kindling with a speechless joy. "And perhaps, Evelina, I shall hear the nightingales singing in the woods. Mother used to walk down there with father in the evenings long ago to listen, and once she had me in her arms--father told me so; but then I was only a very small baby. And shall I see glow-worms, too, and those little mice which have wings?" "Yes, yes, everything," replied Evelina, who was busy buttoning on a pair of very dainty boots: "we shall have a delicious evening, that is certain. And I would have thee go asleep now and think no more about it, and when thou awakest the two hours will be gone, and we shall lift thee straight away into thy carriage, and then hurrah for the hill! Why, thou wilt feel just like a bird escaped from its cage; and when once thou hast stretched thy wings and flown to the woods, I reckon we shall have pretty hard work to keep thee in the house any longer." "My wings!" echoed Violet in a tone of such concentrated interest that Evelina looked up startled and astonished; "when shall I have wings?" "Little goose," replied the girl, turning away her head suddenly from the sight of those pleading eyes; "how can I tell thee? Perhaps we shall cheat thee after all of thy wings, when we get thee out into the fresh air and the fields; and then what will thy father think when he comes home?" "I do not understand what thou meanest," said Violet plaintively. "Never mind what I mean: wings are all very well, no doubt, for birds and things that cannot walk; but fine fat arms and legs are better still. Ah, thou shouldest see thy cousins at Gützberg; they are something like children. I would not drag one of those fat things to the hill in thy carriage, not for all thou couldst give me." "But thou rememberest the little sick girl in the book, dost thou not, Evelina?" asked Violet, puzzled and anxious. "In what book?" Violet placed her hand on the spotted cover beside her on the table. "The picture is in mother's Bible," she said softly. "Oh yes, to be sure, I remember all about it; but we need not think about such sad things to-day. Go to sleep now, and I will draw this blind down beside thee and darken the room a bit." As Evelina stretched up her arms to reach the tassel of the narrow blind beside Violet's chair she caught her by her apron and said earnestly,-- "But thou, Evelina, thou believest that I shall have wings?" "Of course I do." "And will it be soon?" "Oh, how can I tell? before the winter, I daresay." "Before the winter?" repeated Violet reflectively; "that is not long to wait." "What a strange child thou art!" cried Evelina, putting her arms suddenly round Violet's neck and kissing her; "why art thou in such a hurry to leave us all? Is not Evelina good to thee?" "Oh yes, too good; only my back aches so, and the wings are so long coming." Evelina looked at the little white face turned up to her so wistfully, and said in her softest voice, "Pray to God, darling, for thy wings. He can give them to thee when he likes." "Yes, I do pray every day, and Fritz too; and thou, Evelina, thou also wilt ask God every morning and every evening when thou sayest thy prayers, wilt thou not?" Evelina suddenly flushed scarlet and turned away her face from the earnest pleading eyes. "Wilt thou not, Evelina?" "Yes, yes, of course; only do not let us talk any more about wings. Thou wilt be too tired for thy drive. Lie back on thy pillows now and dream of strawberries and cream, and thy friend the old policeman sitting with thee under the trees on the hill, and all the care he will take of thee, and of the long letter we must write by-and-by to thy father of all we have seen and done." CHAPTER XX. ALL ALONE. It was the sound of a cannon fired from the fort just across the river that woke Violet from the sleep into which she had fallen, and in which she had lain now peacefully resting for the last two hours. She did not often sleep so heavily in the day-time, but this afternoon she had been so excited and restless that her little body had felt quite worn out, and she had scarcely lain back on her pillows before a most delicious sleep had overtaken her. She had dreamt, too, such a lovely dream: a dream that she was out gathering flowers in a wide meadow at the foot of the hill--beautiful blue forget-me-nots and the yellow narcissus; and that morning, beside her and holding her hand, all dressed in white, with beautiful silver wings, was another child whom she seemed to know at once to be the little girl the doctor had told her of, who in the spring time, when the flowers were starting up and the larks were beginning to sing, had suddenly escaped, like a bird from its cage, and spreading her wings had flown right up to God. But now, in the dream, she was in the meadow with Violet, holding her hand and leading her along, and pointing out to her the beautiful flowers which were growing here and there through the grass. And Violet wondered even in her dream how it was that she had no pain in her shoulders, and that her feet seemed to carry her along so easily and swiftly over the meadows--sometimes, indeed, they did not seem to touch the ground at all, but only to skim over the heads of the tall grasses; and a delicious breeze was blowing down from the hill and wafting her along towards the spot where the forget-me-nots grew thickest, and where the sweet-scented jonquils stood up so pure and white in their beauty. And while she was stooping and gathering the blue flowers which she loved the best, she thought she heard a voice calling to her a long way off down the meadow--a very gentle voice, which at first sounded as if Aunt Lizzie were calling to her; but the little girl touched her on the shoulder and said,-- "Violet, dost thou not hear thy mother calling to thee?" "My mother! where?" and then remembering suddenly that her mother was dead, she said very sadly, "It cannot be my mother, for she is not here any longer; she is up in heaven with the angels, and I cannot go to her until God has given me wings." "Ah, dost thou not know that this is heaven, and that thou hast wings?" Then Violet, looking up suddenly, saw that the air was full of shining figures flitting to and fro across the sky; and there was a shining hill on which stood a great white throne, and on the steps of the throne the Lord Jesus was standing with a little lamb in his arms; and Violet suddenly felt herself rising up into the air like the angels, and soon she was flying swiftly across the meadow in the direction of the throne, flying, flying ever faster, that she might meet the good Lord Jesus whom she loved so much, and see the lamb that he had folded so closely to his breast. At last she came to the foot of the shining steps, and the good Lord Jesus was standing there waiting for her with a smile on his face; and she said to him very softly, "Dear Lord Jesus, show me the little lamb whom thou art carrying in thy bosom." And the Lord Jesus answered her, in a low, sweet voice, "Dost thou not know this is the little Violet from Edelsheim? She has fallen asleep, and I am going to lay her in her mother's arms." And Violet saw then that it was a little sick maiden that he carried so lovingly; and she stretched up that she might see the little girl's face. And when she did see it, it was quite white, and there were tears upon the cheeks, though the eyes were closed. But even while she was looking at it wonderingly, the Lord Jesus stooped down and kissed the child on the forehead; and she heard him say in a low voice, as he leaned over her, "No more tears." Then Violet remembered that she had heard those words somewhere before, and she stirred in her sleep, and stretched out her hand towards the table on which lay her mother's Bible, and the book with the spotted cover. But before she could find them, she awoke with a sudden start and a scream, for, from the fort across the river one of the great cannon had been fired off, and which always shook the town from end to end; and the window-frames were still rattling, and the Noah's ark animals falling down over the cushions beside her, when she awoke. "What is that?" she cried, hastily clutching at the rails of her chair to draw herself up from her pillows. "Evelina, what was that dreadful noise?" Either Evelina was not in the room or the noise had deafened her, for she did not answer Violet's question; and before she could speak again or look round, there was another roar of cannon from the fort, and once more the window-frames rattled and the animals fell pell-mell upon the cushioned window-seat beneath. "Evelina! Evelina! where art thou? why dost thou not answer?" cried Violet, who, suddenly aroused from a delicious dream of rest and peace, had scarcely yet realized either where she was or what was going on. She sat up now, and gazed around the room with a flushed face and anxious eyes; but no Evelina was there, though the carriage was still drawn out in the middle of the room, and the new brown hat was lying on the coverlet; and gradually Violet remembered that this was the afternoon that she was to have tea with the policeman and Ella under the trees on the hill. But surely the afternoon must be almost over now, for the evening shadows were already creeping into the room; and the pigeons were clustering on the window-sill beside her, looking for their usual meal, as they always did ere they went to roost. "Evelina, where art thou?" she cried once more, as she gazed at the door leading into the little room which once had been her mother's long ago; but no answer came from there either, only another dreadful roar from the cannon, which put all the pigeons to flight, and pitched Noah's wife headlong on the carpet. Violet had often heard them firing from the fort before, so, after the first three or four great bangs, it did not frighten her so much, only it made her head ache; but presently, leaning a little forward and looking through the window opposite her chair, she saw now that some great event must have happened, for people were racing down the street eagerly, and some were waving their hats, and some had on no hats at all, while, far off in the distance, she could hear a great sound of voices like a deafening cheer of joy. Again the cannon roared, and again there came the same hoarse shout, which seemed to come from somewhere down near the barracks. And now the people in the street were shouting also as they ran along; and so eager and breathless was their race, that when a woman stumbled and fell on the pathway no one turned to lift her up, or to notice the white face which for many minutes afterwards remained turned up motionless towards the sky. At last another woman, dressed in black, came out of a shop opposite, with a cup of water in her hand: she waited until the street was pretty clear, and then, crossing over, she put the cup to the woman's lips and helped to raise her up. Violet could hear the woman's voice speaking comfortingly to her companion, for the narrow casement which formed part of the great window looking over the street was open, and through it a soft breeze was coming in, which blew straight from the hill; and by-and-by, when the woman who had fainted was able to walk, she saw the other lead her across the street, and she distinctly heard her say, "Ah, is not this good news for the town? Now in Edelsheim we shall have no more tears." "No more tears!" They were the same words that Violet had just heard in her dream. She listened eagerly if she could hear more; but the woman had evidently gone into the little toy-shop close by, and another roar from the cannon set her trembling again, and her heart beat wildly against her little purple frock as she heard again--and this time nearer than before--a deafening shout of men and women's voices rising high upon the evening air. "Evelina! Evelina!" she cried, striving with trembling lips to make her voice heard above the din and uproar, "come, come to Violet. Will no one come to Violet?" But it was quite useless to call or cry out "Evelina." The girl had evidently gone out, and though tears of fear and disappointment streamed from Violet's eyes, and poured down over her little flushed cheeks, no one came to wipe them away or to comfort her. The cannon, too, roared louder and faster than ever; and all at once the great church bell at the foot of the street began to ring, and clanged out great strokes which set the whole air trembling, so that Violet thought even the blue sky over the house-tops was shaking with the din. But soon this blue sky began to change to a pale green, and then golden streaks came across it; and presently again broad bands of red, and all the green hill seemed on fire, till at last the great red sun dropped down behind it, and a gray light stole over all; and still Violet sat all alone in the window, while every church bell in the town was jangling, and the roar of voices came up hoarsely from the public gardens down by the barracks. She could not see across the street to the Adlers' house, for the blind which Evelina had drawn down beside her chair hid their windows from her sight, and there was no one stirring outside who could hear her cry, for the rush of the people towards the market-place was over, and the street had become utterly silent and deserted. As the darkness crept on, a dreadful fear came over the child's mind that she was going to be left alone in the room all the night--that Evelina had perhaps gone back to Gützberg, or that some accident had happened to her in the street. The corners of the room were growing dusky, and there were sounds of mice nibbling in the cupboard beside her. The bells in the town ceased ringing, and a dreadful silence seemed to fall over everything. Presently one of the mice stole out of the cupboard, and passing close to the foot of Violet's chair, climbed up the cord of the canary bird's cage, and squeezing itself in through the bars, disappeared in a twinkling. Even the lantern man had forgotten to come and light the lamp outside her window; and the pigeons had reluctantly deserted their posts on the sill outside, and retired to roost without their evening meal. "If only I could get out of this chair; if only I could walk; if only some one would come and open the door." And poor Violet moved restlessly to and fro in her chair, and craned her neck to see beyond the strip of narrow blind which hid the opposite house from her view. The window which looked across to the hill lay wide open, and every now and then a breeze came rushing in, which blew her hair softly about her face and refreshed her; but the hill itself lay now like a great black heap against the evening sky. No friendly moon was up, to frost the branches of the distant trees with silvery light, and only a few faint stars twinkled now and again through the gathering darkness. Presently she grew quite desperate, and strove in the foolishness of her fear to free herself from the bands which held her fast in her chair. She clutched at the blind, and tried to drag it down; and she called aloud frantically to Madam Adler, to Evelina, to Ella, to any one, to come and help her. But no one answered her, and she sank back, tired out, on the pillows behind her. Then some one in a neighbouring house began to sing, and she felt comforted. The first note of a human voice, which sounded not so far off, gave her some confidence, and she dragged herself up painfully and listened. It was a song which she had heard before, but at first she could not remember the words. The air was intensely sad, for Evelina had sung it one night when Violet was lying awake in her bed, and she remembered that she had put her fingers in her ears that she might not hear the words; but now, with a strange eagerness, she leaned forward. The woman was singing with all her heart. She scarcely touched the notes of the old piano on which she was accompanying herself; and by-and-by the words came out with a cruel clearness upon the evening air. Violet knew now who it was. It was the woman who kept the little toy-shop a few doors off, and whose husband, Ella told her, had been killed in the war. She had a little spinet, not very musical, on which Violet had often heard her play in the pleasant spring evenings before the war began; but, until this evening, the spinet had been silent for many a long day, and the woman's voice had been silent too. To-night it seemed as if she must cry out to some one,-- "My love is dead, and I am left alone." Violet listened so earnestly to the words, she was so anxious not to lose one of them, that for a time she forgot her own sorrows, and only thought of the poor woman who was never to see her husband any more, and whose heart seemed so terribly sad in that house only a few doors off. But presently the mouse plumped down out of the cage overhead almost upon her very knees, and startled her so that she screamed aloud; indeed she screamed several times, and clutched once more at the window-blind to try and drag it aside. And then she paused, for she fancied she had heard a step in the street beneath; and by-and-by she was sure there was a footstep slowly and stealthily creeping up the stairs towards the door of her room. But no one knocked or asked permission to enter; only there was a slight rustling against the wood, as if some one were waiting and listening outside. Violet, whose heart had leaped up with joy at the first sound of a human step, now felt terrified. A sudden sickness came over her; the wind from the hill blew in chilly through the window, and seemed to pass over her forehead in waves of ice. Her hands grew damp and cold; and the voice outside, singing in its pain "so quite alone," appeared to her to come from miles away and in a kind of curious dream. She fancied that it was the little girl in the book with the spotted cover who was sitting in a window somewhere "so quite alone," and crying out to the Lord Jesus across the roofs and the distant steeple. But in a moment, and before she had time to reason out this thought or to wonder whether she was awake or dreaming, there was a crash--a loud crackling as if all the houses in Edelsheim were falling to pieces; and as Violet, completely startled out of her faintness, sat up and looked out of the window, it appeared to her that the gray clouds over the hill had suddenly split open, and that hundreds of fairy snakes were rushing up with a swift fury through the sky. This was immediately succeeded by the same loud sound of voices which she had heard so often through the evening; and then in a moment the fairy snakes were gone, and the sky was full of pale red and green stars falling softly in a shower of beauty to the earth. "Evelina!" she cried once more, in a piteous entreaty, full of the agony of fear, "Evelina! where art thou?" There was a knock at the door now; and Violet, forgetful, in her new terror, of the step she had heard a moment ago on the stairs, cried out eagerly, "Come in." The door opened. Her eyes were still full of the red and green stars which she had seen falling outside over the dark outline of the hill, so for a moment she was dazzled, and could not see who had entered; but all at once, as the figure drew quite close to her chair, she called out loudly and lovingly, "My friend! my friend!" and threw her arms round the neck of the old policeman. "Ah, thou art frightened, little maiden," he said softly; "and quite alone," he added, looking keenly around the room as he knelt down beside her chair and took the two icy hands in his. The action and the tenderness of the touch brought back for a moment the thought of her father. "Yes, oh so frightened," she said, "and so lonely;" and she laid her head wearily against the shoulder of her protector. "It was so good of thee to come." Then suddenly she turned her face inwards against his cloak, for once again there came that fearful crackling noise down by the hill, and hundreds of fiery snakes again rushed upwards athwart the dark gray sky. "There, there! little darling, sweetest child! thou must not be so afraid; there is nothing to frighten one, only splendid fireworks which the people in the town are sending up to show their joy." "Fireworks! and are they only fireworks?" gasped Violet, still keeping her face pressed in close to the old man's heart; "and thou art sure that they are only fireworks?" "Yes; look out now and see how lovely they are. Blue and yellow and red stars are falling to the ground." "I do not like to look, it makes my heart go so fast." There was no need to tell him that fact, for the little fluttering heart was beating at that moment with terrifying speed against his bosom; so he rose up and drew down the blind across the window, and then he returned quietly to the chair and placed his arm tenderly around the little trembling figure. "And hast thou been long alone, poor little maiden?" he asked softly, as he lifted the damp hair off her forehead and stroked her cheek. "Yes, a long time," she sighed. "Where is thy maid?" "I do not know. I awoke, and she was not here. It was quite bright daylight--oh, such long hours ago. And I was to go in the carriage father made for me to the hill, and Ella too, and--" Violet paused and hesitated, and a burning blush covered all her face. She had remembered suddenly about the tea under the trees on the hill, and that the old policeman was to have been there too. "Well," he said curiously, as she paused and hesitated. "Then I awoke, and all the people were running screaming down the street, and the bells made such a noise, and I was frightened." "And no one was here to tell the good news?" "What good news?" "Ah, now I have something to gladden thy poor little heart with--great news. There has been a great victory for us. The war, people think, is over; and soon all our loved ones may come home to us again." "My father?" cried Violet, sitting suddenly upright in her chair and gazing into the policeman's face with eyes which, even in the gloom of the shaded room, shone with a more wonderful light than the violet stars which were falling again in a shower of beauty on the hill outside. "Yes, thy father, dearest maiden; he will soon be home: and that is why the people ran so fast in the street this afternoon, and why they are so noisy now, sending up rockets and making such a riot, screaming and shouting." "How soon?" asked Violet in a scarcely audible voice, for the sick faintness she had felt before was returning. "Ah, that I have not heard; but if all be true it cannot be very long--a month or so at most." Violet sighed unconsciously. "I am so--so tired," she said, almost under her breath. "Poor little maiden! it is weary work waiting." "When the lambs are very tired, and cannot walk any more, the Lord Jesus lifts them in his arms and carries them, does he not?" she said dreamily. "Yes, yes, of course." "And dost thou know, my friend, that I saw that lamb's face, and it was Violet's; and the Lord Jesus was going to put her into her mother's arms to rest herself." "When? where?" asked the policeman, growing frightened at the words which the child was so slowly uttering; and even in the darkness he could see the strange paleness of the little face. "In the meadow with the other little girl." "What little girl?" "The little one who sent me this watch. She was a very sick little girl like me--oh, so sick the doctor said; but she flew up in the spring with the flowers and the larks to heaven, and she--" At this moment a loud clattering on the stairs outside made itself heard over everything, and the door of the room burst open with a startling haste. It was Ella, breathless and panting loudly, who, rushing blindly forward in the darkness, first fell over the handle of the carriage which stood in the middle of the room ready for its first journey, and then over a low stool by the stove. She recovered herself quickly, however, and made for the corner where the dim outline of Violet's head was visible against the holland blind. "Violet, hast thou heard the news? Evelina has stopped to buy thee a cake at the shop, so I ran on ever so fast to tell it to thee first. There is a great battle which is all over, and we have a great victory and lots and lots of people killed, and a whole town tumbled down, and the man with the big nose, the grand emperor we saw in the picture, is all beaten into little pieces, and had to give up his sword to our king, and he will soon be put in prison; is not that splendid? And they sent up fire into the sky and frightened Ella, and lots of it tumbled down again, and stars and blue things; and a great red-hot stick, fell on the shoulders of the orange-girl and made her give such a hop and a scream. And--and--who is that sitting in the window beside thee?" Ella paused, her breath almost gone, and not a little frightened at the strange figure sitting wrapped in a cloak beside Violet's chair. "Will Evelina soon be here?" asked Violet plaintively; for the noise and the fuss were overpowering her. "Yes; Evelina is here," replied a voice at the door. "Ah, poor little maiden! all in the dark. But it is not my fault, as I will explain to thee. See, here is a lovely cake I have bought for thy supper. Thou wert so fast asleep I just slipped down a moment to hear the grand news, and then the crowd was so great one could not budge a foot. I thought a hundred times of thee and thy carriage, but we could never have dragged thee a foot through the throngs of people: and besides, that faithless old policeman never turned up, and I suppose forgot all about thee; but I will make him answer for it to-morrow," she added with a light laugh. "The policeman is here to answer for himself," said a voice coming out of the darkness; and between Evelina and the window there rose up a figure tall and dark, and to her eyes terrible to look at. "Oh! who is that?" she cried hastily. But no one replied to her question; only the figure in the window bent down low over the chair on which Violet sat, and said softly in her ear,-- "Dearest little maiden, the old policeman was not faithless; he did not forget thee, but he was sent for by his captain, and had to go to the gardens to keep order. Please God, to-morrow I will take thee to the hill. And now thou wilt say 'Good-night,' wilt thou not? and go to bed and rest, and dream of the good news of the home-coming, and the good father's joy to see his Violet once more. Good-night, little heart's love." Violet stretched up her arms and drew the kind grave face down to her. "Good-night, my friend," she said lovingly. "Ah, now I can hear thy watch ticking," he said in a hoarse whisper, "and it seems to say something to me." "What does it say?" "It says, 'Forget me not.'" "What?" said Violet, clutching eagerly at his coat; but he had stood up now and was fixing his helmet firmly on his head. Evelina, abashed and confounded, had moved noiselessly into the inner room, and Ella was gaping with open mouth at Violet's friend. "Good-night," he said once more, in a hoarse voice; "and to-morrow, if all be well, we shall have tea under the trees on the hill." "Yes, yes, yes," cried Ella joyfully, and forgetting her shyness she flung her fat arms around the knees of the advancing policeman; "and Ella may come too, may she not?" "Certainly; Miss Ella must come also. And now thou wilt take my hand, and I will leave thee at thy mother's house, for the little maiden in the chair is very tired, and she must sleep and rest.--Good-night," he cried once more as he reached the door and looked back. "Good-night," she replied with eagerness; and then in a low voice he heard her say softly, "Forget me not." CHAPTER XXI. A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. The next morning rose beautiful and bright and fair. The town was gay as gay could be; flags were hung from almost every window, and the hum of a great content seemed to fill the air. In Violet's room all was still. The carriage had been pushed back into the corner of the room, and the little girl was asleep. She had been sleeping nearly all the morning; indeed so profound was her repose that Evelina had grown nervous and summoned the doctor, whose carriage she had seen outside the toy-shop door. He came in quietly and stood beside the bed. The child's breathing was quick and regular, and her hand lay softly open upon the counterpane. "How long has she slept like this?" he asked in a low voice of Evelina, who stood with tearful eyes near the window. "Ever since last night when I put her to bed. It was the news of the victory, sir, which I think upset her." "Who told her of it?" "Little Ella, sir, Madam Adler's daughter." "Ah, of course, of course, children will talk; and she must have heard it some time or other. Has she spoken at all since morning?" "A few words, sir, but not much sense in them; about larks and flowers, and about wings--she is always rambling on to me about having wings." "She will soon have them," said the doctor shortly. "What!" said Violet, opening her eyes suddenly and looking up; "is that true? will Violet soon have wings?" "Yes, my poor little child, very soon." "Oh, how beautiful! how lovely!" she said with a sigh of the utmost content. Then turning her head suddenly, she said quickly, "Fritz, dost thou hear what the doctor says? Violet will soon have wings." Then she closed her eyes again and fell asleep. "We can do nothing for her," said the doctor, as he moved aside from the bed. "This stupor that she has fallen into is the result of the shock she received yesterday; for in her state good news is almost as disturbing in its results as bad. I think she may awake out of this sleep and be perhaps none the worse, but we cannot tell. God is very merciful, and the thread of her life is in his hands." "Yes, sir," said Evelina faintly. "Has she spoken at all to-day of her father?" "No, sir, not exactly; only once she said something about a great victory, and smiled a little." The doctor turned back and looked again at the quiet face on the pillow, and repeated in a low voice several times the words, "A great victory." "Yes, poor Violet! thy victory too is close at hand; and then cometh the peace which passeth all understanding." "I shall come again to-night," he said, as he turned away towards the door; "and meanwhile no one must enter this room to disturb her, nor must she be left alone for a moment. Remember, she has been intrusted to your care by her father, and to mine, and we are responsible for her." "Yes, sir; I shall watch her very carefully," replied Evelina humbly. When the doctor was gone, Evelina sat down on the chair by the stove and cried bitterly, for a miserable feeling of guilt was over her. The smile on Violet's face was more difficult for her to look at now than the wakeful restlessness of pain and weariness; indeed everything in the room seemed to reproach her this morning: the carriage standing in the corner; the little brown hat with its wreath of buttercups, which something in Evelina's heart told her would never be asked for again; the cake, which had not been tasted; the window-sill littered with the fallen animals which had been shaken from their usual resting-place by the firing of the cannon; and a kind of dull consciousness resting over all that the end was close at hand, and that the child lying so quietly on the bed yonder was, oh so near heaven;--and she--where was she? and what did she know of that peace which the doctor said passed all understanding? She stood up presently, and going over to the bed, opened the dead mother's Bible. Between the leaves lay the picture which Violet loved so much to look at. Evelina's eye fell on the centre plate, where the little girl was represented seated all alone in the garret-room, looking out over the roofs and the chimneys towards the far-off sky. "All alone," she murmured, reading the print beneath it; then turned on hastily, for it seemed to remind her painfully of her conduct yesterday. Presently she came on the lock of golden hair which Violet prized so highly, the long, glistening curl tied up with a knot of black ribbon, and she lifted it up carefully and looked at it with interest; then walking softly across to a little mirror which hung against the wall, she laid it against her own golden curls, and said under her breath, "Just the same colour." She put back the hair into the Bible; and then some other thought following quickly on the comparison, she went over to the trunk which stood beside Violet's bed, and, lifting the lid noiselessly, drew out once more from the corner the hat trimmed with the blue forget-me-nots, which she carried into her own room and presently closed the door. Meanwhile Violet, quite unconscious that her most precious possessions were being ruthlessly trifled with in the adjoining chamber, slept on quietly. She did not rouse up until quite late in the afternoon, when she saw Evelina sitting in the window-seat as usual, and knitting stockings for the Gützberg children. "I am going soon to see father," she said softly; but at the words, Evelina, who was in a reverie, started violently, and almost let the knitting slip from her fingers. "Aunt Lizzie will be glad when father comes home; will she not, Evelina?" "Yes, of course; every one will be glad." "And the children, the little cousins at Gützberg,--will not they too be delighted?" "Oh, they are too young to know such things." "But they will be watching all this time for thee to go back." "So thou art thinking already of sending me back to Gützberg?" "No, no," cried Violet, blushing hotly; "I do not want to send thee away, only Aunt Lizzie said she could spare thee a little while, and now it is so long since father went; and when he comes home he will take care of me all day long, and never be the least bit tired; and I will tell father how good thou hast been to me all this long time." "I had a letter from thy aunt this morning," said Evelina, turning away her face towards the window; "only a few lines. She is coming over here in a few days to see thee; and probably if thy father returns I shall go back with her. She sent thee her love, and she is making thee a little cloak to wear when thou goest out in thy carriage." "Ah, how good. I will wear it when father takes me out; that will not be long to wait." When the doctor came again in the evening, he was quite delighted with the brightness of the little face, and with the rare happy smile which was lighting up all its features. Violet chatted to him more naturally than she had done for many a long day. She showed him her carriage; and told him of the cloak Aunt Lizzie was making for her; and laughed when she said how the cannon-shot had thrown down Noah's wife and all the animals. "I may see Ella to-morrow, may I not?" she asked wistfully, as he moved towards the door. "Certainly; if she is not too noisy." "Oh, Ella is always good," she cried joyously; "and I am never lonely when she is here." Madam Adler, too, came across in the evening. Her heart was full of anger against Evelina for having deserted her charge the day before; but when she entered the room and found Violet sitting on Evelina's knee by the stove, with her arms round the girl's neck, who was singing to her, she thought the reprimand would be ill-timed, and she determined to wait for a better opportunity. CHAPTER XXII. A STARTLING MESSAGE. It was not many days before the town of Edelsheim awoke to the fact that the war was not over, and that though the French emperor was a prisoner, France seemed determined to fight to the bitter end. The gay flags which had been hung out of the windows so joyfully were now rolled up again and put aside, and the people went about their work with dejected faces, awaiting the dread tidings that their loved ones were ordered to march forward towards Paris, and fight the enemy there. But Violet knew nothing of all this. Secure in the certainty of her father's speedy return, she sat daily in the window watching. She very seldom spoke now; it seemed to tire her. But she smiled to herself much oftener than she had hitherto done, and waved her little thin hand to Fritz, who was ever on the watch in the house opposite; and constantly, in the warm autumn evenings, when the windows of both houses were open, he called across to her and told her his news. Violet smiled and nodded her head, but she had no strength to call back again, nor even to draw up the cord of the little basket into which Fritz was constantly dropping little gifts and scraps of paper, on which were printed in large letters messages of love and comfort:--"Fritz will soon be well enough to see Violet"--"Fritz is making a boat for Violet;" and once or twice, in a very closely-folded message, were the words, "Fritz is always asking God to make Violet well." But at last there came a message from Fritz which roused her for a time out of her lethargy, and set her heart beating wildly. It was a beautiful autumn evening; the town was rosy red in the sunset, and all the casements of the oriel window lay wide open. Violet, who had not spoken for several hours, was lying back on her pillows half sleeping, half waking, with her eyes dreamily fixed on the hill, which was wrapped in a soft purple mist. The canary bird was picking out the loose feathers from its wings in the cage overhead; and the old jackdaw on the opposite side of the street, for a wonder was at rest, with his head tucked under his wing. Fritz for a long time had been making signals to Violet from the high-up dormer window of the house; but her face had been turned away, and though her eyes were fixed on the far-off hill, she saw nothing but a waving meadow bright with flowers, over whose green fragrant grass she was passing with a delicious freedom, her feet not actually touching the ground, only here and there skimming over the cool meadow grass, while a refreshing air wafted her along without fatigue and without pain. She often had this fancy now, that she was floating along over the earth, that she was free from the ache in her back and the weary heaviness of her limbs; and this afternoon she was listening again to that voice from the meadow saying, "I am going to lay this poor tired lamb in its mother's bosom." But all at once, when she was seeking once more to see the face of the child which the Lord Jesus held so lovingly in his arms, the basket-bell rang with a sharp tinkle overhead, and she awoke from her dream to find herself no longer wandering amid green pastures, but propped up among her pillows, oh so tired, and with a sudden tearful longing to lay her head against some loving heart and be at rest. At the sound of the bell, Evelina, who had been dozing also in a chair near the stove, started up angrily, and going over to the window, looked down into the street. "Ha! it is just as I thought, thou little donkey. Hast thou no sense, Master Fritz, but to go and ring bells in people's ears when they are asleep? See, now, thou hast startled Violet out of her dreams, and she will be ill all the night." "No, no," said Violet eagerly; but there were sudden tears of distress and weakness standing in her uplifted eyes. "Look in the basket, Violet," cried Fritz, taking no notice of Evelina's wrath; "there is something in it that I want thee to see, and it is all--" Before, however, Fritz could finish his sentence, his mother had appeared in the doorway, and seizing Fritz by the collar of his coat, had dragged him backwards into the bakery. "I will not have thee disturbing Violet with thy folly," she said angrily, and pushed him into the back passage. Meantime Evelina, her own curiosity aroused, had drawn up the little cord from which dangled the basket. "It is uncommonly light," she said, as she lifted it in at the window. "It strikes me, if I am not mistaken, that Master Fritz is at his old pranks again. Yes, it is just as I thought; the basket is quite empty. It is just a silly trick he has played upon thee, and nothing else." Evelina turned the basket upside down as she spoke, and shook out some old dried moss and withered leaves, and a little scrap of dirty paper folded into a minute size, which fluttered down and lit on the window-seat beside Violet. "Little wretch! I shall box his ears the next time I see him," cried Evelina angrily. "To come and waken people up for such a senseless joke." "There was something in the basket," pleaded Violet in a low voice. "I tell thee there was not," replied Evelina sharply; "unless thou callest a handful of dead leaves something." The child's eyes rested wistfully on the little scrap of folded paper lying almost within her reach on the window-seat, but she said nothing. When Evelina was vexed, Violet felt afraid of her; and besides, she was down on her knees now gathering the moss and dirt off the floor, and she did not like to trouble her further. But Evelina's tempers were never of long duration. When she stood up again she was smiling, and said with a laugh,-- "I have a mind to go across the street and tie this basket on to Master Fritz's back and hunt him up and down the town for his pains. At any rate, the next time it happens I shall just cut the cord, and then there will be an end of it all." "No, no, thou wilt not do that, Evelina," cried Violet, stretching out her hands eagerly. "There is no saying what Evelina might do when she is angry," replied the girl, laughing lightly as she dropped the basket once more out of the window. "Ah, there is the newsman in the street and lots of people gathered round him; I must run down for a moment and see what fresh telegrams have come in. I shall just buy a paper from him and be back immediately." Violet nodded her head silently, and Evelina, having again arranged the cord in its place, left the room. When the door was closed, and Evelina's flying footsteps were distinctly audible in the street beneath, Violet tried to stretch out her hand for the piece of paper which had fluttered down out of the basket on to the window-seat beside her; but she found, to her grief, that it was just an inch or two beyond the reach of her finger-tips. She looked round for something with which she could draw it nearer to her, and at last, after some difficulty, she succeeded with the help of the spotted book in pushing it to the edge of the cushion, where she could stretch out her hand and take hold of it. Even this little exertion tried her. She panted, and for some moments did not attempt to open the paper. Her heart beat quickly and her hands trembled. She did not believe that Fritz had been playing a trick upon her, and she guessed that there was some special piece of news to be found in the little crumpled scrap which she held tightly pressed up in her hand. At last she opened it out, and as she read the words printed across it in large letters she gave quite a sharp cry and started up in her chair. "Ella is going to be an angel, and have wings." This was the whole message--no explanation, no other word to give a hint or a reason, and no Fritz at the window opposite to make things clear. She stared again at the words. Her cheeks grew crimson, her eyes darkened, tears came into them and fell upon the dirty scrap of paper on her knee. Ella was going to have wings! Ella, who could run and jump and walk and was never tired; who could laugh and sing and hop and follow Fritz wherever he went. Ella was going to have wings! And Ella had no hump upon her back, no pain, no tiredness. She had not been waiting for them long, oh, so long as she had! A great lump came struggling up into her throat, drops of sweat gathered on her forehead. The book with the spotted cover lay across her knees; the tears came splash, splash upon the yellow binding; and Violet, bending her head down lower, said in a sobbing whisper,-- "Oh, dear Lord Jesus! canst thou not also give wings to Violet? Violet is so tired, and cannot walk or run." Then followed another long sob and a shower of burning tears, in the midst of which the door opened and Evelina came laughing in, her eyes brimming with fun and her whole manner joyous and gay. "Did any one ever hear of such an idea?" she cried, flinging herself down on a chair. "To make that great fat Miss Ella an angel! the very thought of it gives one almost a fit. I could almost die of laughter.--But what is the matter with the child? What art thou crying for, Violet?" and Evelina rose and came over to Violet, whose head was bent upon her purple frock, and her face was covered with her hands. "What troubles thee? Look up, Violet, and hear my news. There is going to be a great procession through the town. The general is coming home wounded from the war. Such a brave old fellow! he has had both his arms shot off, and two of his sons have been killed in the battle of Sedan; so all Edelsheim is going out to meet him on his return and give him a welcome. And there are to be hundreds of girls dressed in white, who are to sing beautiful songs and scatter flowers on the road; and a whole band of little angels, who are to have wings, and they are to sing too. And just imagine--Ella over the way is to be an angel! Such an idea! one might just as well make an angel of a little fat, squeaking pig; but of course it is for her voice they want her. Ah, Miss Violet, it is a shame for thee to go on crying so when I have brought thee home such a grand piece of news. What ails thee? Look up and tell me." "I want to be an angel too," cried Violet with a bursting sob. "An angel! Ah, is that it? Poor little darling! thou wilt be an angel soon enough." "But Ella will have wings first, and will fly away from Violet, and Violet is so lonely." "Miss Ella fly!" cried Evelina, throwing up her hands again and bursting into a fresh fit of laughter. "Why, it would take all the wings in the town to lift her off her feet. No, no; do not be afraid; Miss Ella will not fly." "Could not I go with the other little angels?" sobbed Violet. "Ah, no, no, my treasure; that would be impossible. Thou canst not walk, and it is a long way to the station." "But if I had wings." "Yes, yes, of course, if thou hadst wings that would be another thing; then thou couldst fly wherever thou hadst a wish," said Evelina soothingly, for the pleading eyes so full of their sorrow pained her. "And the doctor said, soon, very soon, Violet would have them; and perhaps God would give Violet wings that very day, and then she could go with all the other angels. Is it not so, Evelina?" "Yes, yes; of course, when the Lord Jesus gives Violet wings then she can go where she likes." "I will ask him, yes, I will ask him," said Violet softly; and through her tears there broke a sweet struggling smile as she lifted her eyes to the sky above the shadowy hill and held communion with her God. CHAPTER XXIII. GREAT PREPARATIONS. The morning of the procession had come--such a glorious morning!--bright sunshine, blue sky, and a soft breeze blowing down from the hill. At an early hour the whole town was astir. Every one was anxious to join in or to see this procession; for the brave general for whose home-coming it was planned was the favourite of the town, and all were anxious to do him honour. It seemed to them only a few days ago that they had seen his sturdy figure walking down the shady alley accompanied by his sons, fine fair-haired young fellows, who had since then fallen wounded to death in the dreadful battle of Sedan. Those whose work could be got over in the early morning rose with the sun, so as to leave the afternoon free to do honour to their general. The washerwomen at the river's edge were battering their linen on the stones from early dawn, while the usually sulky river crept in to-day bright with little rivulets of gold; and the walls of the gray old castle were gay with flags, whose shining spear-heads caught the first rays of the rising sun. In the streets the pigeons were already pecking happily, for the noisy tread of the early risers had disturbed them; and beneath the windows of Violet's house a whole cluster were collected, Madam Adler having already risen and thrown out to them a large sieveful of corn which she had brought from the bakery for the purpose. She looked up at Violet's window before she turned to re-enter the shop, and sighed heavily. She had been, in the evening before, to see her little darling, and to show her Ella dressed in her angel's garments,--soft white raiment, and glistening wings. But the effect on Violet had been so overpowering that Madam Adler had hurried Ella away, and had herself been obliged to listen to a lecture from Evelina for having so thoughtlessly broken in on the child's evening sleep and set her heart beating with a distress too deep for words. Madam Adler had made no reply to Evelina's reproaches, for her own heart was too full of pain, to see the great change which had lately come over the little wan face; and when she saw the sudden lustre which burned in Violet's eyes at the first sight of Ella with the white dress and the shining wings, and then listened to the passionate sobbing which followed, she had gone back to her own house overwhelmed with grief at the result of her visit, and she longed for the day of the procession to be over, that the subject might pass away from Violet's mind, and Ella's wings be folded up and put away. Ella, upstairs in her room, was awake also this morning at an unusually early hour. She could not rest, with the joyous expectation of being an angel and walking in the great procession; and ever so many times she had risen and gone over and touched with her soft, fat fingers the wings so beautifully tipped with silver and shining with stars, and which lay upon the table in the middle of the room: but every time she looked at them a sorrowful remembrance came over her of Violet's face and her bitter tears; and at last the little girl walked back to her bedside, and kneeling down said softly,-- "Oh, thou good Lord Jesus, be very kind to poor Violet in the house opposite, and give her wings too, like Ella!" She looked up very steadily at the ceiling as she said these words. Her wide-open eyes seemed to see far up above the roof and the chimneys and the storks. The soft yellow hair was straggling out in long loops and curls from under her linen night-cap, her elbows rested on the bed, and her dimpled fingers were clasped. Was she, after all, so unlike an angel, this "fat Miss Ella," at whose appearance Evelina could not restrain her laughter? When Ella had finished her little prayer, and was just saying "Amen" in a rather loud voice, the door opened and Fritz walked in. "What art thou doing, Ella?" he said rather curiously. "Out of bed already, at this early hour, and saying thy prayers! Dost thou think thou art an angel already?" Ella blushed crimson as she stood up, and she shuffled her little pink feet over each other uneasily on the carpet. "It was only about Violet," she said nervously, and her eyes travelled back again to the wings shining so softly on the dark oil-cloth cover of the table. "So thou hast been thinking of her too," said Fritz, drawing a deep breath. "I have thought of nothing else all night, and that is why I too am up so early, and dressed, as thou seest, for going out." Ella had noticed that Fritz had his cap in his hand, and she had wondered at it. "Well, well?" she asked open-mouthed. "Well, I am going off to the police barrack to try and see Violet's friend. Mother told me last night that she heard the procession was not to pass through our street at all, but was to turn up by the cathedral and across the market square to the station; and then poor Violet could not see it at all, or hear any of the music. Mother says she is glad, but I am not a bit; for look at this, Ella." Fritz drew from his trowsers pocket a little crumpled scrap of paper and spread it out upon the palm of his hand. "She dropped this out of the window to me last night;--and I know this one thing." Fritz spoke in a curious, husky voice, and turned away his face. "What thing, Fritz?" "Violet will never send me any more notes. Look at this;--I was half an hour before I could make it out." There was a large V, and then a lot of trembling up-and-down strokes without any pretence at printing, only there was a dot over one stroke, and a letter something like a "t" at the end; then came the word "wants," pretty fairly readable; then another trembling set of meaningless lines, and the word "angels;" and again a word which Fritz after much trouble had made out to be "sing." "Violet wants to hear the angels sing;" that was her message. "And I am going straight now to the barracks, and I shall show this to our policeman, and he shall go to the general's wife, and they shall arrange together that the procession _is_ to go through this street. I have settled it all in the night when I was lying awake." "Perhaps the general's wife will not do it." "Perhaps she will, thou little ass," replied Fritz curtly, as he banged the door after him and went out. "Ah, if I could give Violet my wings," said Ella softly, as, once more returning to the table, she touched the silver pinions which lay spread out upon it shiningly; "but the good Lord Jesus is much much kinder than Ella, and perhaps he will lend her some wings just for this one day." Ella went over to the casement and looked across and down at the closed shutters of Violet's window. She was singing softly to herself the words of the angels' song, which her mother had with much care been teaching to her for the last few days,-- "Angels, sing on, your faithful watches keeping, Sing us sweet fragments of the songs above, Till morning's joy shall end the night of weeping, And life's long shadows break in endless love." Ella had the sweetest childish voice that one could hear anywhere: yes, it was for this reason she had been chosen to form one of the angel-choir, and now as she came to the end of her verse, she sang out the chorus loud and clearly,-- "Angels of Jesus, Angels of light, Singing to welcome The pilgrims of night." Ella did not quite understand what the words of the hymn meant, though her mother had given many long minutes to their explanation. She only knew they were about the good Lord Jesus, and she felt that they were words Violet would love to hear; so she sang them loud enough and clear enough for the sound to reach her ears were she awake. But there was no stir in the oriel window except a burst of song from the canary opposite, behind whose cage the curtains of Violet's casement had been loosely folded; but the blind in the room next to hers was at this moment quickly drawn up, and Ella saw Evelina look out hurriedly into the street, and then withdraw as quickly behind the table. She was up early, too, and dressed already in a pretty white and blue muslin dress, which she was evidently trying on before the looking-glass, for Ella saw her take up some blue bows from the table and pin them on her dress, arranging them first in one place and then in another until she was satisfied with their effect. Ella wondered that Evelina should be so smartly dressed at so early an hour; but she wondered still more when she saw her turn back a moment from the window and then reappear with a large Leghorn hat in her hand, covered with some pale blue flowers, and lined with a pretty light blue satin, the same colour as the ribbon bows upon her dress. She turned it backwards and forwards for a few moments, picking up the blue flowers with her fingers, just here and there where they stuck too closely to the straw; and she bent the broad flap a little to one side, and pinned it up with much care; and then she placed it on her head, smiling a little and moving to and fro in front of the mirror. All at once she turned and walked away. Ella saw her hurriedly snap off the hat and throw it on the bed, and then move forward as if towards Violet's room. Ella watched for her to come back; but at last growing tired of waiting she lay down on her little bed, and, still humming the angels' chorus, she fell into a light sleep. Before, however, she had quite wandered off into the land of dreams the door of her room opened again, and Fritz came in with flushed face and excited manner. "It is all of no use," he cried, flinging his cap down at the foot of the bed. "I have seen the policeman, and he says it is no good for him to ask." "And he will not even try?" asked Ella, opening her sleepy eyes. "Oh yes, he will try. He has gone off now to see the colonel; but he knows it is all no use." Fritz sat down on the side of Ella's little cot, and suddenly burst out crying. "I wish I had never told her anything about it," he said sobbing. "Why, dear Fritz?" and Ella threw her fat arms round her brother's neck. "That old cat Evelina told the policeman that since I had told Violet about the angels she has had no sleep and can eat nothing, and that in a few days she will be quite dead." "Quite dead," echoed Ella mournfully; "and poor Fritz will never see her nor speak to her any more." "Hush, Ella," cried Fritz, springing up from the bed angrily; "Fritz will see her again. Fritz will speak to Violet again. He will go this instant and ask the Lord Jesus this very day to make her quite well, to take all the sickness away from her; and the Lord Jesus must listen to Fritz this time, for he will go out on the very top of the house and call ever so loud, so loud that he must hear him." And Fritz, his face all quivering with the anguish of the moment, started up and rushed wildly out of the room; and Ella heard his feet ascending the little wooden ladder that led out among the nasturtiums and the red geraniums on to the red-tiled roof above. CHAPTER XXIV. A GRIEVOUS DISAPPOINTMENT. It was still quite early when Evelina drew back the curtains in the oriel window and let in the rosy morning light. A few moments before, Violet had startled her by a cry of joy, so keen and unmistakable that she had hurried from the inner room in her white muslin dress to the child's bedside, only to find her face pressed in against the pillow, around which her arms were tightly pressed. "What is it? why didst thou call so?" she cried curiously as she stooped over the bed. "O Evelina, the angels were singing to me!" said Violet, lifting up a face still wreathed in the happiest smiles. "Didst thou not hear them, Evelina? I knew the very words they said. And father, dear father, he was there with them in the meadow beside the hill; and he stretched out his hands to me and cried out so loud, 'To meet again,' that I screamed out with joy." "Ah, that was indeed a lovely dream," said Evelina, stooping over the bed and kissing the little face still lighted up with the straggling beams of heavenly glory. "Go to sleep, dearest one, and perhaps thou mayest dream of the angels again." "And dost thou know, Evelina, in that meadow beside the hill, where the flowers grow, my feet never touch the ground--never." "Hush, little heart! go to sleep," she replied softly. "And thou, Evelina, wilt thou not be an angel too? for thou art dressed in white, and thou art so lovely and so kind," said the little voice from among its pillows. Evelina made no answer; her cheeks burned with a vivid red, and her heart gave loud throbs as she bent over the child and kissed her again passionately; then she turned and went back into the room. But her eyes were full of tears, and for many minutes afterwards she was restless and miserable, until at length she took off the white dress and laid it aside on the top of her trunk; and the hat with the blue forget-me-nots she hastily covered over with a handkerchief, and hid it away in the press. "What is the boy doing up there?" she said suddenly as she looked up at the red tiles of the house opposite. "Why, he is saying his prayers on the roof! Was ever anything so funny?" When Violet did awake later on, she seemed to have forgotten all about her dream; she sighed heavily, and there were bright red spots on her cheeks. She watched all Evelina's movements with a kind of dull curiosity, but for a long time she made no effort to speak. At last she said, with a weak and somewhat complaining voice, "Evelina, why art thou making the room ready so early? That brush knocks so loudly against the chairs, and Violet's head is aching." "I am up early because the whole town is up early," replied Evelina somewhat shortly; "and a room cannot be cleaned properly without brushing it." "And why is the whole town up early--why, Evelina?" "Why? of course thou knowest that this is the day of the grand procession, and one cannot be both inside of the house doing one's work and outside of it at the same time enjoying oneself." "And art thou going out to see the angels?" asked Violet, fixing her eyes sorrowfully on the face of Evelina. "That depends--I am not certain." "But thou wouldst like it, wouldst thou not?" "Yes, yes, of course." "And will it be a long way off, down a far, far street?" "No, no, quite close. They are to turn off at the fountain and go up by the cathedral." "Then Violet will perhaps hear them singing," cried the child, raising herself on her elbow, and flushing all over a lovely carmine colour. "I have often heard the women singing at the fountain in the evening." "Yes, I daresay." "Ah, how Violet would love to stand, like other little children in the street, and see the beautiful angels with their wings." A deep, longing sigh followed this remark. Evelina made no reply, and Violet still followed her movements wistfully with her eyes, till at last they fell upon the little carriage, which she was at this moment dusting, and which she presently pushed somewhat further back into the corner. "Just as far as the fountain," pleaded Violet with quivering lips. "No, no, it is impossible; for the greatest crowd of all will be just there. They are all to gather at the fountain, which is to be decked out with flowers; and the first chorus is to be sung beside it. To drag a carriage through such a multitude of people would be out of the question." "But in thine arms, Evelina; couldst thou not take me such a little way in thine arms?" "In my arms, dear love? who ever heard of such a thing?" "Yes, yes, only to the fountain, to see the angels and to hear them sing." "Thou askest me that which thou knowest well I cannot do," replied Evelina almost angrily. "The doctor would not hear of my taking thee out of thy bed to carry thee in my arms among such a lot of people. And besides, thou wouldst not like it thyself: other children would stare at thee, and say things, perhaps, which would hurt thee." "What would they say, Evelina?" "Ah, cruel things: children do not stop to pick their words." "But what would they say?" pleaded Violet, her eyes opening wide and her cheeks flushing. "They would, perhaps, point their fingers at thee and call thee names. Ah, I have heard such things often in the street. There are wicked children as well as good. I have seen them even throwing stones after little sick children." "Yes," cried Violet, sitting up straight, and her eyes deepening to the purple shade which always came with some great mental excitement; "and thou rememberest, Evelina, how one wicked boy threw a great heavy stone at a poor hunchback; and how God was watching, and when they would have thrown another the Lord Jesus laid his hand on the hunchback's shoulders, and out of them came two beautiful shining wings, and he flew straight up to heaven. Thou rememberest all this, Evelina?" "Oh yes, I daresay," replied Evelina, who was down on her knees polishing the stove. "But thou didst tell that very story to me." "Well, and what then?" "Then Violet is not afraid to go out in the streets; for the good Lord Jesus loves Violet very, very much, and if anything came to hurt her he would just give her wings, and she would fly away straight up to heaven." For a moment Evelina's heart relented, as she looked up from the stove at those earnest eyes full of such a beseeching entreaty. "Well, well, we can see when the time comes," she said quickly. "Lie down now, and don't talk about it any more. When I have done my work I will go and see the doctor and ask him; and if he says 'Yes,' why, then, we must arrange it somehow." "Ah, thou best Evelina, how good thou art!" cried Violet, stretching out her arms gratefully. But Evelina was perhaps too busy to notice the action. At any rate, she continued polishing the stove; and Violet, with eyes still darkly dilated with the wonder of some great but as yet unrealized joy, lay back upon her pillow, only saying to herself in a whisper, "Violet will see the angels and will hear them sing." At eleven o'clock Evelina went out. She was some time away, and Violet watched with a beating heart for her return. At last she heard footsteps on the stairs; but Evelina, instead of entering the kitchen, went into her own room and shut the door. Violet waited for a few minutes, and then called to her; but she received no answer. Evelina was walking hurriedly about the inside room, and did not hear her calling. At last the door opened, and Evelina came in. She had on a white dress now--a white muslin dress, dotted over with pale-blue spots; and on her bosom there was fastened a bunch of forget-me-nots, and on the front of the dress there were also pale-blue bows the same colour as the flowers. She looked so young and fresh, with her golden hair and her pretty smiling face, covered just now with a crimson blush, that Violet cried out involuntarily,-- "Oh how beautiful! how lovely! Hast thou seen the doctor?" But Evelina only said hastily, as she looked at the bed, "How stupid of me! I have forgotten to dress the child." "Then thou _wilt_ take me? O dearest Evelina, thou art too good to Violet." Evelina looked now really distressed. She came over and took the child's hot hands in hers, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I have not seen the doctor," she said in a quick, nervous voice. "He was out, and had left no word where he was gone. I durst not take thee out on such a day without his leave. Although the sun is hot, there is a keen east wind blowing; so I will just run down to the fountain and have one look at the procession, and then come back to thee. I shall not be five minutes away, and thou shalt hear all about it when I return, and how Miss Ella looked, and how she sang; and then we shall have, oh such a feast when Evelina comes home--peaches and grapes which are in the next room waiting for us to eat them, and a cake covered with sugar, and a bunch of violets fastened on the top. And we shall have such fun; shall we not, thou little heart's love? And now Evelina will dress thee in thy little purple frock; and Miss Ella shall come back, wings and all, and have a share in our supper and our good things. And now thou wilt not be an ungrateful little girl, when Evelina has done all this for thee? Ah, for shame! dry thine eyes, and let us have no more tears." Violet drew her hand quickly out of Evelina's, and wiped away the tears which were flowing fast down her poor pale face; for was it not ungrateful and unkind of her to weep and fret when Evelina had been so good, and had bought for her such lovely things as grapes and peaches? Evelina tied an apron over her new dress and began to comb out Violet's yellow locks. They did not glisten now so brightly as they used to do, for long sickness had dimmed their golden colour; but still, when tied up with the dark purple knot, they hung prettily enough over the cashmere dress, into the neck and sleeves of which Evelina had sewn clean, soft, white frills. "There now! thou art quite lovely, quite charming!" cried Evelina, gazing at the little girl, whose lips still quivered with a suppressed excitement. "And see here! I will give thee some of my forget-me-nots, and thou shalt fasten them, so, on front of thy dress; and there will not be an angel in all the procession so fair as thee. Eh, little heart's darling, what sayest thou?" Violet did not answer; she only lifted her eyes to Evelina's face, as if she wished to speak and could not. "What is it? Is there anything more I can do for thee? for it is now on the stroke of twelve, and if I do not start at once I shall be late." "Please, please, Evelina, take Violet in thine arms, only this once--such a little way to the fountain, such a short, short street--that Violet may see the angels and hear them sing." "It is impossible," replied Evelina shortly, and growing very red. "But as thou art so determined to cry and to make a fuss, I will stay at home myself, and make an end of it all." And Evelina sat down on a chair, and tears came into her eyes. "No, no!" cried Violet passionately; "thou must go, Evelina. Violet will cry no more. She will wait here quite quietly till thou comest back. Yes, go now; please go, Evelina, ever so fast; and when thou hast seen the beautiful angels at the fountain, thou wilt come back quickly to Violet." Evelina rose up with averted face, and said, somewhat sullenly, "Well, as I am dressed, I suppose I may as well go; but after such a fuss and crying one cannot enjoy oneself very much." She pushed the door of her own room open as she said this, and, going in, drew the bolt quickly across it. A minute or two later she opened the other door at the side of the landing, and began to descend the stairs. "Evelina!" cried Violet after her piteously, "lift Violet first into the window. Evelina! Evelina! thou hast forgotten to put Violet into her chair!" Evelina turned to answer the child's appeal; but suddenly remembering something, she paused and raised her hand to her head. "I cannot wait now to take it off, for it is all pinned to my hair," she said peevishly. "In any case, I shall be back directly." And so, turning a deaf ear to Violet's cries, she went down the stairs and out into the street. CHAPTER XXV. WINGS AT LAST. Violet waited and listened until the last sound of Evelina's footsteps had died away, and then she fell into a sudden reverie. Her eyes remained fixed on the rails at the foot of her bed, and she neither moved nor spoke--only now and then a little shiver seemed to pass over her, and she sighed heavily, and her eyebrows were contracted with pain. A sudden sense of great loneliness had come over her, and with it a swift remembrance of her dear mother, the mother who had been carried out through that very door by which Evelina had that moment passed out, and who had never returned to her any more. Ah, had she been here now, she would have listened to her cries; she would have carried her in her arms to the fountain. She would have lifted her up so tenderly, and held her tightly, oh so tightly to her breast; and together they would have listened to the angels singing. And then again came the recollection of that dream, when the Lord Jesus had met her in the meadow, and had shown her the little lamb which he was carrying in his bosom--the little lamb with the white face, so like Violet. And she remembered the sound of his voice, as he said to her so softly, "See, she has fallen asleep, and I am going to lay her in her mother's arms." Ah, if Violet could fall asleep like that poor tired lamb, and awake in the arms of her dear mother, whose face she had not seen for so long--oh so long, yes, long, long ago! Again that thrilling shiver passed over her, and the little face grew pale. "Mother!" she cried--"mother! canst thou not hear me, mother? Mother! mother!" It rose higher and higher now, the wail of a child's despair. But, hark! what was that other sound without? Music--voices--a burst of sudden song somewhere not far off. Violet ceased to cry, and listened with large dilated eyes, from which the pain of the past moment had not yet departed. "The angels! the angels! I hear them singing!" she cried, starting up in an ecstasy of delight. "They are singing at the fountain; I can hear them. And Ella is with them, and she has wings. Ah, if some one could lift me gently and put me in my chair at the window!--Kate, Kate, come to Violet; come quickly." She had not long to wait for an answer to her call, for as she cried aloud for Kate, the old servant pushed open the door, and walked in. She had not come, however, at Violet's summons. She held a red-coloured envelope in her hand, and she looked round the room anxiously and somewhat angrily. "So; it is just as I thought. That little conceited minx has gone out, and left the child all alone. I just caught a sight of the hat as she whirled by the window, and I knew well where it came from." "Kate, Kate, listen to the angels. They are singing at the fountain. If thou speakest so loud, I cannot hear them." "Ay, ay; I hear them well enough. But who is to open this telegram and tell us what is in it?" "Ah, Kate, do not mind what is in it. Lift me in thy arms, dear Kate, and put me in my chair by the window." "Well, have patience a moment, and I will see if I can make out the words. I am a regular blockhead at reading; but the messenger is waiting at the door to see if there is any answer, and that silly girl may not be back for an hour." Kate turned a little aside, as she tore open the envelope, and looked back a moment at Violet with an evident nervousness of manner. "Ah, God be thanked! it is no bad news. It is from the good lady at Gützberg. She will be here this afternoon." But Violet did not hear one word Kate said. A great hope was rising in her bosom. The sound of the angels' voices was drawing nearer and nearer, and she could now almost catch the very words they were singing. It was growing clear to her that the procession must be advancing up the street. "Kate, Kate, where art thou going?" she cried suddenly, as the old servant moved towards the door. "Wilt thou not carry Violet across to her chair?" "Yes, yes, in a moment. I am only going to the street door, and I shall be back immediately." By the time she returned to the room Violet's cheeks were burning with excitement, and there was a look in her eyes which almost frightened the old servant. "Lift me to the window!" she cried, almost passionately. "The angels are coming! they have wings! I must see them! they are coming up the street!" Kate held out her arms quickly to the child; but her heart sank as she noticed the crimson cheeks, and the eyes which looked at her and yet did not seem to see her, so full were they of some deep and overpowering excitement. "Quick, quick! they are in the street!" she repeated feverishly. "Ay, ay, they are in the street, that is true enough; but have patience, dear heart. There is time enough yet. They are not so near as thou thinkest." Still Violet repeated the same words furiously--"Quick, quick! they are in the street! they are in the street!"--until Kate had taken her in her arms and carried her into the window. "Do not put me in the chair; put me on the seat in the middle of the window," she cried eagerly, as Kate would have deposited her in her usual place. "Violet can see so much better all up and down the street, and thou canst put thy arms round me, and hold me so tightly;--is it not so, Kate?" She turned round quickly, and put her burning lips against the old woman's cheek: "The good Lord Jesus holds the sick lambs ever so closely in his arms; and I am one of his lambs, for I saw its face--oh so white!--and it was Violet's." "Dear heart, she is crazed!" muttered Kate to herself.--"There now; sit down on the seat, and I will hold thee tightly, I warrant." "The angels! I see them! they are dressed in white! They are coming nearer and nearer! Kate, canst thou not see them too?" Violet clutched at the wooden box full of sweet violets, which stood on the window-sill outside, and drew herself forward with a sudden access of strength. The box, which was bound by many a cobweb to the mullioned stone, moved one inch or so, and rocked ominously. Two white pigeons, which were preening their feathers on the ledge just beside it, flew away frightened, and perched on the roof opposite. "Kate, Kate, I see Ella! She is waving her hand to me; there is a crown in it. Dost thou not see?--a crown of gold. She is holding it out to me." "Ay, ay; I see Miss Ella. How fat she looks; and cold too, poor child! her arms look quite blue in her thin white dress." "Ah, she looks beautiful--the angels of God are all beautiful. They fly about in heaven and have no pain, Kate. And look at Ella's wings how they shine. Stand up straight, Kate, and thou wilt see better." [Illustration: The Procession. _Page 275_.] Kate leaned a little forward over the child's head and looked out. "Yes, yes; one would almost think that they were real. But here is another messenger coming to the door with a telegram, and there is no one downstairs to take it from him." "Thou canst go down," cried Violet eagerly. "I am quite safe here in the window, and quite, quite comfortable." "Thou art sure, dear heart?" "Yes; I can hold on by the box until thou comest back." Here all at once the children's voices burst forth in the street beneath, and in a delicious harmony took up the melodious hymn,-- "Angels of Jesus, Angels of light, Singing to welcome The pilgrims of night." Ella's clear treble rose up high, high into the air, and seemed to enter in at the very window. Violet, clutching unconsciously at the box in front of her, drew herself more forward, till at length she was leaning over the sweet-scented leaves, and could see well down into the street beneath. There was a hush now among the crowd, for all the people gathered in the space below, listening entranced to the sweet childish treble as it rose higher and higher in its anxiety that the song should reach the ear of one the child loved. But all at once the song ceased, and a cry came from her parted lips--"See, see! look up! Violet is at the window, and she will fall." The white-robed procession paused for a moment at the shrill scream of the child, and all heads were turned up to see what was the cause of her anguish, while at the same moment a woman's voice, uplifted in sudden terror, cried passionately from amongst them, "Violet! ah, wicked child; go back. What art thou doing?" But Violet did not see the upturned faces, nor hear Evelina's cry of terror-struck reproach. She was alike unconscious of rebuke or fear, for in the street beneath her were gathered a glorious company of angels. Their raiment, white and glistening, dazzled her aching eyes; their crowns of gold seemed all on fire; while the voices of a great multitude rang in her ears in sweet, melodious invitation,-- "Come, weary soul; Jesus bids thee come." To Violet it was no longer the hot and dusty streets of Edelsheim on which she gazed. She did not see the rocking crowd or the terror imprinted now on every upturned face. No; those who caught a glimpse of her at this moment knew that she saw none of them--that some heavenly vision held her inthralled and amazed. Her lips were white; her eyes burned; she spoke, yet no one heard, till all at once she stretched out her arms with a cry of surpassing ecstasy, and exclaimed, "Mother, dear mother, see! look up! here is Violet." Then all the people knew what was coming, for the child as she uttered the last words had fallen forward upon the box. It was hopeless to think that Evelina with all her efforts could reach the room in time. The wooden box had turned over on its side, and the loosened clay and the fragrant flowers rattling over their heads and faces gave them timely warning to retreat. The crowd surged to each side; the angels, who had ceased their singing, recoiled with a terrified rapidity to the farther side of the street. Only one person, with a courageous presence of mind and a fearless love, rushed from amongst them to stay the terrible catastrophe. But was it, after all, so terrible that the women should faint, and the angels hide their faces in their hands? Only a flutter of a purple frock, a glimpse of golden hair, preceded by a sudden crash as the box of violets fell splintered on the pavement beneath. Then all looked upwards with a scream. But Violet was in the arms of the old policeman, and the shining yellow locks were hanging loosely over his shoulder. A crowd gathered round him quickly, and the people pressed upon him, while some of the little angels in their silver shoes stood on tiptoe that they might, perchance, catch one glimpse of that white, white face. Yes, it was white and still, and sad enough to look upon. "Keep back," cried the policeman sternly, "and let the child have room to breathe." "She will never breathe again," said the voice of a woman by his side; "the child is stone dead; we can see that for ourselves." It was Madam Adler who spoke, and she held Fritz by the hand, whose face was gray and rigid with fear and horror. "Keep back, I say; she is not dead. For pity's sake let the child have air!" There was a slight retrograde movement and then a general start of wonder. Violet had opened her eyes! For a second, hope rose in every breast; for a smile glimmered and flickered over the poor pale face, and the lips moved. She lifted the drooping arm which had hung so listlessly by her side, and laid it for a moment upon the faithful breast of the old policeman. "My friend," she said softly, and looked up into his eyes with a gaze which was terrible in its steadfastness of love; then the eyelids closed quietly again, and the smile died out. A hush fell on all the people. Surely this was death. But there was still a breath, and the little purple frock heaved slowly, and the frill of the white pinafore quivered with a thrilling motion. All at once she moved, turned her head quickly towards the street, and strove to raise herself in the arms of her friend. "Fritz, Fritz!" she cried eagerly, in a strange uplifted voice full of a strong appeal. "Yes, here is Fritz; what is it, dear Violet?" "Fritz is here," he replied faintly, lifting up an ashen face towards hers. But Violet's eyes were wide open now, and full of a wonderful joy. They travelled straight up over the housetops and the golden crown of the hill towards the bright blue sky, as if following some vision of delight. "Fritz!"--it was now a cry of triumph--"it is all quite true. See! look up yonder, high, high up. Ah, seest thou not now Violet has wings?" All the people with a common consent looked upward as she spoke; but there was nothing there to see but God's blue heaven and a speck of golden cloud sailing slowly past across the mountain top. When they turned back again they knew then that the child was dead; for the eyes, full still of that strange purple wonder, were immovably fixed upon the far off heavens, and the awe and majesty of death were creeping into them as the light of life died out. "Free at last," said the policeman, lifting up his face with a strange grim smile towards the distant sky. "She has escaped like a bird from its cage, and is gone up yonder." There was nothing more to wait for now. The policeman turned towards the door of Violet's house and carried her away from their eyes. The procession, re-forming, moved mournfully onwards. Some women in the street snatched up bunches of the violets which lay scattered about over the road, and thrust them into their bosoms. But Madam Adler, Fritz, and little Ella in her silver shoes and shining wings, remained behind, and they and many others followed the old policeman and his burden up the stairs; and Madam Adler, pushing her way on in front, opened the door of the kitchen to allow him to pass in. But there on the threshold they were met by Kate, behind whom stood the form of Evelina rigid with horror and dismay. "Is it all over?" cried the old woman distractedly--"is the child dead?--tell me now at once, is our Violet dead?" "Yes, quite dead." "Thou art certain?" "Yes, quite certain." "Then God be praised for all his mercies. She will never know this new trouble which has fallen upon us. Her father is gone also." She held out her hand vaguely towards them all with an open telegraph form crumpled up in her fingers. Madam Adler snatched it from her and read the words, "John was killed this morning in repulsing with his company a sortie of the enemy from the town of Metz." CHAPTER XXVI. "NO MORE TEARS." No more tears for little Violet. Yes, that was the joy which almost stilled their sorrow. How could they weep as they looked at that smile of perfect peace--that wonderful smile, fixed now in death, which had lightened up all her face as she cried out to Fritz with her parting breath, "Fritz, see!--it is all true--Violet has wings"? Aunt Lizzie sat all day beside the little bed--yes, and all night too. She was never tired looking at the sweet pale face, so restful in its sleep; and though tears flowed constantly down her cheeks, her heart was ever busy thanking God, who had so mercifully called home his little suffering lamb before the last sad news had reached her of her father's death. She was with them now, that was enough for her to know, and for evermore all would be peace. The little mother so long sighed for, the father who had so tenderly shielded his darling from trouble, and had watched over her in her loneliness--yes, they were all united now, and she knew that Violet was beyond the reach of trouble. For her and for them sorrow and sighing had fled away, and in their place had come the everlasting rest and happiness of heaven. No wonder that Aunt Lizzie rose up sometimes suddenly and kissed the sweet face with a passionate thrill of joy, nay, almost of envy. The neighbours streamed in all day long; indeed it seemed to Aunt Lizzie that the whole town of Edelsheim came to see the little face lying in such a sweet stillness on the pillow. Beautiful white flowers were laid upon the counterpane, and the air of the room was almost oppressive with the scent of the violets which were brought as a last offering, as a last tribute of love to their own Violet, the sweet flower of Edelsheim, whose face had ever looked out upon them from the many-sided window overhanging the street, with the patient smile so familiar to their eyes. In the evening, when all the rest were gone, Fritz stole in, leading Ella by the hand. Kate had just placed the lamp on the table, and Aunt Lizzie had risen up to draw the curtains; but he looked at neither of them, only walked over straight to the bedside, and stood there gazing at his little companion's face with an intense and speechless sorrow. But with Ella it was different. She gave one glance at the figure so unfamiliar in its stillness, and then fled with a cry to Aunt Lizzie, burying her face in her dress and sobbing violently. Aunt Lizzie drew the little girl into the inner room to comfort her; Kate hobbled down the stairs sobbing as she went; and Fritz was left alone, still standing gazing with a bursting heart at the smile which was not for him. For a moment he lifted his eyes and looked round the room nervously, and then he stooped and kissed her forehead. "Violet," he said softly, and waited, childlike, for an answer; but the lips did not move in response, only to his eyes, dazzled as they were with resisted tears, the smile seemed to widen at his call. "Violet, hist! Fritz knows now that thou hast wings. Violet, Fritz loves thee; and, listen, Violet, Fritz will always, always remember thee; and he will always love God, too, and the good Lord Jesus." Two immense tears fell upon Violet's face; and then Fritz, drawing nearer, knelt down by the side of the little bed and covered his face reverently with his hands. When Aunt Lizzie returned to the room Fritz was gone, but the tears which the boy had shed still glimmered faintly on the quiet face. That evening, too, the old policeman came to take his last look. He stood with uncovered head by the bedside, and uttered not a word. The face seemed to have a strange attraction for him, for he gazed at it without moving for many minutes. He, too, kissed his little friend ere he walked away, and laid in the cold clasped hands a bunch of blue forget-me-nots. But at the door he paused, and looking at Aunt Lizzie he asked, with an eye which for the moment burned with a suppressed anger, "Where is the girl?" "Dost thou mean Evelina?" "Yes, certainly." "Ah, she has returned to Gützberg; she left here the very evening of the accident. She feared, I think, to meet the face of any one who knew and loved our darling." "Ah, she did well," he said bitterly. "God, who forgives all sin, may pardon her. He can be merciful as well as just. But we of Edelsheim, never!" The next morning the carriage, made with such care by poor faithful John, was lifted out from its corner in the room and carried down into the street; and there they laid upon it the little white coffin which held the body of Violet. The descent to the little church-yard near the fountain was densely packed with mourners, and with difficulty the old policeman, assisted by Fritz, drew it through the weeping crowd. Behind it walked a company of children dressed in the same white robes with the same white wings which they had worn on the day of the procession; and now, as the little carriage moved on, their lips opened, and there burst forth the same song of the angels welcoming the weary soul to heaven which had startled Violet from her reverie only a few short days before and had called her from her loneliness and her fear to everlasting life. Thus her wish was fulfilled, that her first drive in the carriage made for her by her father should be to the place where her mother had been buried; and there they laid down the poor tired lamb at last, to sleep on its mother's breast. The people, gathered round the grave, sobbed and wept; the angels lifted up their voices with the same sweet but mournful cry; the policeman folded his arms on his breast, grim and stern, while his sword clinked against the gravel. But it was left for Fritz to know the whole grand truth. Standing there unconscious of all and everything around him, with eyes uplifted to heaven he saw her as she was. White-winged, rejoicing, exulting in her new-found strength, poised in the air above his head, radiant in robes of dazzling whiteness, he saw again that small white face break into a smile of rapture; and he heard a voice say, "Fritz, 'no more tears;' Violet has wings." And then some one cried out, "Look at the boy! he is white as death, he is fainting;" and so they lifted him into the church and laid him on the ground, and Aunt Lizzie placed his head upon her knee. And by-and-by the crowd dispersed, and those who lingered laid wreaths upon the grave; and some knelt down and kissed the earth above their little Violet's sleeping-place. * * * * * It is now many a long year since little Violet escaped out of her cage and mounted up like a bird to heaven, and yet she is remembered as lovingly as ever by the people of Edelsheim. If you turn aside into the little church-yard at the foot of the hill, you will see the monument that they have erected with much love and care to her memory. And perhaps you may meet there a woman who comes often to weep at her grave and to pray, but from whom the townspeople still turn away with aversion. She is never tired looking at the white face carved so faithfully and beautifully in marble, nor at the outstretched pinions which, spreading across the arms of the cross, support the cherub's head. There is no epitaph to tell of their darling's pure life, nor of her sad death; only three words, and yet they embrace all--"Violet has wings." It was Fritz who chose them. But to comfort the hearts of all those in Edelsheim who had loved her so well, the sculptor added at the base of the monument a bunch of fading violets, and beneath them he carved these words of hope and consolation--"Auf wiedersehen" (To meet again).