15977	----	[Illustration] FRANK AND FANNY: A RURAL STORY. BY MRS. CLARA MORETON. WITH NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS. BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1851. Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1850, By PHILLIPS AND SAMPSON, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. PREFACE. To inculcate gentleness of disposition, patience, and benevolence, and to inspire the young with a love for the simple pleasures of rural life, is the purpose of the following story. The love of exciting narratives is not favourable to the developement of those mild virtues which are the most beautiful ornaments of youth; and, in the following pages, the quiet scenes and simple characters of rural life solicit attention, in preference to the hairbreadth 'scapes and marvellous adventures which are often brought under the notice of the young. If the author has succeeded in the moral purpose of her little book, she will be satisfied with the result. FRANK AND FANNY. CHAPTER I. FRANK AND FANNY'S HOME. Frank and Fanny Lee were orphans. Their parents died when they were children, leaving them to the care of their grand-parents, who lived in the suburbs of a beautiful village, in New England. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were very fond of their grand-children, and did every thing in their power to make them happy. They were not rich, and therefore, had no money to throw away for useless toys; but this caused Frank and Fanny no uneasiness. In fine weather, all the leisure time which they could get from school, and from their tasks, was spent in wandering through the woods which skirted the little village on almost every side. In spring time they watched for the first flowers, and many a bouquet of tiny 'forget-me-nots,' and dark blue, and pure white violets, they brought to their grandmother, who welcomed the wild flowers of spring, with as much pleasure, and youth of heart as the grand-children. As the season advanced, there was no end to the variety which they gathered; and the sweetest were daily selected for the little vase, which always stood upon the table, beside the large family Bible, out of which, both morning and evening, the good grandmother read to her children. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton owned the comfortable cottage, in which they lived. It was shaded in front by a large elm tree, that spread its arms far out over the moss-covered roof, as if it were some protecting spirit. Around the door, a beautiful vine had been trained; and rose bushes, and shrubs, were scattered through the yard. On one side of the house, was a garden, where grew a profusion of currant bushes, and raspberry vines, with many useful vegetables, and flowers were scattered along on each side of the little walk that ran through the centre of the garden. There were hollyhocks, and noonsleeps, and tiger-lilies, and little patches of moss pinks, the tiny flowers all tangled in with their green foliage, and sweet williams, and love-lies-bleeding; and the children thought there was never such another garden in the world. Here the children delighted to watch the butterflies, and bees, and birds, revelling among the flowers, especially the beautiful humming bird, with his jacket of golden green, his ruby-colored throat, and long, slender bill, which he was so fond of thrusting into the garden lilies and hollyhocks. He loved to resort to the garden of Frank and Fanny, where the bright sun was shining on the flowers. [Illustration: THE HUMMING BIRD.] Then there was a little brown arbor, with grape vines carefully trained over it, and rustic seats within; and there were quince trees just beyond, and up by the gateway there grew tall stalks of fennel; and altogether, it _was_ a most delightful place. Back of the house was an orchard, and here pippins, long-stems, flyers, greenings, and seek-no-furthers, grew side by side. [Illustration: THE CEDAR BIRD.] Here these children delighted to watch the beautiful cedar bird with his silky plumage, and his smart crest. He is a sociable, gentle bird, who allowed the children to come very near him, as he was perched upon the cedar bush. The stone wall which surrounded the orchard, afforded shelter to a great number of striped squirrels, whose nimble motions it was the delight of Frank and Fanny to watch, as they scampered over the wall, or ran along on its top, or sought a safer retreat in the thick branches of the apple trees. This last retreat, however, was not often sought, as the striped squirrel is not fond of trees. His nest is in a hole under a stump, or stone wall; he seeks his living on the ground, and is the most playful, elegant little animal I ever saw. He is called in different parts of the country, Ground Squirrel, Chipping Squirrel, and Chipmuck, the last being probably his Indian name. Frank and Fanny loved the striped squirrel; but never threw stones at him, or sought to make him a prisoner. [Illustration: THE STRIPED SQUIRREL.] The foot of the orchard was bounded by a clear, wide brook, shaded by willows, and the fish plashed about in troops in the cool shade. Here upon the margin of the water, seated upon a little stump, watching for his finny prey, the children used often to peep at the Belted King Fisher, in his bluish coat, white collar, and prettily marked wings. This bird's delight is to dwell on the borders of running rivulets, or the bold cataracts of mountain streams, which abound with small fish and insects, his accustomed fare. When the fish do not approach his station, he flies along, just over the water, and occasionally hovers with rapidly moving wings over the spot where he sees a trout or minnow. In the next instant, descending with a quick spiral sweep, he seizes a fish, with which he rises to his post and swallows it in an instant. All these proceedings were watched frequently by the children, with intense delight, as they stood concealed among the bushes, not daring to move for fear of disturbing the bird. [Illustration: THE KING FISHER.] On the other side of the brook was a cranberry marsh, with a raised road passing through to the pine forest, still beyond, where the children gathered the ground pine, and hunted for the bright scarlet berries of the winter-green. When the children resorted to the cranberry marsh to obtain a supply of berries for their mother, they often saw the beautiful meadow lark, crouching among the reeds, or flying slowly and steadily away, as they approached her, uttering her lisping, melancholy note, which sounded like, "_et-se-de-ah_," and sometimes, "_tai-sedilio_." This bird was much admired by Fanny, who was dreadfully grieved when a neighboring sportsman shot a number of meadow larks for the sake of their flesh, which is almost equal in flavor to that of the partridge. [Illustration: THE MEADOW LARK.] [Illustration: THE AMERICAN AVOSET.] In this marsh, too, the children sometimes saw that singular bird, the Avoset, with its curious curved bill, its noisy clamor, and its long legs, bending and tottering under him, as he ran about the marsh or waded into its pools. He was a great curiosity in his way. Thus the cranberry marsh had its pleasures for Frank and Fanny. But this was not their favorite resort. They loved best to cross the meadows in front of the house, to a forest, where the woods were more open, and where trees of every variety, cast their shadows upon the green turf, and wild flowers grew upon every hillock, and peeped out from every mossy glade. There were little wildernesses of honey-suckles, too, scattered through the woods, and long, pale green fern leaves, fit for a fairy to sway to and fro upon; and there were vines of wild grapes, with branches so strong, that they often made swings of them. Sometimes in their rambles in the woods, they started a wild hare, which they called a rabbit, who fled away from them with long leaps, and was soon out of sight, so that they could hardly catch a glimpse of him in his rapid flight. But they were always greatly excited with a view of him, and lamented that they had no means of catching him. [Illustration: THE RABBIT.] Some of Frank's school fellows, however, were more skilled in hunting. They knew how to set snares for the poor rabbits, and were very often successful in catching them. By means of an elastic branch, or sapling, bent over, and furnished with a snare of strong twine, they contrived to catch the poor rabbit by the neck, and string him up in the air, like a criminal convicted of murder. It was no misfortune to Frank to be ignorant of this hunting craft. [Illustration: BOYS SNARING RABBITS.] Another curious animal, which the children sometimes saw, and which may be seen occasionally in the pastures and pine forests, in all parts of our country, from Maine to Carolina, was the woodchuck, or ground-hog, as it is sometimes called. It feeds, generally, upon clover and other succulent vegetables, and hence it is often injurious to the farmer. It is said to bring forth four or five young at a litter. Its gait is awkward, and not rapid; but its extreme vigilance, and acute sense of hearing, prevent it from being often captured. It forms deep and long burrows in the earth, to which it flies upon the least alarm. It appears to be sociable in its habits; for upon one occasion, we noticed some thirty or forty burrows in a field of about five acres. These burrows contain large excavations, in which they deposit stores of provisions. It hybernates during the winter, having first carefully closed the entrance of its burrow from within. It is susceptible of domestication, and is remarkable for its cleanly habits. Its cheeks are susceptible of great dilatation, and are used as receptacles for the food which it thus transports to its burrow. The capture of the woodchuck, forms one of the most exciting sports of boys, and it is very easily domesticated. [Illustration: THE WOODCHUCK.] The woods abounded in other wild animals, all small and harmless, but extremely interesting to the children. In their frequent visits to the woods, it was their delight to watch the animals and birds, and observe their motions, habits, and modes of life. But they were not fond of disturbing them; and when they deviated from their rule in this respect, on one remarkable occasion, as we shall now relate, it gave them occasion for much sorrow. CHAPTER II. THE YOUNG CHICKADEE. One Saturday afternoon, the children found in the woods, a grape vine, larger than any that they had before discovered. One end clasped a decayed tree, and as they bore their weight upon the vine, to try its strength, they were startled by a hoarse cry above them. Looking up, they saw two brown birds, beating the air with their wings, and screaming, "tshe daigh, daigh, daigh; tshe daigh, daigh, daigh!" At the same time, from amidst the green foliage which twined about the dead tree, they heard a feeble, plaintive cry from several little throats, "te-derry, te-derry." Frank and Fanny were much amused. They had never seen a bird's nest so low before, and they had been forbidden to climb the trees; but now Frank saw, that by placing one large stone upon another, he could reach up, so as to look into the nest. He did so, and found there were six little birds in it. But Fanny begged him to get down, the poor parent birds were so distressed. So he went and stood by her, upon the turf, where she was kneeling, and they both watched the frighted mother bird, as she fluttered back to her nest. The other still flapped the air with his wings, and by his angry notes, brought another bird to the scene. This one looked so plump and dignified, perched upon the bough of an adjoining tree, that Fanny guessed he was the grandpapa. [Illustration: THE CHICKADEE.] They became so interested in the birds, that they forgot how rapidly the time was passing, and it was nearly sundown when they started to go home. They skipped lightly over the soft, green grass of the meadows, stopping now and then, to look at some curious insect, and then walking on slowly with their arms around each other. [Illustration: FRANK AND FANNY IN THE WOODS.] Frank was very fond of his sister, seldom leaving her for any other playmate. He remembered his dying mother's charge. She had called both children to her bed side, before her death, and placing Fanny's hand in Frank's, had said, "My son, in a few hours you and Fanny will be motherless; promise me that you will try to fill my place; that you will cherish and love your sister, with all the care and tenderness of which you are capable; and Fanny, my little darling, you must remember mamma, and try never to be peevish and fretful, so that Frank will love to be with you, and take care of you; and both of you must always be the same good and obedient children to your grand-parents, that you have ever been;" and Frank promised, through his sobs, that he would never neglect his gentle little sister. He had kept his promise faithfully. More than a year had now passed away, and very seldom had Fanny known what it was to have her brother cross, or unkind to her. Frank was now ten years old, and Fanny seven. In all the village, there were not two happier, or better behaved children. We will now go back to the pleasant green meadows, where we left them on their way home. Fanny was looking very serious, when Frank said: "Are you tired, sister? If you are, I will carry you pick-a-back back." "Oh, no, I am not one single bit tired." "Then what makes you look so sober?" "I was wishing that I could have one of those little birds to love, and to take care of always. I do think that it would make me very happy to have a dear little bird, that would know me, and turn his bright, black eyes up to me, like Mary Day's little canary. When she calls, "Billy, Billy," he turns his yellow head, first one side, then the other; and when he sees her, he sings _so_ sweetly! Oh, couldn't you get just one of those little birdies for me, Frank?" Frank looked very thoughtful for a moment, and Fanny spoke again. "Just one; you know there are six little ones." "I know there are six, Fanny; but you heard how the poor birds cried and scolded, when I only peeped into the nest; and if I took one away, what would they do?" Fanny thought an instant, and then said: "I did not have six mammas, I only had one; and God took my mamma away from me, and I am sure the birds could spare me one little one, when they have six, better than I could spare my mamma, when I only had one." Fanny's reasoning seemed very correct to Frank; he was not old enough to explain the difference to her; so, promising to bring her one of the birds, he left her, and ran back, over the meadows, while Fanny kept on her way home, because she knew her grandmother always expected them earlier on Saturday afternoons. But though she made haste, it was quite sundown when she reached home. The snow white cloth was spread upon the table for tea, and Sally was cutting the fresh rye bread, as Fanny entered the room. Her grandmother sat by the little table, between the windows, and looked up to welcome Fanny, but missing Frank, she asked where he was. "He has gone back to the woods, grandmother, to get"----then Fanny hesitated, for she remembered how often she had been told, that it was wicked to rob the bird's nest, and she had not thought it would be stealing the bird, until now. She felt ashamed to tell her grandmother, and so she hurried through the room, and went to the closet to hang up her sun bonnet. Pretty soon she heard the garden gate swing to, and she ran out into the back yard, to meet Frank, who was hurrying along with a sober face, very different from his usual joyous expression. He held his cap together with both hands, and Fanny's heart beat hard, when she heard the feeble plaint of the poor imprisoned bird. "Oh, Frank, I am so sorry," were the first words that she said, "I did not think that it would be stealing, until I got home, and then I was ashamed to tell grandmother what you had gone back for. Oh, I am so sorry." "And so am I," said Frank; "it almost made me cry to hear the poor birds fret so. When I took it away, one of them flow close around my head, and when I ran on to get away from it, I hit my foot against a stone, and stumbled down, and I am afraid I hurt the bird. All the way across the meadow, I could hear the old birds crying so sorrowfully, "chick-a-dee-dee-dee," and it made my heart ache so, that I should have carried it back, if it had not been for you." "Oh, dear, I wish you had. It is too late to carry it back to-night, and what will grandmother say to us." "Supposing we don't tell her to-night, and to-morrow morning we will get up early, and carry it back, and then we can tell her all about it." "No, we can't do that, Frank, for to-morrow is Sunday, and grandmother does not let us go into the woods on Sunday; oh, what shall we do?" Frank now uncovered the bird, and Fanny took it gently in her hand, smoothed the glossy black head, and the brown wings, but it gave her no pleasure, for the poor little thing wailed pitifully, and looked so frightened out of its dark hazel eyes. All the time that they had been talking, their grandmother had been standing at the open window, close by them, but the vines hid her from sight, and they did not know that she was there. When they went into the house, they did not see her, and so they carried the bird up stairs, into Fanny's room, and made a nest out of soft wool, and placed the little bird in it; but it fluttered out, and Frank saw that one of its wings was broken. Then he knew that he must have broken it when he fell, and the tears came to his eyes, as he laid it in the nest again, and covered it over with the wool. "Let us go and tell grandmother all about it," said he, "for, perhaps, she may know how to mend the broken wing." Just then they heard Sally calling them to supper, and they went down stairs, and sat down at the table. But the bowls of new milk remained untouched. They felt too sad to eat, for Fanny could hear the low plaint of the bird, in the room above; and still louder sounded in Frank's memory, the sad, "chick-a-dee-dee-dee," of the mourning mother. "Why do you not eat your supper, children?" inquired their grandmother, kindly. Fanny burst into tears, but Frank answered: "I have done something very naughty, grandmother, and we both feel too bad to eat. We did not want to tell you to-night, for we knew it would make you unhappy to hear that we had done wrong, but we cannot keep it to ourselves any longer." "Frank would not have done it, if it had not been for me, grandmother," sobbed Fanny; "but I wanted a little bird so badly, and I forgot that it was wicked, and I teazed Frank to go back to the woods, and get me one, and now I am so sorry." Their grandmamma looked very grave, but she answered, "You have done right, my children, to tell me about it. I should have been still more grieved if you had concealed it from me. As it is, I feel sorry for you, for I know how much you are both suffering for your thoughtlessness: now, try to eat your supper, and we will take good care of the bird to-night, and to-morrow morning, before church, I will send Sally with Frank, to carry it back again, for it will be an errand of mercy to the poor little bird." The children were very much relieved by their grandmother's sympathy. After supper, they brought the bird down, and showed her the broken wing, and Frank told how he feared he had broken it. Sally tried to feed it, but it would not eat; and the children felt very sad again, when they found that the wing could not be mended. After carefully laying the bird, with the wool, in the basket, Sally prepared the children for bed. Then their grandmother read to them a chapter from the Bible, after which they sung, in sweet tones, this little evening hymn, which I will copy here, as it is such a good one, for all little children to repeat: EVENING HYMN. "LORD, I have passed another day, And come to thank thee for thy care; Forgive my faults in work and play, And listen to my evening prayer. Thy favor gives me daily bread, And friends, who all my wants supply; And safely now I rest my head, Preserved and guarded by thine eye. Look down in pity, and forgive Whatever I've said or done amiss; And help me, every day I live, To serve thee better than in this. Now, while I speak, be pleased to take A helpless child beneath thy care, And condescend, for Jesus' sake, To listen to my evening prayer." Then Frank and Fanny kissed each other 'good night,' and Frank went to his little room, which was close to the one where Sally slept with Fanny. CHAPTER III. THE BIRD'S FUNERAL The next morning was a beautiful one. The air seemed full of fragrance, and the sunshine rippled down through the leaves of the old elm tree, falling in little golden waves of light upon the vines, that were twined about the doorway and casements of the cottage. Fanny was awakened from her sleep, by the joyous notes of a robin, that had perched close beside her window, and was shaking the dew in showers from the leaves, with every motion of his restless little wings. She sprang out upon the floor, fancying for a moment, that it was her chick-a-dee, that was singing so merrily; and she hastened to the basket, and carefully lifted the wool. She was grievously disappointed, for the poor bird lay stretched upon its back, and when she lifted it, she found it was quite cold and dead! Her little bosom swelled, and large tears gushed from her eyes. It was more than she could bear, and when Sally came into the room, a few moments afterwards, she found her sobbing bitterly. [Illustration: THE ROBIN.] Frank was in the room below, studying over his Sabbath school lesson, but when he heard his sister crying, he dropped his book, and hastened up to her. Sally had told him, that the bird was dead; and he, too, felt very badly about it, but he could not bear to hear his sister grieve so. "Don't cry so, dear sister," he said, "I will earn some money, and buy you a Canary, like Mary Day's." "No, no, Frank; I don't want any more birds; and, O, how I do wish I had never wanted this one," and then she cried again, as though her little heart was breaking. It was some time before she was at all pacified, and even then, the long sighs seemed almost to choke her. As Sally said, she was, indeed, 'very much afflicted.' After breakfast, her grandmother, to divert her mind, took her in her lap, and read to her Bible stories, until the first bell rang for church. Then Fanny was dressed in a neat lawn, and her long curls were fastened back, under her simple straw bonnet; and taking hold of Frank's hand, they walked to church with their grand-parents. Several times during the sermon, Fanny's lips quivered, and tears started to her eyes, but she looked at the minister, and tried very hard, to forget the little dead chick-a-dee. After church, they staid to Sunday school. When they went home, Fanny asked if they might not stay at home that afternoon, so as to go down in the woods, and bury the bird. Her grandmother told her that that would not be right; and Fanny said very earnestly, "Why not, grandmother? Wouldn't that be an errand of mercy?" This made her grandmother smile; but she told her that the poor bird's sufferings were now over, and that it was to shorten them, that she had given her consent to Frank's carrying it into the woods, on the Sabbath. After dinner, they all went to church again, but Fanny was very warm and tired; so her grandmother took off her bonnet, and laid her head in her lap, and she soon fell asleep. Just as the minister sat down, after finishing his sermon, Fanny turned restlessly, and said, "poor, dear little birdie." The church was so still, that though she spoke low, she was heard all around. It made the children smile, but Frank blushed, and felt almost as badly as his grandmother did. She woke Fanny up, and soon after service was over, and they walked slowly home again. Then Frank and herself sang little hymns, and read their Sabbath school books until sundown, when their grandmother gave them permission to walk in the garden. They talked a great deal about the bird. Frank said he would make a coffin for it, and Fanny picked mullen leaves to wrap around it. The next morning they woke up very early, and Frank nailed some pieces of shingles together, and Fanny folded the leaves about the bird, and laid it in. Then she picked rose buds, and put them around, and every thing was prepared for the little bird's funeral. But their grandmother said there was too much dew on the grass for them to go down through the meadows that morning; so they borrowed a piece of black cambric from Sally, and spread it over the little box, which they called the coffin; and Frank darkened the windows, as he remembered they had done when his mother died. Then they left the bird alone, and went down stairs to breakfast, after which they studied their lessons until school time. At school, they looked very solemn all the forenoon. Their teacher noticed it, and asked Fanny what was the matter. "We are going to a bird's funeral, Miss Norton," said Fanny, "and we feel very afflicted." The teacher had to bite her lips to keep from smiling. Frank noticed it, and said, "It was Sally, Miss Norton, that put that into Fanny's head; but we have reason to feel badly, for if it had not been for us, the little bird would have been alive now." When they had told Miss Norton about it, she said that she did not wonder that they should feel bad, and the children saw that they had her sympathy also. At noon, their grandmother thought there would scarcely be time for them to go down to the woods, and back, between dinner and school time; so the funeral was again postponed. But after school was out in the afternoon, the children hastened home, and bearing the little box, still covered with the black cambric, they walked slowly down through the meadows, stopping just at the edge of the woods, a few rods from the tree that contained the nest, from which Frank had taken the little bird only two days before. When they heard the notes of the brother and sister birds, Fanny thought, that had it not been for her, the little one that they carried would have been chirping as merrily as they, and this made her cry again. She sat down on a little mount of grass, and watched Frank as he prepared the grave. It was a beautiful spot. The broad, green boughs of a noble oak shaded them from the sun, and a placid little brook wound along through the long grass and brake leaves at their feet. Tall stems of blue-bells blossomed around, and modest little daisies sprang from the turf every where. After Frank finished burying the bird, he heaped up the green moss, all about it, and then sat down beside his sister. Putting his arm around her neck, he drew her close to him, while he clasped both of her hands in his. [Illustration: FRANK AND FANNY.] Her eyes still rested upon the little mount of moss beneath which the bird was buried, and the tears were still welling from them. "Don't cry any more, dear Fanny," he said; "don't cry any more, I am sure we have both repented doing so wrong, and we never shall forget how unhappy it has made us. Grandmother has often said that every thing is for the best; and perhaps, this will make us more careful to try to do right--so don't cry any more." "I do try not to cry, Franky, and then I think how sweetly the little bird would have been singing to-day, if it had not been for me, and how badly the papa and mamma birds must have felt, when you took it away, and I can't help crying. And perhaps, the little bird will go to heaven, Frank, and it might see our mamma, and tell her how naughty we had been to take it from its nest, and then she would think we were such bad children--oh, dear;" and Fanny breathed another long sigh. For some time the children sat very quietly, occupied with their own thoughts, but at length Frank proposed that they should gather twigs, and make a fence around the grave. Alter this was completed, it looked very neat, and Frank thought that if the birds could see it, they would think it was a very nice little grave. [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. COUNTRY AMUSEMENTS AND OCCUPATIONS. Frank and Fanny were permitted to keep pigeons. They had a pigeon house at the back of the barn, with windows opening into the yard, which could be entered by going up into the hay loft, and opening a little door. Fanny often went up there to look at the eggs, and play with the young pigeons. Indeed, the old ones were quite tame, and not at all afraid of her. [Illustration: FANNY IN THE PIGEON HOUSE.] All the various occupations of the neighboring farmers were observed by these children with great attention; because they were desirous of gaining information by their own observation. The ploughing of the ground in the spring, and the breaking of it up with the harrow, to prepare it for receiving grain, such as barley, rye, and wheat, were operations which interested them very much, as well as the sowing of the wheat, and harrowing it so as to cover the seed. [Illustration: HOEING CORN.] Then, again, the culture of Indian corn, or maize, was another curious operation. They saw the farmer, after ploughing up the ground, making it into little hillocks with his hoe; each hillock, or hill, as he called it, received a shovel full of manure, before the corn was dropped in, which last operation, Frank and Fanny sometimes assisted their neighbor, Farmer Baldwin, to perform. Afterwards they saw the farmer hoe the corn, loosening the soil round the plant, and cutting up the weeds with his hoe. In summer, they often enjoyed a feast of green corn, roasted or boiled, and when it was gathered, in autumn, they assisted the farmer in husking it. [Illustration: SHEEP WASHING.] Farmer Baldwin's sheep were objects of great interest to the children, and the little lambs they very justly regarded as types of purity and innocence. When the season of sheep washing and shearing came, they went over to the farmer's, and witnessed these amusing operations with great delight. [Illustration: SHEEP SHEARING] Very sorrowful were they when they heard of the disaster which happened to the good farmer's flock, by the great snow storm. The sheep were in a pasture quite distant from the village, late in autumn, when just before night there came up a sudden and violent storm of snow, and Farmer Baldwin and his hired men got the flock home with some difficulty, losing several lambs in the snow. [Illustration: FARMER BALDWIN'S DISASTER.] When the season for harvesting the grain arrived, the children's services were sometimes required by the farmer, to carry the dinner to the reapers, out in the field where they were reaping the wheat with sickles, and binding it into sheaves. An expedition of this kind was quite delightful to Frank, who always felt proud of being useful, and never neglected an opportunity of rendering good service to the farmer. His good conduct in this respect, not only gained him the respect and good will of Farmer Baldwin, but it was well requited, when the apples and pears were gathered, when the potatoe crop came in; and when the festive occasions of Thanksgiving day, Christmas, and the New Year, served to remind the worthy farmer, that a brace of fowls, or a turkey, might be acceptable to Frank's grandmother. Very light was Frank's step when he carried the reapers their dinner. Sometimes he was accompanied by his sister on this useful errand, but he went oftener alone. But before he returned home, he made a point of picking up a few dry sticks for kindling wood, which he brought home on his shoulder. [Illustration: REAPING.] [Illustration] This was not the only service which Frank rendered to the farmer. He often ran of errands for him when out of school, and the farmer was kind to him in return. He predicted that Frank would turn out a useful and industrious man. He was also useful to his parents. One of his regular occupations was to drive the cow to pasture, early every morning, and to drive her home again in the evening, after school was done. [Illustration] Farmer Baldwin had a large hop field, which, when the hops were in full bloom, was a very beautiful sight. Here the children were allowed to wander about at pleasure, their favorite resort being under a spreading oak in the hop field. Here they often spent a Saturday afternoon, reading, or making rush baskets, or wreaths of flowers, and listening to the sweet singing of the redstart, whose nest was in the top of the oak. Very sweet and plaintive was the music of the redstart. [Illustration: THE REDSTART.] When the season for hop gathering came, the children had a grand frolic, as this kind of labor, in which they took a part, was a real pleasure to them. The hops were so light and fragrant, and the picking of them was such fun, and so many men and women assisted at the work, and the long summer day was closed with such a grand rural entertainment, when the great table was spread in the farmer's orchard. Frank and Fanny wished that there might be a dozen hop picking frolics every year. [Illustration: HOP PICKING.] [Illustration] CHAPTER V. JACK MILLS. I should not omit to tell you, Mrs. Hamilton was bringing Fanny up to be very industrious, both with her sewing and knitting, and Mr. Hamilton taught Frank to weed the garden, and saw wood, and gather chips; and the children were as busy as bees, when at work, and as happy as birds, when at play. I have told you that Frank seldom played with any one beside his sister; but sometimes when she was busy, after his work was dune, he would cross over a corner of the orchard, to a little brown house that stood near by, to play with a boy that lived there, with his mother. Mrs. Mills was a widow; but Jack was very rough and wild, and Frank's grandmother did not like to have him go there often. One day Jack called to him from the orchard, and Frank, who had just finished his work, ran over to meet him. "Look here," said Jack, "see what I've got," and he held out his cap, which was nearly half full of bird's eggs. Frank looked at them with surprise. "You certainly couldn't have been so wicked as to rob the birds' nests of all those," said Frank. "Couldn't I?" said Jack, and he gave a long, low whistle; "may be _you_ never did nothing of the kind." "I never took eggs away from a bird in my life," said Frank; but he held his head down, for he thought of the little bird he had taken only a few weeks before. So he told Jack about it, and how sorry he had felt ever since; but Jack laughed at him, and said: "Ah, you are nothing but a chicken-hearted fellow, any way; if you wasn't always tied to your sister, you might come with us fellows, and have some fun. Me, and Joe Miller, and Sam White, is going down the meadows, to hunt for more this afternoon, and if you'll come, we'll give you some." "No, indeed; I wouldn't go for any thing; and I do wish you would let the poor birds be. Just think how badly you'd feel if you was a bird, and had a nice little nest of your own, to find your eggs all stolen." "Ho, ho," laughed Jack, "here's a young parson, preaching to me, who wasn't too good to help himself to a bird, a few weeks ago, when the old ones did all they could to keep him away from the nest. Why didn't you think then how you'd feel if you'd been the bird?--ha?" Frank did not answer; but he thought that he had suffered sufficiently for his thoughtlessness, without being taunted with it. He tried to persuade Jack not to rob any more birds' nests; but Jack only laughed at him, and told him to run home to his sister, like a good little boy. Frank was the oldest, and he felt rather vexed at the sneering way in which Jack spoke; but he made no angry answer. At school time, Frank and Fanny went to school again; but Jack played truant, as he had done in the morning, and went down in the meadows, with the boys, whom he had told Frank he was going with. Miss Norton asked Frank, if he knew what had kept Jack away from school all day, and he repeated to her, as nearly as he could, the conversation which had taken place between them that noon. The next morning, when Jack came into school rather late, Miss Norton called him up to her, and told him to read out loud, this piece, from the Village Reader. "HAVE YOU SEEN MY DARLING NESTLINGS?" A Mother robin cried: "I cannot, cannot find them, Though I've sought them far and wide "I left them well this morning, When I went to seek their food; But I found upon returning, I'd a nest, without a brood. "Oh, have you naught to tell me To ease my aching breast, About my tender offspring, That I left within my nest? "I have called them in the bushes, And the rolling stream beside: Yet they come not at my bidding And I fear they all have died." "I can tell you all about them," Said a little wanton boy, "For 'twas I that had the pleasure Your nestlings to destroy. "But I did not think their mother Her little ones would miss, Or ever come to hail me With a wailing sound like this. "I did not know your bosom Was formed to suffer woe, And mourn your murdered offspring, Or I had not grieved you so. "I ever shall remember, The plaintive sounds I've heard; And never'll kill a nestling To pain another bird." Jack was very much confused when he commenced reading. As he read on, he looked more and more ashamed, and when he finished, his face was almost crimson. Miss Norton was glad to see this, for she thought that it showed, that he was not entirely hardened; so she suffered him to go to his seat, without saying any more to him, hoping that this would be a sufficient reproof. Before school was out, at noon, however, all Jack's mortification had vanished, and in its stead, he indulged in very angry feelings towards Frank for he was sure that Frank had told of him. "I'll fix him," he said to his seat-mate, Harry Day, a merry little fellow, whose roguish blue eyes looked quite capable of assisting where there was any mischief going on. "What'll you do?" said Harry. "Why, I'll get him mad, and then I'll lick him; and I know how I'll get him mad." So Jack, in accordance with his wicked resolution, wrote in very large letters upon a slip of paper, 'BOY-GIRL;' on another slip, he wrote, 'GIRL-BOY,' and giving Harry the one he had first written, he told him to pin it on to Fanny's back, when they stopped in the entry, to get their bonnets and caps. At the same time, he slily pinned the other on Frank's roundabout. So when Frank and Fanny went along out of school, as usual, the little children, amused by the slips of paper, ran after them, some calling, 'boy-girl,' and others, 'girl-boy,' Frank did not know what all this meant; but he kept on without looking back. "Look behind you," cried Harry Day, as he ran up to Fanny. Jack kept some distance behind, and said nothing. "Look behind you, I say," shouted Harry again. Fanny was turning to look, when Frank said to her in a low tone, without moving his head, "Don't look around, Fanny, and don't mind what they call us, for I don't care." [Illustration: JACK MILLS'S TRICK.] So they kept on, side by side, the children still calling after them, and when they got away from the school house, Jack's voice was heard among the rest, shouting, 'tell-tale,' 'girl-baby,' and other provoking nicknames. Frank took no notice of them, until his sister stooped down to pick a flower, and as she did so, he saw the paper on her back. "Who did this?" he said, and as he turned toward the children, he saw Jack throwing a stone. The stone flew past him, hitting his sister in the face. Fanny screamed, and the blood started from her nose. Jack ran, and Frank's first impulse was to spring after him; but he did not know how badly his sister might be hurt, and so he staid with her, and wiped the blood from her face. The children crowded around, and Harry Day unpinned the pieces of paper, for he felt ashamed, for the part he had taken. All the while, Frank's heart was full of angry feeling toward Jack, and he could not have kept them down, if he had not had his sister to take care of. He was very glad to find that she was not seriously hurt; for the stone had not hit her with its full force, only grazing her nose, between the eyes. When they got home, Fanny told her grandmother all about it; but Frank did not say a word. It was plain to be seen by the way in which his head moved, as he walked the floor, that he was striving to obtain a mastery over his passions. After a while he said, "I wish I could fight Jack Mills, grandmother." "My dear Frank," she answered, "you have forgotten the golden rule." "No, I haven't forgotten it, grandmother; for if Jack Mills had a sister, and I had thrown a stone at her, he might have fought me, and welcome." "But now that Jack has thrown the stone, cannot you set him the example of overcoming evil with good?" "I don't know, grandmother; I think it would be very hard." At dinner, Frank asked his grandfather, why kings went to war with each other. He told him, that it was generally to defend their rights. "Well, grandfather," said he, "if it isn't wrong for them to fight, then I don't see why it wouldn't be right for me to fight Jack Mills, and I know I should feel a great deal happier after I had done it." His grandfather told him, that it would be very wrong for him to fight with Jack, and that it would make him no happier. He also told him, that Jack had not had the same influences around him, which he had always had, and that if he retaliated, he would be even worse than Jack, who had never been instructed so faithfully in what was right and wrong. Frank listened without appearing to be convinced. Then his grandmother read him the last eleven verses of the fifth chapter of Matthew; but Frank still said, that he was afraid he could not pray for Jack, and he knew he could not love him. Mrs. Mills was very poor. She took in washing when she could get it, and when she could not, she went around from house to house, to wash by the day, where she was wanted. Mrs. Hamilton often sent the children to her, with vegetables, or a loaf of fresh bread, or some warm cakes; and sometimes a pie, or a piece of meat, and many other little niceties. That afternoon, she prepared a basket, with a paper of tea, and some eggs, and when the children came from school, she told them that they might go and carry it to Mrs. Mills. Frank did not look very much pleased at first, but when he saw Fanny lift the basket so willingly, he took it from her, and said, "You do right, grandmother, to send me to do good for evil, and I will try not to say any thing naughty to Jack." His grandmother told him, that she was not afraid to trust him. So the children went along through the orchard, and when they came in sight of the low, brown house, they saw, that the door which generally stood open, was closed. Frank opened it, and looked in. There was a bed in the room, and Mrs. Mills was lying down. She looked very pale and tired; but when she saw the children, she welcomed them, and asked them to come in. She tried to sit up in bed, but her head ached so, that she was obliged to lie down again, and give up the attempt. She was really quite ill. When Fanny found Mrs. Mills was sick, she said, "Do let me make a nice cup of tea for you. Sally says it is so good for a head ache." "I haven't any tea, my child," she answered, "or I should have made some when I finished my washing." "But grandmother has sent you some, and here it is, just the very thing you want; now, do lie down, and let us fix it for you, it would make me _so happy_." Mrs. Mills thought Fanny was too young; but she could not resist her pleading tones, and so Frank raked the embers of the fire together, picked up some chips, and heaped them on, and then filled the little tea kettle, which was soon singing away merrily. Fanny took down a cup and saucer from the dresser, and drawing a little stand near the bed, she placed them on it, then measured out her tea into an earthern tea pot, as she had often seen her grandmother do; and the water boiled, Frank poured it on for her, and they put it down to draw, as Mrs. Mills told them. After a while, Jack came whistling into the house; but when he saw Frank and Fanny there, he looked as though he wished he was any where else. Fanny went towards him, holding one little finger up. "Hush, Jack, don't whistle so," she said, "your mother has the sick head ache, and we are making a cup of tea to cure her." Jack looked at her in surprise. He did not know what to make of it all. There was the mark on her face, where the stone which he had thrown that noon, had grazed the skin, and yet, here she was, making tea for his sick mother. He did not say a word, but turned and went out of the house. Frank thought he saw something very like tears glistening in his eyes, and he acknowledged to himself, that his grandmother was right, when she had told him that he would be happier if he returned good for evil. Mrs. Mills sat up, and drank her tea, and then Fanny washed the cup and saucer, and she felt very large to think she was able to do it. Then she put her bonnet on, and Mrs. Mills told her that she should tell her grandmother what a kind little girl she was, and how much good she had done her, and Fanny and Frank both felt very happy. As they went out of the door, Fanny bent her head down to smell of a beautiful damask rose that was blooming on a bush near the house. They walked along without seeing Jack, but he saw them. When they were half way through the orchard, he came running up behind them, and reaching out his hand, and touching Fanny, said: "Won't you take this rose." She turned around, and saw that he had picked for her the very rose that she had admired so much, and as she took it from him, he whispered, "I hope you don't think that I meant to hurt you this noon, when I threw that stone--I wouldn't hurt you for the world. I only threw it to make you look around." Fanny answered him very pleasantly, and then he bade them good night, and went back to his mother. When the children reached home, they told their grandmother what a happy time they had had, and Fanny said if she was a king, and another king wanted to fight with her, she would send some eggs and tea, and see if that wouldn't make them good, just like it made Jack Mills. [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. THE NUTTING EXPEDITION. One Saturday afternoon, Frank and his sister went into the woods, provided with little baskets and bags, to gather walnuts. As they left the village, they were regaled with a song from the Golden Crested Wren, who was perched on the branch of an apple tree, and seemed to be lamenting the rapid approach of winter. [Illustration: THE GOLDEN CRESTED WREN.] Scarcely had they got into the thick part of the woods, where the walnuts were abundant, when they found that they were not the only nut gatherers on the ground. The grey squirrels were on the alert, scampering about upon the tall trees, where they were quite at home. Their nests are in hollow trees, high up from the ground, and here they delight to store up the sweet nuts, and acorns, for their subsistence. Frank told Fanny some wonderful stories about these squirrels, which he had heard from Farmer Baldwin: how some thousands of them once set out in company, on an expedition from New York State, to Vermont, and swam across the Hudson; and how they were so fatigued and wet, after crossing the river, that many of those who escaped drowning, were killed with clubs by the people, on the eastern shore of the river. [Illustration: THE GREY SQUIRREL.] Fanny also knew some stories about the grey squirrel, which she had read in a book, which she got out of the school library--how they sometimes crossed rivers on chips, and bits of bark, using their large bushy tails for sails. Frank doubted this; but they both agreed to believe what is really the fact, that these animals sometimes migrate from one part of the country to another, in very large numbers. [Illustration: THE YELLOW THROAT.] When the children had half filled their baskets and bags, they sat down under the shade of a walnut tree, to eat some dinner, which they had brought along in one of the baskets. During this frugal repast they were entertained with the song of a Yellow Throat, one of the very sweetest of all the wild birds of the forest. He loves the thickest shades of the wood; and although the children were perfectly charmed with his music, he was so shy, that they could not get a single look at him. After dinner, the children strolling further into the wood, came suddenly upon a party of their school fellows, who were in the woods for a day's sport. They were sitting under a tree, telling stories to each other. [Illustration: THE STORY TELLING PARTY.] Frank and Fanny were received by this lively party with loud shouts of welcome. They sat down and listened to one or two stories after which Fanny was invited by one of the little girls, to go and see a fine swing, which the party had put upon one of the trees of the forest. The two girls enjoyed themselves in swinging here for half an hour, while Frank remained with the party who were so much engrossed with the stories as not to miss the two little girls who were enjoying the swing. [Illustration: THE SWING.] When Fanny returned from the swinging expedition, the children took leave of their friends, and returned alone to the business of filling their bags and baskets with nuts. This they accomplished before sunset, and joyfully set forward for home. Leaving the skirts of this forest, they saw a little boy reclining under a tree with a dog by his side. The boy was leaning his head rather dejectedly on his hand, and seemed rather tired. On the children inquiring how he came there, he replied, that he had been spending the whole day with his dog, vainly endeavoring to catch a woodchuck, which he had seen running into the woods, in the morning. Frank kindly condoled with him on his disappointment; but, at the same time, advised him to seek some more profitable employment in future. [Illustration: THE WOODCHUCK HUNTER.] After they had left the boy, Frank and Fanny talked together very sagely on the importance of making a proper use of time, and the folly of spending it in the hunting of wild animals, like the woodchuck, which are very hard to catch. Just before reaching the village, they met a party of boys playing at soldiers. They had their drum, and fife, colors, and wooden guns, and tin swords, and flourished away in all the "pride, pomp, and circumstance" of military display. [Illustration: PLAYING AT SOLDIERS.] This sight afforded Frank another theme for remark. His conversations with Farmer Baldwin had inspired him with disgust for this kind of amusement. He hated war, and was not pleased with any thing which reminded him of it. Besides the nonsense of this soldier-playing, he said there was an objection to it, as inspiring a taste for real soldier life, and for amusing one's self with gun powder; and he told Fanny a story of a boy, who, in firing off a little brass cannon, which split in pieces, received one of the pieces in his neck, which cut off a large artery, and caused his death in a few minutes. [Illustration: DANGEROUS SPORT.] Before Frank had finished his comments on this sad affair, they reached home; and so ended the nutting expedition, which, Frank thought, was not quite so profitable as helping Farmer Baldwin to gather his apples. [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. MARY DAY. Mary Day's father was rich. He lived in an elegant house, kept a carriage and fine horses, and Mary had beautiful dresses, and a great variety of play-things. Now I suppose you think that all these things made Mary very happy. But it was not so. Mary was a discontented little girl. She was never satisfied with any thing that she had, but was always wishing for something new. Even the flock of beautiful tame rabbits, which her father had given, afforded her but little pleasure, because she was of a discontented disposition. [Illustration: MARY DAY'S RABBITS.] Now, it so happened, that Mary had been with Fanny several times to the little 'chick-a-dee's' grave, and she told her mother, that she wished she had a bird's grave of her own, like Fanny Lee's. Her mother told her that Fanny would much rather have a live bird, like Mary's Canary. But Mary persisted in saying, that a bird's grave was a great deal nicer than a bird, which had to be waited on so much as her Canary did, although it was Mary's mother who took care of her linnet. [Illustration: MARY DAY'S CANARY.] But Mary's love was soon put to the test, for her Canary sickened and died; and then she found that she missed its cheerful chirrup, and the little spot where it was buried, was no source of pleasure to her, for it but served to remind her of her foolish wish. It was about this time that their minister, Mr. Herbert, returned from a visit to New York, and he brought with him, for Fanny Lee, a beautiful bird, called a linnet. Mr. Herbert had heard her when she spoke aloud in church, and said, "poor, dear, little birdie;" and he had inquired of Miss Norton about her, and she had told him what a good little girl she was, and how much the death of the bird had grieved her. [Illustration: FANNY'S LINNET.] He carried the bird in a cage to Fanny, and she was so delighted, she could scarcely speak. Mr. Herbert told her, that she need not fear that the bird would be unhappy, for it had been born in a cage, and had never been accustomed to any other kind of life. Then he told her where to put the seed, and the water, and the sugar, and how to clean the cage; and Fanny listened attentively, and thanked him so earnestly, while her dark, blue eyes sparkled with delight, that Mr. Herbert felt more than repaid for the trouble he had taken in getting the bird. The next morning Mary Day stopped, in her way to school. When she saw the cage hanging amid the vines, and heard the clear, sweet notes of the linnet, her heart was stirred with envy. She was a very selfish little girl, or it would have pleased her to see Fanny so happy with her bird; but she looked very cross and sour, as she said, "So you have got a bird, just because mine is dead." "Oh, no," answered Fanny, "I never thought of having a bird; but dear, good Mr. Herbert, brought it to me yesterday. I am so sorry that yours is dead." "You needn't be sorry for me," said the petulant Mary, "I've got plenty of things that you haven't got, and I'd be ashamed to wear such mean clothes as you do." Poor Fanny looked down at her clean calico dress, and she saw that it was faded and patched. A bright rose color flitted over her cheeks, and when she looked up, tears stood in her eyes. Mary did not say any more; but she watched Fanny all the forenoon, and saw that she had made her feel very unhappy. When they went out to play, she went up to Fanny, and said, "I will give you one of my fine dresses for your little linnet, and then you needn't wear that old patched calico any more." "No, no," answered Fanny, "I would not sell my bird for all the dresses in the world." This made the selfish, naughty Mary more angry than ever; and she went around whispering to all the girls to look at the patches in Fanny Lee's dress. Some of them laughed with Mary, and poor Fanny felt very much hurt and grieved. After school, that noon, Frank found her crying alone in her room, and for the first time in her life, she refused to tell him what was the matter. In the afternoon, after school was out, Fanny did not stay, as she sometimes did, to play on the green with the children; but she took her book, and turned down into the meadow path alone. Frank felt very sad when he saw that his sister avoided him; but he followed her into the woods, and found her sitting in her favorite spot. It was autumn, and the weather was cooler. Fanny had spread her shawl down upon a log, and she was now sitting upon it, with her open book in her lap; but her eyes were bent upon the ground, thoughtfully. A merry little wren was flitting around and above her, but her cheerful notes were now unheeded. [Illustration: THE WREN.] Frank sat down beside her, and putting one arm about her neck, he clasped her hand tenderly. Resting his head upon his other hand, he looked into her face, and said, [Illustration: FRANK CONSOLING FANNY.] "Why won't my dear sister tell me what has made her feel so badly." She did not want to converse, but when Frank told her that he should be very unhappy if he did not know the cause, she told him all about it. Frank felt very sorry for his sister, and at first bad feelings rose in his heart; but he had learned how to conquer them; so he talked to her, and told her how much happier they were than Mary Day, and how disagreeable she made herself, with her selfishness and her vanity; and then he told her that he had read in a book somewhere, that it was better to live in a mud hovel, with a kind heart, and a cheerful temper like hers, than to live in a palace without it. When they went home, Fanny was as happy as ever again, for she found that her heart was very much lightened by sharing her troubles with her brother. The next day when they went to school, Mary Day was not there, and during the forenoon, Miss Norton received a note from Mary's mother, saying, that she had been thrown from a carriage, and one of her limbs broken. Fanny felt so sorry for her, that she forgot all the unkind things which she had said the day before, and as soon as school was out, she hurried home, and taking down her cage, she started for Mr. Herbert's, without saying any thing to her grand-parents, or to Frank. She was almost breathless when she reached the parsonage. Mr. Herbert was gathering some grapes in the garden, and as soon as Fanny saw him, she said, "Please, Mr. Herbert, let me give my linnet to Mary Day, her Canary is dead, and she has broken her leg, and she wants this very badly, and I can spare it, for I can go in the woods and hear the birds sing, while poor Mary has to lie in bed, and if I should get very home sick often, dear Linny, I can go and listen at her windows, and hear him sing." Little Fanny chatted so fast, that Mr. Herbert could not help smiling, although he was very sorry to hear of poor Mary's misfortune. He told her that she might give it to Mary to keep while she was sick, if she thought it would cheer her any; but he said, that he should wish Fanny to have it again, after Mary should recover; for he felt more confidence in her, that she would take good care of the little bird. Then he put his hat on, and went to Mr. Day's house, and told them how she had wished to give the bird to Mary, but that he had only consented to her lending it. They all thought that she was a very good girl; and Mary told Fanny that she might take home any of her play things. But Fanny did not wish for them, and Mary thought it very strange that she should be willing to give her the bird, when she was so fond of it. It was great company to Mary, during her confinement to the house, and when she was able to go to school again, the bird was returned to Fanny willingly, for Mary had learned to love her very much, and she often felt sorry that she should ever have hurt the feelings of so good a girl. Mr. Herbert always spoke of Frank and Fanny with a great deal of love, for he thought them the most affectionate and dutiful children that he had ever known. He foretold that they would become useful and respectable when they should grow up; and in this respect he was perfectly right. Frank owns a very large farm, purchased with the wages of his own industry; and Fanny is the happy, busy, and industrious little wife of worthy Farmer Baldwin's only son. Good children are always beloved, for they make every one happy around them, and they are happy themselves. I hope those who read this little tale, will try to be kind and forgiving, like Frank and Fanny Lee. A kind, friendly disposition, and a willingness to forgive rather than resent injuries, is one which cannot fail to make us happy and beloved by our friends in this world; and without it we can not be happy in the world which is to come. [Illustration] [Illustration: FRANK and FANNY.] 
15954	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 15954-h.htm or 15954-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/9/5/15954/15954-h/15954-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/9/5/15954/15954-h.zip) MARY JANE--HER VISIT by CLARA INGRAM JUDSON Author of "Mary Jane--Her Book," "Mary Jane's Kindergarten," "Mary Jane Down South," "Mary Jane's City Home," "Mary Jane in New England," etc. Illustrated by Frances White Publishers Barse & Hopkins New York, N. Y. Newark, N. J. 1918 [Frontispiece: "'Thirty minutes to Glenville!' the voice of the porter said."] CONTENTS MARY JANE'S ARRIVAL EXPLORING THE FARM THE HUNT FOR EGGS THE MYSTERIOUS BUNDLES GARDENING WITH GRANDFATHER THE GARDEN THIEF MARY JANE'S FAMILY COUSIN JOHN'S VISIT GRANDFATHER'S TREAT LEARNING TO COOK THE STRAWBERRY SOCIABLE BURR HOUSES EARNING MONEY THE PICNIC AT FLATROCK HOME AGAIN ILLUSTRATIONS "'Thirty minutes to Glenville!' the voice of the porter said" . . . . . (Frontispiece) "'We'll make a pattern and cut out our pieces--there's a lot to quilt-making'" "There, before their eyes were the rabbits, five of them" "There were the berry bushes--fairly loaded with shining black-berries" MARY JANE'S ARRIVAL It seemed to Mary Jane that some magic must have been at work to change the world during the night she slept on the train. All the country she knew had hills and valleys and many creeks and woods of pine trees. But when she waked up in the morning and peeped out of the window of her berth, she saw great wide fields and woods that seemed always far away. And the occasional creek that the train rumbled over was small and could be seen a long way off, coming across the fields toward the railroad. And the roads! How funny they were! They came straight and white toward the train, each just exactly as smooth and as regular as the one before. To be sure the country was pretty; yellow buttercups and bright blue flowers bloomed along the track and the fields looked fresh and green in the morning sun. "I think I'm going to like it anyway, even if the hills are all smoothed out," said Mary Jane as she looked at it thoughtfully, "and maybe I'd better put on my shoes and stockings." She rummaged in the funny little hammock that hung over her window, found the shoes and stockings and put them on, and was just wondering if it was time to dress when she heard Dr. Smith's voice outside. "Yes, Sambo, I'm awake," he was saying, "and you may call the young lady." Before Mary Jane had had time to wonder who the "young lady" might be, there was a great shaking of her curtain and the voice of the porter said, "Thirty minutes to Glenville!" Quick as a flash Mary Jane stuck her head out between the curtains and replied, "That's where my great grandmother lives and I'm going to see her!" The porter was vastly surprised ("I guess he thought I was going to sleep all day!" thought Mary Jane scornfully), but before he had a chance to reply anything, Dr. Smith called across, "Good morning, Mary Jane! How did you sleep?" "All the night, just like I do at home," answered Mary Jane, "except one time when they bumped something into my bed--what was it, do you 'spose?" "Most like they put on a new engine," said Dr. Smith. "Now, how long will it take you to dress, my dear?" "Just a tinny while," said Mary Jane, "because I've got my shoes and stockings on now. And when may I wash my face and you put on my hair ribbon?" Dr. Smith stepped out from his berth and looked at Mary Jane in dismay. "You may wash your face any time you like, my dear," he said, "but I can't tie your hair ribbon. I don't know how!" Mary Jane laughed at the funny face he made and then she smiled in her most motherly fashion. "Then it's a good thing I forgot and left it on last night," she said, "and don't you worry, I can perk it up and make it look real tidy." "You're a good little traveler," complimented Dr. Smith. "I'll take you along again. Now let's see who's ready first." Mary Jane put on the rest of her clothes; then she took her little bag, just as her mother had told her to, and went into the dressing room and washed her face and made herself neat and tidy. She got back in time to see the porter make up her bed and she was glad of that because bed-unmaking on a train by daylight seemed even more wonderful and interesting than bed-making the night before. She sat down on the seat across the aisle while he worked, so she could see everything he did. "My mother and I don't make beds that way at home," she announced suddenly. "Sure not," agreed the porter, and then by way of keeping up the conversation, he added, "Like to ride on a train?" "'Deed I do," said Mary Jane happily, "and I like to go see my grandmother--it's my Great-grandmother Hodges I'm going to see, you know. And my mother isn't going and my daddah isn't going because he works and my sister Alice isn't going because she's in school and anybody isn't going but just my Dr. Smith and me 'cause I'm five and that's a big girl." "Well!" exclaimed the porter, and he actually stopped making beds to look at such a big little girl. Mary Jane liked him and started to tell him about Doris and the birthday party and the pretty things in her trunk, but Dr. Smith came back just then and there was no more time for talk. "Got your coat?" he asked, "and your hat and your--everything?" "He put 'em there," said Mary Jane, pointing to the next seat where she had seen the porter put her things, "and my gloves are in my pocket and my bag's all shut." "That's good." said Dr. Smith. "You'd better put your things on now. Here, I'll hold your coat." It was a good thing Mary Jane started putting on her gloves just when she did. For before she had the last button safely tucked in its button hole, the porter had slipped in to a white coat and had picked up her bag and Dr. Smith's big grip and started for the door of the car; the great long train was slowing up at a little station. They got off in such a hurry that Mary Jane hardly had time to say good-by to the kind porter before the train hurried away and some one picked her up and kissed her and exclaimed, "Well, well, well! Such a _big_ girl!" and she found herself kissing dear Grandfather Hodges--she knew him well because he had visited her home and she had a nice, comfortable, "belonging" feeling the minute she saw him. "Now you two stay right here by the car," said Grandfather, "while I get the trunk." And Mary Jane had her first chance to look around. The station wasn't a bit like the station at her home--not a bit. It was a funny little frame house with a platform, out in front. And there wasn't any roof out over where the trains went or anything like that; just the little house and the platform. And instead of the piles of trunks on great trucks that she supposed were in every station, there was only her own little trunk dumped forlornly on the platform. And instead of the many men busy about various duties, there was not a single man, at least not one that Mary Jane could see. Grandfather took the check that Dr. Smith gave him and went into the little station with it. In a second he was back and what do you suppose he did? He picked up her trunk and set it in the back of his waiting automobile just as easy as could be! Mary Jane was that surprised he could see it and he laughed gayly and said, "That's the way we do our baggaging here, Mary Jane. We'll not wait for any sleepy baggage men--not when Grandmother and hot griddle cakes and honey are waiting for us, will we?" And Mary Jane, who was getting hungry enough to find breakfast a most interesting subject, settled down in the front seat beside her grandfather and said, "No, we won't!" Dr. Smith climbed into the back seat beside the trunk and Grandfather started the car and went spinning down the road. "Your roads all know where they're going, don't they?" Mary Jane asked as they got under way. "Yes," replied Grandfather in surprise; "don't yours?" "Not like yours do," said Mary Jane positively; "ours go this way." And with her finger she made some big curves in the air. "Oh!" laughed Grandfather, "you mean that yours are curving because of the hills and that ours are straight. Yes, our roads are pretty straight but you'll like that when you get used to it, because then you can't get lost. There's a road every mile and each road goes just the way it by rights ought to go because there aren't any hills to get in the way." And all the while Grandfather was talking, he was driving the car along the straight road just as fast as could be. "And aren't there any hills before we get to your house?" asked Mary Jane after a while. '"Well," said Grandfather smilingly, as he slowed the car down, "what do you think about that yourself?" Mary Jane looked before her, the way she could see Grandfather wanted her to look, and, right there close, she saw a big, old-fashioned white house. It had a flower bed, a great big round flower bed, in the yard in front of it and a curving driveway along the side. And it had a wide porch all across the front, a porch that had seats and a swing and everything a little girl would like to see on a porch. A lot of windows with green shutters were scattered over the house, and through the windows Mary Jane could see ruffled white curtains at every window. And on the porch of this house stood a pretty, white-haired grandmother, just the sort of a grandmother that belongs to every white house in the country. "I think there aren't any hills because here we are!" exclaimed Mary Jane happily as Grandfather stopped the car by the side steps. Quick as a minute Dr. Smith jumped her out of the car and Grandmother Hodges, for it really was she, just as Mary Jane had guessed, gave her a hug and a dozen kisses and Mary Jane felt at home from that minute. "Now don't bother about that trunk," said Grandmother briskly. "It can wait! I don't know what Dr. Smith promised we'd have for breakfast this morning, but griddle cakes and honey are what I have ready. Come right on in, Dr. Smith." She took off Mary Jane's coat and hat and laid them on the couch in the living-room, and then they all went in to what Mary Jane thought was the best breakfast she had ever eaten in all her five years. There were bananas and cream, oh, such good cream; and eggs and bacon and griddle cakes and honey. Mary Jane had never eaten honey on griddle cakes before, and she liked it so well that they quite lost count of the number she ate! "If you go on as you're beginning," laughed Dr. Smith, "you'll be so big and fat by the time you go home that I'll have to go along with you and tell them you're Mary Jane Merrill, that's what I will!" "I'll risk their knowing," said Grandmother; "that child was almost starved! If you're in a hurry, don't wait for her. And Father" (she turned to Grandfather Hodges), "you be sure to take Mary Jane's trunk up to her room before you go to the barn. She'll want to open it right away to get out her play dress." By the time Mary Jane was through her breakfast the trunk had been carried upstairs and Grandfather Hodges was off to the barn. "You come out to see me whenever you're ready," he said as he left. "And I'll be running along too," said Dr. Smith, "though I must admit I'd rather stay and help show Mary Jane the farm than to call on sick folks this morning. I'll be by to see you this evening, little girl, to hear what you think of all the new sights." And he started down the road toward his home--it was such a little way that he preferred to walk. "Now, Mary Jane," said Grandmother briskly, "what would you like to play while I do the dishes?" "I'd like to do them too," said Mary Jane promptly. "A little girl five years old do dishes?" exclaimed Grandmother. "'Deed, yes, Grandmother," said Mary Jane, much pleased to think Grandmother was so impressed. "I'm a little _past_ five, you know, and I can work a lot!" "Just think of that," exclaimed Grandmother approvingly. "Then we'll be through in no time. I'll wash and you wipe, and I'll put away. Let me tie this apron over your pretty traveling dress." While they did the work, Mary Jane answered all the questions about Mother and Alice and Father that Grandmother could ask and then, as soon as the last dish was put away the two went upstairs and unpacked the trunk. Such fun as it was to put all her own ribbons and handkerchiefs into the funny little bureau that stood in Mary Jane's room! And to hang up her dresses, or watch Grandmother hang them, in the queer little closet that had a latch like a front gate! Mary Jane was to have a whole room and a whole closet and a bureau all to herself, and she wouldn't feel a bit lonesome because Grandmother's room was right next and the door stood open all the night long, Grandmother said. When everything was in neat order, Mary Jane put on her dark blue rompers and big blue sun hat, and they went downstairs. "There now," said Grandmother; "we're all fixed. And before I do another thing, I'm going to take you all around and show you everything you want to see." They started down the back walk toward the barn that looked so interesting. But they hadn't gone half the way to it before the telephone, back in the house, gave a long, loud ring. EXPLORING THE FARM "There now!" exclaimed Mrs. Hodges impatiently, "that's the 'phone and I'll have to answer and see what's wanted. You walk along slowly, Mary Jane, right over to the barn and through the gate and I'll hurry and catch up with you as quickly as I can." Left alone, Mary Jane walked past the wood shed; passed what seemed to be a tool house because through the open door she saw tools of all sorts and sizes; and on across the yard toward the barn yard gate. "She said 'through the gate,'" thought Mary Jane, "and this must be the gate. I wonder if it opens?" She shook the gate as hard as she could but it didn't open; it didn't even look as though it intended to open; it looked shut for all day, and Mary Jane was almost discouraged about getting into the barn yard till she happened to think of a gate at the back of Doris's yard (her little playmate Doris who lived next door to Mary Jane's own home) that looked surprisingly like this gate. To be sure it was little, and this gate was big and wide, but both had boards crosswise, just right for climbing. "We climbed on Doris's when it wouldn't open," she thought, "so I guess this one will climb too." She put her foot carefully on the first bar--nothing happened; on the second--everything seemed all right; on the third and in a minute she was over and climbing proudly down on the other side. "Grandfather! Grandfather!" she called as she ran gayly toward the barn; "I did it! The gate wouldn't open so I--Oh, dear! Oh! Oh! It's coming! _Grandfather_!" she screamed breathlessly as she saw, coming out of the barn--not Grandfather as she had expected--but a great, fat, grunting _pig_! Mary Jane shrank back toward the gate and how she did wish it was open so she could slip through and shut it tightly behind her. She was afraid to turn her back to the pig long enough to climb over the gate as she had come; all the while she was trying her best to think of some way to get away, that fat, grunting pig was coming closer and closer. Now it was half the length of the barn yard away. Now it seemed to have spied her and was coming straight for her--nose to the ground sniffing and grunting louder than ever. Grandfather, working in the barn, heard and came a-running as fast as ever he could run; and Grandmother, 'way in the house, heard and dropped the receiver and ran out so fast that she was breathless when she reached the little girl. Grandfather was nearest so got to her first. Really, he saw what the matter was as soon as he got outside the barn and he shouted to the pig and flapped his arms in such a comical fashion that Mary Jane hardly knew whether to be afraid of him or to laugh. But the pig had no such doubts. She seemed to know that he meant she should go away. She gave one final snort--almost at Mary Jane's toes--and then turned and went back to the barn as fast as she could waddle. The faster she waddled the more Grandfather flapped, till first thing she knew Mary Jane was laughing and had forgotten all about being afraid. Grandfather reached down and picked her up, and Grandmother, who came through the gate at that minute (she seemed to know how to open it, Mary Jane noticed), patted her and gave her a kiss and a hug. "Did we frighten you first thing, Puss?" asked Grandfather tenderly. "That old Mrs. Pig wouldn't hurt you for anything. She was just trying to get acquainted." "Yes?" replied Mary Jane doubtfully, "but you see I'm not used to getting acquainted that way. I 'spect she wouldn't hurt me, but she didn't _act_ like she wouldn't hurt me," she added. Grandfather threw back his head and laughed at that. "No, she didn't; you're right, Mary Jane! She acted pretty bad. But you shouldn't be here alone before you get used to our family." Grandmother explained about the 'phone calling her back. "And I left the receiver hanging, I came so quickly," she added laughingly. "I guess I'll go back now and hang it up." "Then I'll show Mary Jane around myself," said Grandfather firmly. "She's more important than work, so there!" He set her down beside him, took her hand snugly in his own (and it feels pretty good to have somebody hold your hand when everything is strange, you know that yourself), and they started off. First they went into the barn where they saw Mrs. Pig, grunting still, but standing very meekly in her own corner; and eleven little pigs that grunted such cunning, squeaky little grunts. Mary Jane wasn't afraid of them for one minute. They weren't dirty as Mary Jane supposed pigs always were, not a bit dirty; they were tidy and neat and their little round sides shone like silk. "Oh, I like _them_, Grandfather!" she exclaimed. "Could I play with them someday?" "I thought you didn't like pigs," teased Grandfather. "Oh, but these aren't _pigs_," corrected Mary Jane; "these are _piggies_; nice piggies like in my painting book. I like _them_." "I don't know about playing with them," laughed Grandfather; "we'll have to see. But I'll tell you what you may do; when we're through looking all over the place, you may come back here with me and feed them. Would you like that?" Would she? Mary Jane clapped her hands and wanted to insist on feeding them right that very minute; only, just in time, she remembered that she wasn't to tease. So she slipped her hand back into Grandfather's big one and they went on with their walk. Next they saw Brindle Bess, but Mary Jane didn't like her as well as the little pigs. She switched her tail and looked around at Mary Jane so pointedly that Mary Jane was really relieved when Grandfather slipped around and opened the door and let her wander out to pasture. "She's an awful _big_ cow, isn't she, Grandfather?" said Mary Jane, as the cow ambled off. "Oh, I don't know about that," said Grandfather, not understanding. "Well, she's lots bigger than me when I'm five," said Mary Jane positively. "I think I like little things best." "Then I've the very creature to show you," said Grandfather, "and we might as well see him now because your grandmother will want to show you the chickens when she comes out. We'll lock this door so Mrs. Pig can't get out into the front barn yard again, and then we'll cross the road and I'll show you something you'll like." "Will it be big?" asked Mary Jane as she skipped along beside him. "Middling big and middling little," answered Grandfather. "Will it be brown or gray?" asked Mary Jane, thinking of the cow and the pigs. "Neither," said Grandfather. That puzzled Mary Jane, but she couldn't think of anything else to guess so she kept her eyes carefully ahead as they went down the yard and across the road, in hopes she Would see the surprise quicker that way. Across the road from Grandfather's house was a strip of wooded land which Grandfather had let grow wild. Grandmother loved the trees and the wild flowers and liked to feel that they were near to her. "Oh!" exclaimed Mary Jane as they crossed the road, "see those trees! Are those the surprise?" "My, no!" replied Grandfather; "those are only a couple of wild crab trees--they do look pretty full of bloom as they are, don't they? But the surprise is a real, live, running around surprise. Here, let me boost you over the fence; that's more fun than a dozen gates." He set Mary Jane over the fence and then came in the gate and locked it carefully behind him. "Are you 'fraid it'll get away, is that why you lock the gate?" asked Mary Jane. "Well, it's pretty little to run away," said Grandfather, "but you never can tell, so I lock it to be sure." He took hold of Mary Jane's hand again as he added, "now just behind these trees; and around these bushes; and--" "I see it myself," exclaimed Mary Jane, "and I know what it is--it's a little sheep!" She dropped his hand and ran a few steps toward the lamb she saw grazing a few steps away. But just as she drew near, the lamb spied her and started to meet her. Mary Jane ran quickly back toward her grandfather; it was one thing to go to meet the lamb herself and quite another to have the lamb come and meet her! "Will he grunt?" she asked. "Not a single grunt!" laughed Grandfather. "He's the friendliest little creature you ever saw. See?" Grandfather took Mary Jane's hand and laid it on the soft wool of the lamb's back. "He likes you already and he'll like you even better when you bring him something good to eat. Before very long you will learn to climb this fence all by yourself; then you can come over here and play with him any time you want to." "And pick flowers for my grandmother, too?" asked Mary Jane as she looked at the lovely bluebells that grew around where they were standing. "You're a girl after your grandmother's own heart!" exclaimed Grandfather delightedly; "you can pick all the flowers you like. But let's not stop now. Don't you want to see more of the farm?" Mary Jane did, so they left the lamb with a promise to come again later and went back across the road to the house. There they met Grandmother who declared that she was through with the telephone long ago and wanted to show Mary Jane the chickens herself. "Very well," said Grandfather; "but don't you show her the garden." "I won't," replied Grandmother, and they both looked so mysterious that Mary Jane was sure some surprise was in that garden. "Are you going to show it to me?" she asked her grandfather. "Some day," he replied, "but there's too much else to see this morning. The garden can wait." So Mary Jane and her grandmother went to the chicken yard and Grandfather started for the barn to finish his work. If you've ever seen about a hundred cunning, little, yellow and white and gray chickens, so soft and fluffy they look as though they were Easter trimmings; and dozens of motherly looking hens ambling around and a few big, important-looking roosters crowing in the sunshine, you know just what Mary Jane saw when they reached the chicken yard. For her part, Mary Jane had never seen such a sight before, and she was so surprised and pleased she could hardly believe her eyes. "Are they all _yours_, Grandmother?" she asked in amazement. "I should say they are," laughed Grandmother. "You stand right here--no, that rooster won't come any closer," she added as one big fellow crowed loudly near by. "You stay here till I get some feed and you shall see a funny sight." She slipped into the chicken house and returned in a minute with a small basket of grain. "Here, Mary Jane," she said, "you hold this so--and throw the grain out on the ground so--" and she did just as she wanted Mary Jane to do, "and watch them come!" Mary Jane reached her hand into the basket of grain, took out a handful and threw it far as she could; and then how she did laugh as she saw the chickens scramble for it! "Can I do it again?" she asked delightedly. "All you like till the grain is gone," replied Grandmother. "There now," said Grandmother, after awhile, "we've stayed so long here it's 'most dinner time. Are you hungry, Mary Jane?" Mary Jane started to say no, because she was _sure_ the morning hadn't more than begun, but to her surprise she found she _was hungry_, oh, awfully hungry. "I thought so," laughed Grandmother, who guessed what the little girl was thinking, "and it's most eleven, so we'd better see what we're going to have to eat. How about chicken and biscuits and apple dumplings and cream?" "They're my favorites," said Mary Jane, with a little skip of pleasure. "Every one's my favorite, all of 'em!" So she and Grandmother put away the grain basket and went into the house. THE HUNT FOR EGGS "Now then," said Grandmother when they got into the kitchen, "while I get dinner, we'll talk." "But what's the matter?" asked Mary Jane. "Matter where?" questioned Grandmother. "I don't see anything the matter!" "What's the matter out there?" said Mary Jane, pointing out the door to the chicken yard where they had just been; "something's happened." Grandmother stepped over to the door where Mary Jane was standing and looked out. "Oh!" she exclaimed, for she saw in a minute what Mary Jane meant, "that noise?" Mary Jane nodded. "That noise means that an egg has been laid," explained Grandmother, smiling, "and that Mrs. Hen is very proud of it and wants us to know what she has done." "Oh!" cried Mary Jane happily, "and then you go out and get them in a basket just like mother told me she used to do? May I go now?" "Better not start before dinner," suggested Grandmother, "because sometimes egg-hunting takes quite a little time. Wait till you get through dinner and then you may hunt all afternoon if you like--egg-hunting is fun!" So the minute she was through with her apple dumplings, Mary Jane asked, "And now, please, may I get the eggs?" "Got you hunting eggs already?" asked Grandfather. "Well, I wonder if you'll like it as well as your mother used to. Have you your basket?" "Not yet," said Grandmother. "I mean to let her get it herself. She'll feel more at home when she begins to find her way around alone. If you locked the pigs in, she can go anywhere she likes all alone." "They're locked up fast," Grandfather assured her--much to Mary Jane's relief. "Then, Mary Jane," continued Grandmother, "you go out to the barn and up the little ladder you'll find in the middle of the barn. And in the loft somewhere, I'm sure you'll see it easily, you'll find a little, covered basket. It's the very one your mother and your Aunt Cornelia used to carry egg-hunting. If it's too dusty, bring it here, and I'll clean it for you. Now run along, Pet," added Grandmother with a kiss for the up-turned face, "and don't be long. I'll miss my little girl." Just as Mary Jane opened the screen door to go out, a beautiful big black and brown dog came running up to the door. "Well, Bob!" exclaimed Grandmother, "where have you been all morning? I wanted Mary Jane to get acquainted with you right away and you weren't anywhere around! Mary Jane, this is Bob, our good dog, and he's the best creature friend a little girl can make." She stepped out of the door with Mary Jane and they both sat down on the steps and talked to Bob. Mary Jane liked him from the first. He had such a pretty face and such friendly, kind eyes and he looked as though he would be good to little girls. "May he go with me to the barn?" she asked. "Indeed, yes," replied Grandmother. "You just start along and watch him follow you! He'll go wherever you go from now on. You won't even have to call him!" Mary Jane jumped up and, just as Grandmother said, Bob jumped up from the steps too and together they started off to the barn. "Can you climb up a ladder?" asked Mary Jane gayly, as she skipped along by Bob. "I can climb a ladder all by myself! I did it one day when Mother hung curtains." But dear me! When Mary Jane saw the steep ladder that went up to the barn loft she wasn't so sure she could climb a ladder after, all! She had been thinking of a nice little step-ladder such as her mother had and this was a steep, narrow ladder made of funny little pieces of wood nailed on to narrow strips that were fastened to the barn. Not a bit like any ladder Mary Jane had ever seen before. "But the basket's up there, Bob," said Mary Jane, glad of some one to think aloud to, "and my grandmother she wouldn't tell me to go up if I couldn't, so I guess I'll try." She put one foot on the ladder and then the other. "Why, it's just like climbing a gate only it isn't a gate," she announced proudly, "and I'm way up a'ready!" It was easy to step from the ladder to the loft because the sides of the ladder went on up high and she simply held tight to them and stepped off onto the floor Of the loft. And _that_ was the funniest place Mary Jane had ever seen! Hay everywhere, and a pleasant, fragrant smell that pleased Mary Jane even though she hadn't an idea why. She looked around a minute and then hunted for the basket. Over in the corner, under a funny little, cobwebby window she found it, half hidden by the tossed up hay. She recognized it at once because of the curious little cover Grandmother had spoken of. But, dear me, Grandmother would surely have to clean it before it was used for cobwebs and scraps of hay were all over the top! "I wonder if the cover comes off, or just opens like a door," thought Mary Jane as she bent over it. "I guess I'd better see." She moved the cover the tiniest bit and found it was fastened to one side. "It's like a box," she said aloud, "and it opens easy, I know!" She opened it out and what _do_ you suppose she saw down in the bottom of that basket? You'd never guess! Four of the cunningest little gray mice! All snuggled down together into a little ball of fur--Mary Jane would never have guessed there were four, they were so tiny, only she saw the four little black noses and four pairs of beady black eyes. "You darlingest!" she exclaimed happily, and sat right down in the hay beside the basket to watch them. She reached her finger in and touched their silky little backs; she watched them snuggle down tight and tighter together and she altogether forgot about Bob and egg-hunting and Grandmother and everything, she was so delighted. But Bob didn't forget about her, not he. For a while he waited patiently at the bottom of the ladder. He seemed to know that she might have to hunt a while for the basket. But as the minutes went by and she didn't come and didn't come, he grew more and more restless. He whined, and he walked around the barn and he looked out the door. Then he came back to the foot of the ladder and put his front feet on the highest step he could reach. But still there was no sign of Mary Jane coming down. And for her part, the little girl was so interested in her mice that she wouldn't have noticed had he barked out loud. Finally he could stand it no longer. With a sudden turn, as though he had quickly made up his mind something must be done, he ran out of the barn and up to the kitchen door. Grandmother Hodges saw him and supposed Mary Jane was with him so she called kindly, "Did you find the basket, dear?" No answer. "Bring it in here for me to dust it off, Mary Jane," she added. No answer. "That's funny," she exclaimed; "what ails the child?" And she stepped to the door to see why Mary Jane didn't answer. That was exactly what Bob wanted her to do. The minute he saw she was coming to the door he bounded off in the direction of the barn. Grandmother understood at once, as Bob had known she would, and without even stopping to drop the tea towel she had in her hand she followed him out to the barn. Bob ran ahead, turning two or three times to make sure she was coming, till he reached the foot of the ladder. There he danced around as though he was trying to say, "Now I've brought you here, do see what's the matter!" "Is she up there yet, Bob?" asked Grandmother wonderingly. Then she called, "Mary Jane! Mary Jane! Mary Jane!" "Oh, Grandmother!" replied the little girl, hearing for the first time, "they're the cunningest! Do come see!" "Whatever has the child found!" she exclaimed, but she went up the ladder just the same to make sure Mary Jane was happy. It wasn't more than a minute before Grandmother, too, was down in the hay, admiring the little mice till even Mary Jane was satisfied. "You're a good one," she said, "to find such a nice family right away. This old basket's been here for years, but that looks like a brand new nest and a brand new family. You'll have something to tell your sister about when she comes now, won't you?" "And may I take them down to the house?" asked Mary Jane. "Look behind you and see if you want to," answered Grandmother. Mary Jane turned and looked as she was told and she saw, peeping out from behind the hay, the distressed face of mother mouse. Poor thing! She was _so_ afraid something terrible was happening to her babies! "No, I don't want to," said Mary Jane promptly. "I want to keep them right here and come up and see them whenever I want to." "That's best," agreed Grandmother. "You come with me and I'll find you another basket and then you and Bob and I will hunt eggs." So that is the way Mary Jane happened to have a pretty, brand new, pink basket for hunting eggs: and that's why they were so late getting the eggs that it was almost supper time before they were through. THE MYSTERIOUS BUNDLES For three days after Mary Jane came to visit her grandparents, the sun shone bright and warm and the little girl spent all the time out of doors. She raced around the yard with Bob; she played with the lamb in the wood across the road; she watched her grandfather feed the little pigs; she fed the chickens and hunted eggs. And, the most fun of all, she watched the baby mice in the dusky, sweet-smelling hay loft. Till, really, by the time she had had her supper of bread and milk, Mary Jane was ready to tumble into bed and sleep straight through the night without ever a thought of being homesick. But the minute she awakened on the morning of the fourth day, Mary Jane knew that something was different. The sun wasn't shining across her coverlet as it had before; and from the window came the sound of dripping, dripping, dripping rain. The kind of rain that you love if everybody's indoors and can stay in and the fire's going brightly and Mother's near to talk to. And also the kind of rain that makes you feel very queer if you know Mother's hundreds of miles away and you aren't going to see her for a good many weeks. Mary Jane felt a queer feeling in her throat. Suddenly she tossed the covers back, picked up her clothes so quickly she didn't even stop to see if she had both stockings, and ran into her grandmother's room. "I'm _not_ going to cry, so there!" she said to herself hastily. "Well, good morning," said Grandmother cheerfully. "That's nice to dress in here! I was just wishing I had company." "Does rain make you feel like you wanted somebody right close?" asked Mary Jane. "Every time," agreed Grandmother. "And sometimes, when your grandfather's working out in the barn, and Bob's out there with him, and I'm all alone in the house, I just wish and wish I had a little girl about your size here to talk to. I'm so glad you're come, Mary Jane, you're such good company!" And immediately, would you believe it? Mary Jane forgot all about being homesick and maybe going to cry, and began wondering what she could do for her grandmother! "What are we going to do to-day, Grandmother?" she asked as they went down the stairs together. "Let me see," said Grandmother thoughtfully, looking at the little girl. "First, of course, we'll get breakfast--wouldn't you like fresh corn bread and maple syrup?" Mary Jane nodded happily, for she liked Grandmother's corn bread. "Then we'll do the dishes and make the beds--but that won't take long with you helping me. Then we'll peel the potatoes and start the meat cooking for dinner. Then we'll--by the way, Mary Jane," she asked suddenly, "what have you in those two packages in your trunk?" Mary Jane stared at her grandmother a minute and tried to think whatever she might mean. Then she remembered. "Those two bundles wrapped up in brown paper and tied and everything?" "Those are the ones," nodded Grandmother. "I saw them the other morning when I unpacked your trunk but we were in a hurry to get-out doors then so I didn't ask about them. What are they?" "I don't know," said Mary Jane. "Mother put them in and she said you'd understand. She said just let you see and you'd know what she meant." "Then I guess I know," said Grandmother, laughing. "We have to look at them!" "Let's go now," said Mary Jane. "Oh, my no," replied Grandmother, "before breakfast? I should say not! We'll do all the things we planned to do, right straight through the plan. Then we'll get those bundles and see if I can guess what your mother meant." Mary Jane liked the good breakfast Grandmother prepared and she loved helping set the table and clear it off and help with the work like a grown-up person, but she was glad when at last everything was done and she and Grandmother went up the stairs to look at those mysterious bundles. "You get the bundles out of your trunk, Mary Jane," said Grandmother, "and I'll get my glasses." "Then shall we go down' to the sitting-room?" asked Mary Jane. "No, we'll stay right up here," said Grandmother, smiling, "because unless I miss my guess, we'll want to be up here before we're through anyway." That puzzled Mary Jane more than ever because, in all the three days she had been there. Grandmother had never sat upstairs, but always in her big rocker at the bay window in the room they called the sitting-room. She hurried to her room, raised the cover of her little trunk and turned it way back so it wouldn't fall on her. Then she reached in and got out the two bundles, and hurried back to Grandmother's room. "There's some writing on them," she announced. "Then I expect that will help us guess what we are to do with them," said Grandmother, and she adjusted her glasses. "Let's see what it says." She read off the first one, "'This is the way Mary Jane learns to sew.' Shall we open this first, Mary Jane?" she asked, "or shall we read what the other one says?" "Oh, I know, I know! I know!" cried Mary Jane, clapping her hands. "I know what that is, Grandmother, only I came away in such a hurry that I forgot all about it! It's a present for you--I made it all myself! Let's open it first." "A present for me?" asked Grandmother. "I guess we will open it first." And she carefully undid the string, opened out the paper and looked inside. "A picture card! My dear little girl!" she exclaimed, "and you did it all yourself?" "All myself," said Mary Jane proudly, and she leaned up against her grandmother and pointed out the perfections. "See? It's a picture of a little girl, that's me, and she's raking her garden. And here," she picked up another one, "this is a picture of a butterfly that flies over the garden. I did one of a little girl, that's me, with a pink sunbonnet and one with a sunflower and I sent those to my Aunt Effie. And these are for you." "I certainly am pleased," said Grandmother heartily and she kissed Mary Jane once for each card. "And what else have we here?" "That's my sewing things," said Mary Jane as she opened out the rest of the package; "that's my needle case and my thread and my cards to sew." "Then let's have a sewing day," suggested Grandmother, "and you sew your cards and I'll do my mending." "But first let's open the other bundle," suggested Mary Jane, who, like Grandmother, had forgotten it for the minute. "I don't know what it's got inside." "We'll see," said Grandmother, and she read on the outside, "'I wish I had more.'" "That's funny," said Mary Jane, "more what?" "Wait and see," replied Grandmother, and Mary Jane noticed that her eyes twinkled. "She needn't have worried, I have plenty." And she undid the bundle. "Why! Why--how funny!" exclaimed Mary Jane when she saw what the bundle contained. "That isn't anything! Why did Mother send those? They're just scraps." "Not scraps, dear," said Grandmother, and, much to Mary Jane's surprise, she seemed very pleased, "pieces. They're pieces for a quilt. Your mother always was crazy about my quilts." "But those aren't quilts," insisted Mary Jane. "Those are just rolls out of the scrap bag--I've seen them there. That's a piece of my rompers," she added, pointing to a roll of blue, "and that's my best pink gingham, and that's Alice's new school dress." "So much the better," laughed Grandmother. "When you know what things are from, your quilt is more interesting. Let's put these on the bed while you come with me to the linen room and see what a quilt is." They went down the hall to a queer little room that had shelves from the floor to the ceiling and on every shelf was bedding of some sort. Grandmother took down a quilt from the middle shelf and spread it out on the floor. "There, Mary Jane," she said, "look at that! There's a piece of your mother's first short dress and a piece of her mother's graduating dress--that pink sprigged scrap; and that's your Uncle Tom's shirt waist; and--well, don't you see? There they are; all the 'scraps' as you call them cut into pieces and made into a quilt. I've always promised that your mother should have this some day. I think I'll have to send it to her now if she's raising a girl who don't know what a quilt is!" Mary Jane got down on her hands and knees and looked at each piece. "Oh, I know now!" she suddenly exclaimed, "I remember! Mother made one for her doll bed when she was a little girl and it had a piece like this with a red horse shoe in it." "To be sure," said Grandmother much pleased. "Did she show it to you?" "Yes, only I disremembered for a while," said Mary Jane solemnly. "She showed it to me the day we sewed. She made it when she was a little girl about as old as me, maybe, because they didn't have nice sewing cards then." "Yes, she made it when she was visiting me, one summer, just as you are here now," said Grandmother thoughtfully. "Oh, Grandmother," cried Mary Jane suddenly, and she was so excited she sat up straight and tall, "I'll tell you what let's do to-day!" "Well," said Grandmother, kindly. "Let's me make a quilt." "Fine!" said Grandmother, "only you know you can't make it all in one day--it takes a long time to make a quilt, a good quilt." "Let's begin it then," said Mary Jane, "and let's make it all pretty like this." "I'll put this away," replied Grandmother, "and then I'll get my piece bag and see what I have that goes well with what your mother sent. Then we'll make a pattern and cut our pieces--you see, there's a lot to quilt-making before the sewing begins." [Illustration: "We'll make a pattern and cut out our pieces--there's a lot to quilt-making."] "Goody!" cried Mary Jane happily, "I know I'm going to like it all!" And she did. She liked the hunting out pretty pieces and cutting them out (yes, she did some of that herself, cutting carefully by the little pattern Grandmother made for her) and counting them and pinning them together: four blues with five pink, or four figured with five plain; everything was four and five. Then, when material was ready for seven blocks, Grandmother said they had done enough cutting for one day. So they gathered up the pinned together blocks and went downstairs to the cozy sitting-room and sewed the rest of the morning. And while they sewed Grandmother told stories about when Mary Jane's mother was a little girl and came to visit. Right in the middle of a fine story, Grandfather came into the room and asked, "Isn't there going to be any dinner to-day?" And sure enough it was five minutes to twelve o'clock! Grandmother jumped up and hurried to the kitchen and Grandfather said, "Well, isn't it too bad it's a rainy day?" "Rainy?" exclaimed Mary Jane, for she'd forgotten all about the rain and her lonesomeness of the early morning. "Rainy? Why, Grandfather! Rainy days are the best days of all when they're days at Grandmother's house!" GARDENING WITH GRANDFATHER "This sewing business and feeding chickens and watching mice is all very well," said Grandfather one day, "but I'd like to know where I come in? If it wasn't for having good company at meal time and for about ten minutes after supper in the evening, I'd never guess I had a little granddaughter visiting me--I wouldn't, indeed!" Mary Jane looked very serious. She wasn't quite certain sure whether Grandfather was really disappointed in her or whether he was only teasing. Grandmother saw she was puzzled and helped her out by saying, "Very well, Mr. Hodges, then you should find something your little great granddaughter likes to do!" And from the way Grandmother's eyes twinkled, Mary Jane knew that she understood Grandfather was only teasing. And, oh, dear, but she was relieved! It's fine to go visiting; but it's dreadful to be visiting and disappoint folks; and Mary Jane was glad to know she hadn't. "That's exactly what I'm doing, my dear," laughed Grandfather. "I'm finding something." "Are you really, Grandfather," cried Mary Jane happily. "Let's go do it now! I'm all through my dessert; may I please be excused, Grandmother?" and Mary Jane prepared to slip down from her chair. "No use," said Grandfather with a shake of his head. "It isn't ready yet." "Not ready?" echoed Mary Jane. "Does it have to be ready before we do it?" "It surely does," laughed Grandfather, "That's the reason we haven't done it before." "But I think I'll like it without being ready," suggested Mary Jane as she went around to his chair. "Let's see if I wouldn't." "No, sir, you can't tease me that way, Pussy," laughed Grandfather. "You'll have to wait." "Is it alive?" asked Mary Jane, who by this time was fairly bubbling over with curiosity. "Well, yes," replied Grandfather and he chuckled to himself in high glee. "Is it big as me?" asked Mary Jane. "One way 'tis and another way 'tisn't," said Grandfather. "Oh, dear!" sighed Mary Jane, "that's the kind I never can guess!" Then she thought carefully for a real good question. "Is it brown or gray?" Grandfather leaned back and laughed. When he finally could answer he said, "It's partly grayish brown and some day it may be all brown for a' I know." "Then it isn't a mouse and it isn't a lamb," said Mary Jane positively, "and that's all I can think of now." "That's a good thing," said Grandmother, "for there's the postman and I surely expect a letter from your mother to-day." One of the things that Mary Jane most loved to do was to run out front when the rural mail carrier came along in his little wagon and watch him put the mail in the box out in front of her grandfather's house. Usually they spied him way down the road just about the time they were through dinner and Mary Jane would run out and watch him. The first time he saw her he handed the mail out to her and that disappointed her greatly. She had wanted to see him put the mail in the box as Grandfather had told her he would. So on the second day, Grandfather went out with her and explained to the carrier that little girls from the city liked mail that came in boxes better than mail that was just handed in city fashion. And after that, the carrier smiled and nodded to her each time and then tucked the mail as carefully into the box as though he didn't know she would take it out the first minute he was out of sight. "I'll go down with you," said Grandfather, rising quickly from the table, "because I'm expecting a letter too." Sure enough! There was a letter for Grandmother that looked very much as though it came from Mary Jane's mother; and a letter for Grandfather that looked to be exactly the same letter! There wasn't a mite of difference so far as Mary Jane could see, except in the one Grandfather said was his, the first word was shorter. And there was a letter for Mary Jane too, the first letter she ever received from her mother. They all three sat down on the front steps to read. First Mary Jane opened hers and Grandmother helped her read it. "I'm going to learn to read myself," declared Mary Jane, "'cause folks that get letters ought to know how to read them." "You're right they should," agreed Grandmother, "and I shouldn't wonder a bit but what a certain little girl I know would go to school this fall." "And that little girl's me?" asked Mary Jane. "That little girl's you," said Grandmother. "Now listen while I read my letter." So Mary Jane sat real still and heard Grandmother's letter. "Now then, Father," said Grandmother as she folded hers up and put it back in the envelope, "we'll hear yours, Grandfather." "Not right now," said Grandfather, rising suddenly and starting for the barn. "I'm too busy to stop any more." And that was the last they saw of him all afternoon. "I do think that's the queerest," said Grandmother as she looked after her husband. "He's always so anxious to hear letters and I know he isn't as busy as he makes out. But if he don't want to tell he won't, Mary Jane, so I guess we'd better stop thinking about it." Mary Jane ran up to her room to put her precious letter away for safe-keeping. Then she and Grandmother tidied up the dinner work and dressed for afternoon. Grandmother didn't have lots of hard work to do, as some farm folks have, for she and Grandfather had long ago stopped doing the hardest work on the farm. They rented out most of their land and kept for themselves only enough garden and chicken yard and pasture to make them feel comfortably busy. So Grandmother had plenty of time for pleasant walks and rides with Mary Jane. Grandfather seemed to be tired at supper that evening so nothing was said about secrets or letters or anything like that, and he went off to bed about as soon as Mary Jane did. But the next morning he seemed rested and jolly as ever. "Do you happen to know any little girl around here who wants to work with me today?" he asked at the breakfast table. "That's what Daddah says when he wants me to work in my garden," said Mary Jane. "You don't tell me!" exclaimed Grandfather in great surprise. That was one of his favorite expressions, and Mary Jane had to always stop and think before she could realize that what he meant was, "You do tell me!" "And what do you say to him when he asks you that?" "I say, 'I know one little girl and that's me,'" replied Mary Jane. "And what do you say to me?" continued Grandfather. "I say, 'I know one little girl, and she's right here,'" laughed Mary Jane and she jumped down from the table and gave her grandfather a big bear hug. "What is it we're going to do?" "Wait and see," said Grandfather. "Then it's the secret!" exclaimed Mary Jane, dancing around. "It's the secret! I know it is! Grandmother! Let's hurry quick and do our work so we can go." "You put on your sun hat and go this very minute," exclaimed Grandmother. "You've been such a good little helper--I guess I can get along alone one day." So in about one minute Mary Jane had her sun hat from upstairs and was going out the back door with her grandfather. They went out past the tool house and past the chicken yard and up to the garden. "No, Bob," said Grandfather as Bob tried to push in through the garden gate with them, "we don't need you here. G'on back to the house!" And Bob turned obediently and ran back. "Isn't he the nicest dog!" explained Mary Jane, as they went along. And then she stopped right short and couldn't say another word. For right there in front of her, just as plain as day as though it had been growing a whole spring, was her own garden! Yes, her _very own_ garden! With the nasturtiums in front and the marigolds next and the young lettuce in the back. Mary Jane could hardly believe her eyes! "Why--but--how--I thought gardens stayed in one town!" she finally exclaimed. "They do usually," said Grandfather and his eyes twinkled with pleasure over her surprise, "usually they do." "But my garden didn't," stammered Mary Jane. "Did it come on a train like I did?" "No," laughed Grandfather; "guess again." "It couldn't come any other way," insisted Mary Jane, "'cause I was out here last week with Grandmother to see her lettuce and this wasn't here then and you can't come 'way from my house in one day unless you ride on a train--it's too far." "That's good thinking for Miss Five-year-old," said Grandfather proudly, "so I guess I'll have to explain. You see, I wrote to your mother and asked her how your garden was at home. And she told me, exactly; she even drew a little picture so I would know just how things were planted. After I got that letter, it was easy to take nasturtiums and marigolds and lettuce from your grandmother's garden and make one for you. She was glad to give you some." "So that's the reason you wouldn't read Mother's letter yesterday," said Mary Jane. "That's it," agreed Grandfather. "And that's the reason you were so tired last night," continued Mary Jane. "You'd been working so hard to 'sprise me." "Well," admitted Grandfather, "that may have had something to do with it." "I think I've got the _bestest_ grandfather!" exclaimed Mary Jane suddenly, and she threw her arms around him so hard, oh, ever so hard. "And now do we work here?" "Not to-day," said Grandfather, "because you couldn't work with my big tools. Tomorrow morning I'll drive into the village and get you a little set of tools just your size like you have at home. This afternoon we'll look around and see if everything's all right in my garden. Then to-morrow we can go to work, as soon as we come home." Mary Jane took hold of his hand and together they went back into his nice big garden. "Um-m-m," said Grandfather suddenly as he bent over his carrot bed. "I was afraid so, I was afraid so!" "What's the matter?" asked Mary Jane who couldn't see that much was wrong. "See those nibbled off carrots?" asked Grandfather. Mary Jane looked closely and saw the broken tips. "We'll have to catch that thief," said Grandfather. "I guess we need Bob after all." Grandfather stuck his finger to his mouth and made a loud whistle. Then he called, "Here Bob! Here Bob! Here Bob!" Bob came bounding down the garden path, wagging his tail and eager to be of use. "See that?" demanded Grandfather, pointing to the broken tips. Bob sniffed and sniffed. He twisted his ears backward and forward and sniffed again. Then he started briskly over to the back of the garden. "We'll find him!" exclaimed Grandfather. "Come on, Mary Jane! Bob's not much of a hunter but I'll guess that he'll find him and we'll scare him off!" Mary Jane, who didn't in the least understand who "him" was or what was going to be found or done, trotted along behind her grandfather and Bob eager to see something new. THE GARDEN THIEF "What are we doing, Grandfather?" asked Mary Jane as she trotted along behind her grandfather and Bob. "What are we doing and where are we going and who's the thief?" "No time to talk," called Grandfather over his shoulder. "You'll see! Come along and take hold of my hand." Mary Jane ran as fast as ever she could till she caught up with her grandfather and got a firm hold of his hand. Then she felt better: for when a little girl doesn't know what _is_ going on, she wants to have hold of _something_--you know how that is yourself. Bob led them out of the corner of the garden; across the small cornfield back of the barn; across the pasture and into the woods beyond. There he stopped and sniffed in the bushes and through the dead leaves in what Mary Jane thought was the most curious way she had ever seen a dog act. "Well!" exclaimed Grandfather disgustedly, "if you can't find him any better than that--I'll hunt myself!" And to Mary Jane's amazement, he too, began hunting in the piles of dead leaves where Bob was diligently sniffing. Suddenly he cried, "Mary Jane! Mary Jane! Come here this minute!" Mary Jane, who had been standing by a stump where her grandfather left her when he followed Bob into the woods, eagerly ran over to where he stood. He waited quietly till she was clear up to him and then he reached down and lifted up a pile of dead leaves and rubbish. "Oh, Grandfather!" exclaimed the little girl, "what are they?" "What do you think they are?" he asked. "I don't think," replied Mary Jane, "'cause I never saw them before. But they look like the Easter things at the store." "Right you are!" exclaimed Grandfather much pleased. "They're baby rabbits--and in one of the prettiest little nests I ever found. I'm glad you were along to see." "Were they what you were hunting, Grandfather?" asked Mary Jane as she half timidly bent over the little bundle of gray and white fur. "They wouldn't steal your garden, would they?" "No, not those pretty little things," replied Grandfather, "but their father would. Can't say as I blame him though," continued Grandfather, laughing, "with such a family to feed he'd naturally have to get whatever he could. Usually the rabbits don't bother my garden. Well, Pussy, what shall we do with them?" "Do with them?" asked Mary Jane. "What is there to do?" Grandfather looked down at the little girl; by this time she was on her knees beside the nest, and bending over the little rabbits as though she'd like to touch them but didn't feel quite well enough acquainted. "Shall we leave them out here or--" But Mary Jane didn't give him a chance to finish his sentence. "Oh, Grandfather!" she exclaimed, "could we take them home?" "I guess we could if you wanted to," he said. "Your mother was always a great hand for pet rabbits and I believe that the very house I once built for her, is up in the loft to this day. Let's cover them over again and go find it." "Will they stay here while we're gone?" asked Mary Jane as he tenderly laid the leaves back over the little creatures. "They will till their mother gets a chance to take them away," answered Grandfather. "If she thinks we'll hurt them, she'll carry them to some other hiding place. But if we hurry, we'll get them first." "Won't she know that we'll take good care of them?" asked Mary Jane. "She won't know it at first," replied Grandfather, "but she'll soon find out. We'll fix them up in a comfortable box and they'll be as safe and happy and perhaps even better fed than if they'd stayed out here in the woods where stray dogs might hurt them. Come on, now, Pussy; let's hurry for the box." Mary Jane took hold of his hand again and they hurried back through the pasture and the cornfield to the barn. It didn't take Grandfather long to find the little rabbit house he had made for Mary Jane's mother years ago. "The box part is good as new," he said, "and I'll get some fresh screening from the attic to cover over this open side." Mary Jane trotted along beside him up to the mysterious, big attic at the top of the house, where, from a dark corner, he pulled a strip of new wire screen. They took it down to the back porch where he had left the box and in less than half an hour he had the new home all ready for the rabbits. Of course Grandmother heard them working around and came to see what was going on. "Oh, the cunningest bunnies, five of them, we found," Mary Jane told her, "little and soft and gray and white just like the Easter bunnies in the store, and we're going to bring them up to your house to live so not any bad dogs will hurt them and so I can feed them." "Won't that be fun," said Grandmother approvingly, "but how are you going to carry them?" Mary Jane stared at her grandmother thoughtfully. "Will they go in my hand?" "Carry five?" asked Grandmother. "I thought you said five. You couldn't get that many in your hand." "No-o-o, I 'spect I couldn't," said Mary Jane. "How'll I do it?" "Suppose we fix a basket," suggested Grandmother, "then they would be safe and comfortable while they made the journey." Mary Jane thought that a wonderful idea and she helped Grandmother hunt up a basket from the storeroom and fold a soft old cloth to line it. By the time they had it all ready, Grandfather had the new home finished and he and Mary Jane set out for the woods to get their new family. Just before they got to the nest they saw the mother rabbit dart away. Such a pretty little thing she was, all soft gray except her tiny stub of a tail which was snow white. She hurried away so quickly Mary Jane hardly got more than a glance at her before she was out of sight behind a log. "I'll wager she'll watch us," said Grandfather, chuckling, "and then she'll know where we take her babies. Well, that's all right, Mrs. Rabbit," he added; "you've a right to know where your family is. If you'd made a safer nest, I'd leave them here for you, but as it is, they'll be better off where they're going than where they are." "But didn't you say they ate the garden?" asked Mary Jane, suddenly remembering what had started them out on their journey. "Yes, they do a bit," answered Grandfather, "but they mostly let us alone so I guess we won't think any more about the little they stole." While he was talking, he had set the basket on the ground and now he lifted off the rubbish and tenderly took out two little rabbit babies and set them in the basket. "Why!" exclaimed Mary Jane as she bent over to see, "they's only three bunnies!" "Sure enough!" agreed Grandfather. "How many did you think there were?" "I didn't think," said Mary Jane. "I counted them; they had five noses when we saw them before. I know because I can count one, two, three, four, five!" "You surely can," said Grandfather much puzzled, "then their mother must have taken two away. Like as not she was after another one when she saw us coming. Now cover them up good and warm, Mary Jane," he added as he set the third bunny into the basket, "and we'll hurry off home." He let her carry the basket every bit of the way, and she was careful, oh, so very careful, not to jiggle the bunnies as she walked. When they got back to the porch Grandmother came out to watch them put the bunnies onto the nice soft cotton she had fixed in the corner of the box and she showed Mary Jane how to fix water and some freshly picked lettuce for them. "Now, then," she said, "that's enough for now. Dinner's ready and I guess you're ready for it!" Mary Jane was hungry enough to be willing to leave the rabbits long enough to eat--but no longer. The minute she had finished she ran out to watch her pets. She sat down on the grass beside the box and watched and watched and watched, but those funny little fellows didn't eat or do anything! They just stayed snuggled up in the soft cotton as tight as ever they could. "They feel strange and queer, just like you would if some one took you away from your bed," said Grandmother when she came out to see how Mary Jane was getting along. "Why don't you come and take a ride with me and maybe by the time you come home, they'll be better acquainted and will come out and eat." So Mary Jane reluctantly left her post of watching and went riding. Grandfather surprised them and went along too, and the new gardening tools and a big sun hat were bought and stowed away in the back of the car. "Let's not stay too long," said Mary Jane, as they turned away from the store; "let's see if the bunnies feel better now." "I don't believe that child wants to ride a bit," laughed Grandmother. "We might as well go home!" So they turned back the way they had come. The minute she was out of the car, Mary Jane ran to the rabbit house. Not a rabbit was there! Not one of the pretty bunnies she had left snugged up in the corner! "Grandfather!" called Mary Jane, "Grandmother! Come quick! They's gone!" "Think of that!" exclaimed Grandfather as he hurried up to see. "Poor child! That's too bad!" cried Grandmother sympathetically as she peered into the empty box. "Like as not their mother came after them, though how she got them out I don't quite see." "I do," laughed Grandfather, and he pointed to a hole in the back of the box. "I guess this wood wasn't as sound as I thought it was! Well, if she wanted them that much, I guess she deserves them! But who'd a thought she'd be so quick!" "Where are my bunnies?" cried Mary Jane, "where did she take them?" And Grandmother noticed that she was bitterly disappointed. "Never you mind, pet," said Grandmother, and she put her arm comfortingly around the little girl. "They're not far away, depend on that. But if you want something to feed and take care of, something all your own--I'll get it for you." "Will you, Grandmother, really truly?" "Really truly," nodded Grandmother, "and you shall keep it in this pretty little house!" "Goody!" exclaimed Mary Jane, "and will it be pretty like my Easter rabbits?" "Every bit as pretty," said Grandmother, "just come with me to see if it isn't!" And she took hold of Mary Jane's hand and together they went toward the chicken house. MARY JANE'S FAMILY "Is it a chicken?" asked Mary Jane as she saw the direction they were taking. "Bless the child!" exclaimed Grandmother, "she can ask questions the fastest! No, my dear, it isn't a chicken! You'd better wait and see." "Yes, I'm a-waiting," said Mary Jane with a tiny sigh, "but I hope it isn't very long waiting, 'cause I like to see what I'm going to have." And she skipped along by her grandmother as fast as she could. Fortunately it wasn't very far to the chicken house, so she hadn't long to wait. They went in at the front of the house; that was no surprise because Mary Jane had been there every day of her visit. She looked around quickly but she didn't see anything new, anything that looked like a surprise. But Grandmother didn't stop there; she went on back through a little door Mary Jane had never noticed, and into a room that was nice and warm and had a big desk in it. Or at least Mary Jane thought it looked like a big desk. And there wasn't anything there that looked like a surprise; Mary Jane would have begun to be worried if she hadn't been so sure Grandmother must know what she was talking about. "Now, let's see how heavy you are," said Grandmother, "maybe we'll need your Grandfather after all." She put her hands under Mary Jane's arms and tried to lift her up. "I can do it but I can't hold you long enough," she said with a shake of her head, "better run call your grandfather, dear." "But he's way out in the barn," cried Mary Jane who was fairly dancing with eagerness she was so anxious to see the surprise; "can't I get a chair?" And then she thought how silly that was when of course there wasn't a chair in the chicken house! "Or a box, Grandmother," she added as an after thought. "A box?" questioned Grandmother, looking around thoughtfully, "oh, yes! I know. There's one right out in that next room. It's not very heavy and I believe you can get it yourself, Mary Jane. Suppose you try." Mary Jane was very glad to try. She hurried out the door into the other room, spied the box over in the corner and dragged it back into the little room where Grandmother was waiting. "See, Grandmother?" she said proudly. "I can stand on it." "So you can, so you can," agreed Grandmother much pleased. "You're a good planner, little girl. Now turn the box on its long side, so; and climb on it; then--" "What's that noise?" exclaimed Mary Jane suddenly as through the quiet of the little room she heard a queer, "Peep! Peep!" So many "peeps," so soft and low that she was hardly sure she heard them. "Never mind!" cried Grandmother, who was looking into the big case that Mary Jane had thought was a desk. "Climb up quickly and look!" Mary Jane needed no second urging. She set the box on its long side and, grasping her grandmother's hand firmly so it wouldn't tip over as she stepped on it, she climbed up and looked into the "desk." Such a sight as met her eyes! Tiny little chicks! Rows and rows and rows of them! Under the glass cover of that queer looking case. "They's about a million!" she gasped in amazement, "all in one box!" "Not a million, dear," laughed Grandmother, "but a good many and they're almost ready to take out." "But how did they get in?" asked Mary Jane much puzzled. Grandmother explained that the queer looking "desk" was really an incubator--a box in which eggs were kept warm till the little creature inside each egg was big enough to break the shell and take care of itself. Mary Jane looked and looked and looked and thought it was the most wonderful of all the many wonders she had seen at Grandmother's. She thought of a dozen questions she wanted to ask, but Grandmother seemed so busy tending to this and that and the other that she decided to wait till some other time to ask them. "Now, dear," said Grandmother, "you stay here and be deciding which you want for yours while I get your grandfather to help me take them out. I was so in hopes you could see this, pet, because I knew you'd like to." She bustled out of the room in search of Grandfather, and Mary Jane studied over the rows of chickens. And just at that minute she spied _them_! She knew the second she saw them that there was her family. They were huddled down in one corner, all six of them and they seemed lonesome and--well, different. Of course Mary Jane may have imagined that, but so it seemed to her. Their bills were funny and their eyes were different from the eyes of the other chicks, and the shape of their tails and of their wings seemed different, some way. "I'm going to have you and give you a nice time," said Mary Jane, whispering tenderly above the case cover. "I'd like to take care of you, so don't you mind if you are funny!" And with the tip, tip of her finger, she touched the glass directly over them. Just then Grandmother Hodges came back into the room with Grandfather right behind her. "Grandmother!" cried Mary Jane eagerly, "may I have any ones? May I pick them out? May I have these funny little ones? These that are all by their lonesomes in the corner?" Grandfather and Grandmother both looked to where Mary Jane pointed. "The ducks!" they exclaimed together. "They came out all right!" Then Grandmother added, "To be sure you may have them, Mary Jane. Those are ducks, and I put in six eggs so we could have a bit of roast duck, come winter. They'll be sure to get into trouble with the chickens and I would be so glad if you'll make them your family and look after them for me. Here, Father," she said to her husband, "let's take them out for her first." So Grandfather got the basket Mary Jane and her grandmother had brought out with them and then he held up the glass cover while Grandmother tenderly lifted the tiny ducks, one by one, and set them inside. Then she covered them all over with a thick cover. "But Grandmother," cried Mary Jane in dismay, "they can't breathe! They'll die!" "Not they," laughed Grandmother. "Run along now, and set the basket in the sun by your rabbit box. I'll be right out and fix them up for you." So for the second time that day, Mary Jane found herself carrying a basket of living creatures. "Wouldn't Doris like to be here!" she said to herself as she thought of her little friend back home, "and wouldn't I like to show her my family!" She walked slowly and carefully so as not to tip the baby ducks and it was with a sigh of relief that she finally set them down by the rabbit box. Fortunately, Grandmother came along in just a few minutes so Mary Jane didn't have time to worry about the "peeps" that were coming more and more loudly from the basket. Grandmother took the ducks one by one from the basket and set them on some soft bits of old wool in the corner of the box. "We don't need a cover for this box," she said, pulling at the screen Grandfather had tacked on, "till they get bigger. We'll take it off so you can take care of them easier. There now!" she added as the screen came off, "we'll cover them up so," and she laid the soft cloth that had been on the basket over the little ducks; "now we'll let them be for a while." "But we didn't feed them, Grandmother," objected Mary Jane. "To be sure not," laughed Grandmother. "They don't want anything to eat just yet. Not to-day. All they want is to be warm and cozy." "Don't they want anything to drink either?" asked Mary Jane. "No," replied Grandmother, "nothing to drink either. To-morrow you can fix them a drinking dish and I'll show you about their food, but now, we'll just let them be. Listen! What's that?" Grandmother straightened up and counted the rings of her telephone bell. "Yes, that's our ring. You take this basket back to your grandfather while I answer it." But before Mary Jane got out to the chicken house Grandmother was back at the kitchen steps calling, "Father! Father!" And then as she got no answer she called to Mary Jane, "Mary Jane! Tell your grandfather it's long distance and he should come quick!" Mary Jane hurried in to tell her grandfather the message and then she waited, wonderingly, till he should come back. Had anything happened? COUSIN JOHN'S VISIT But the minute Mary Jane saw her grandfather smile as he came back into the chicken house, she knew that if something _had_ happened it was a nice something--for he was smiling a nice sort of a smile. "Good news for us, Pussy," he said. "Now you're going to have some one to play with." "Another Bob?" asked Mary Jane. "Another fiddlesticks!" laughed Grandfather. "Haven't you enough animal friends as it is? What would you do with more? No, sir! This is a real playmate." "Who is she?" asked Mary Jane. "_She_!" laughed Grandfather, "is your cousin Margaret's boy John--or rather, she's your mother's cousin. They live over in Benset, you know, Pussy. They promised that if you came this summer, they'd let John come over for a visit so you two could play." "Oh, goody!" cried Mary Jane happily, "how big is he?" "About as big as you are, I expect," said Grandfather thoughtfully, "but I can't really say because I haven't seen him for a long time. But you'll know all about him to-morrow." After that Grandfather and Grandmother fixed the little chickens as quickly as ever they could, and then Grandfather went out to clean up his car and Grandmother and Mary Jane hurried off to the kitchen to see about the baking of good things to eat, for Cousin Margaret was to bring Tom herself and would stay part of a day before going back. How Mary Jane did love the work and bustle! Grandmother made a big jar of sugar cookies (she let Mary Jane put the sugar on them herself, and you know that's fun!), and a big cake with thick chocolate icing (and Mary Jane scraped out the frosting bowl), and then she "dressed" two chickens (and Mary Jane thought that the most wonderful performance she had ever seen). Then they went upstairs and got out fresh bedding, and Mary Jane herself put out the fresh towels in the guest bathroom. And by that time it was six o'clock--time for bread and milk. Everybody went to bed early so as to be up and feeling fine in the morning. Next morning Mary Jane helped Grandmother with the morning work; then she put on her pink gingham dress and got out her biggest pink plaid hair ribbon for Grandmother to tie. And in no time at all, they were off to the station. When the train stopped and left a pretty lady and a rosy-cheeked little boy of about Mary Jane's age on the tiny platform, Mary Jane suddenly felt very shy. She had never played with little boys, except Junior, and he was so much younger she didn't count him, and she didn't quite know how to talk to a little boy cousin she had never seen before. But she needn't have worried about what to say because the grown folks talked all the time and the two children on the front seat beside Grandfather Hodges, simply sat and looked at each other all the way home! But after Grandfather had helped them out, by their own doorstep, Mary Jane seemed to feel that something must be said so she remarked, "Would you like to see my mice?" "I thought girls were afraid of mice," replied John. "Well, I'm not," said Mary Jane scornfully. "Come on see 'em." And she started for the barn. Strange to relate, they hadn't got half way across the barn yard before the big pig, the same one that had so frightened Mary Jane on her first day, ran out of his pen in the barn and made straight for them. Grandfather had been in a hurry both times he went for the train and had forgotten to lock him up, most likely. John, who wasn't any more used to creatures than Mary Jane had been, screamed and screamed at the top of his voice. Mary Jane looked at him scornfully and, forgetting all about how she herself had felt when _she_ first came, said, "He won't hurt you! I'll send him away!" And without a thought of fear, she waved her arms around as she had seen Grandfather do on that first day. Mrs. Pig stopped short as she had for Grandfather, and Mary Jane, delighted with the success she seemed to be having, waved and shouted till Grandfather, hearing the commotion, came running to see what the matter could be. "Well! Well! Well!" he exclaimed when he reached the barn gate and saw what had happened. "Say I couldn't make a farmer's girl out of you, Mary Jane! I'm proud of you! Isn't she a good one, John?" John, his eyes round with fear for himself and with admiration for his new little cousin, nodded "Yes." After that Grandfather stayed around near where they were and helped Mary Jane show John the little pigs, Brindle Bess the cow, and then the baby mice (who soon wouldn't be babies any more, by the way) up in the loft. And of course they went across the road to see the lamb that by now was well acquainted with Mary Jane; and they played with Bob who came frisking to meet them. And last of all they showed John the brand new baby ducks. "I'd have liked the rabbits best," said John when they had told him about the pets that were found and lost so soon the day before. "Couldn't we get them back again?" "Maybe we could, maybe we could," said Grandfather thoughtfully. "We hadn't tried. Maybe that foolish mother took them back to where we got them. 'Twould be just like her. Let's go see." So with a child on each side of him (just the very thing he liked best too), Grandfather and his guests went back through the cornfield and the pasture lot to where the rabbit nest had been. "Well," said Grandfather as he bent over the rubbish where the nest had been, "for a boy who had just come onto a farm, you're a pretty good guesser, my son. Look here!" He pulled back the rubbish, just as he had done the day before, and there, before their eyes were the rabbits, five of them, just as soft and just as warm and comfortable as though they had never taken a journey in their lives. [Illustration: "There, before their eyes were the rabbits, five of them."] "Didn't they like our house we made for them?" asked Mary Jane. "'Pears not," said Grandfather. "What do you want to do about it, children?" "I've always wanted some rabbits in a box," said John, "and I never did have any. I want to feed 'em and watch 'em, you know." "Yes, I know," agreed Grandfather, but that was all he said. Mary Jane thought of saying that the box already had a family in it, her family of ducks, but she thought maybe that wouldn't be polite, and anyway, likely as not there were more boxes, so she just kept still, very still. And while they were all three standing there, wondering, Mary Jane looked up and over in the hedge, she spied the mother rabbit standing partly on her hind feet and looking at them as _hard_! "Look!" cried Mary Jane, "there's their mother!" The sound of a voice startled the little mother and she ran away, lipity, lipity, lip; lipity, lipity, lip; such a funny little run! till she reached the shelter of a log. There she waited--they could see the tip, white of her tail through the leaves. "She's waiting to see what happens to her babies!" exclaimed Mary Jane, and suddenly she made up her mind about rabbit pets. "Let's leave them here, John," she said quickly. "Their mother's lonesome if they go up to the house. Let's leave them here and I'll give you half of my ducks." "All right," agreed John, "but may I come and see them sometimes, Grandfather?" "As often as you like. You just let me know and we'll come twice a day," said Grandfather, "and you'll have most as much fun with the ducks, I'll wager. Now let's see if we can't hunt up some dinner." And they turned to the house. Such a big day as Mary Jane and John did have! They played and they hunted eggs and they rode on the cow; yes, that can be done, didn't you ever try it? And they fed the chickens, and by night time they were so sleepy and tired they hardly noticed their supper. But after supper Grandfather sat down to look at his paper. And as he spread it out before him he suddenly chuckled to himself. "The very thing!" he said, "the very thing! Why didn't I think of that before?" Then he looked over at the droopy-eyed little folks sitting on the window seat. "But I suppose you wouldn't care to go?" "Go where?" exclaimed both children in a breath. "Where, Grandfather?" "What you talking about, Father?" asked Grandmother. Instead of answering, Grandfather passed his paper over to her and pointed to where he had been reading. Grandmother laughed and nodded. "Yes, if you want to," she said, "but they'd better be going to bed in a hurry if they're going to do all that to-morrow!" "Tell us! Tell us!" cried Mary Jane eagerly. "Not a word," laughed Grandfather. "Not a word," insisted Grandmother. "You wouldn't sleep a wink. You just stop thinking about what it is and go to sleep. Father, you take John up and I'll go with Mary Jane." So without finding out the least thing, for Grandmother wouldn't even answer a question, not one, Mary Jane went off to bed--and to sleep. GRANDFATHER'S TREAT It didn't take long to call those children the next morning, you may be sure of that. Just one word and they were up and dressing and more eager than ever to know what Grandfather was planning to do. "Now will you tell us?" asked John as he ran into the living-room where Grandfather was sitting. "Not a word till you've eaten your breakfast," replied Grandfather laughingly. "Not even a hint?" exclaimed Mary Jane as she hurried in, buttoning her play dress as she came, just in time to hear what her Grandfather said. "Not even a hint," repeated Grandfather, "not till each of you has eaten your bowl of oatmeal and as much other breakfast as Grandmother says you should." "Come on, then, John," said Mary Jane practically; "let's eat quick!" And she lead the way into the dining-room, where Grandmother had the breakfast served and ready to eat. Never did bowls of oatmeal disappear so rapidly as did those! And when the children had eaten a baked apple, an egg and a piece of toast apiece, Grandmother declared that they had done their full duty and could hear the surprise. "But I'm not through myself!" exclaimed Grandfather in mock surprise. "Did you put your breakfast on your chairs? You couldn't have eaten it _this_ soon!" And he pretended to hunt around under the table for the breakfast. "You know we didn't hide it, Grandfather!" cried Mary Jane; she had been there long enough to get used to Grandfather's teasing so she wasn't puzzled by it as John was. "Now you'll have to tell us, won't he, Grandmother?" Grandmother nodded and Grandfather got up from his chair and went to the dining-room closet. He rummaged on the shelf a minute and then brought out a big roll of paper. "There!" he exclaimed as he laid it in front of the children, "you may unroll that and see if you can tell what it is? Better lay it on the floor so you don't tip the cream pitcher over." The children set the roll on the floor; then Mary Jane held the rolled up part while John pulled it open. They didn't have it half unrolled before both children exclaimed, "A circus! It's a circus. Grandfather! Are we going to a circus?" "Shouldn't wonder a bit," said Grandfather indifferently as he took another piece of toast; "shouldn't wonder a bit. That is, of course," he added with marked politeness, "unless you don't care to go." "You _know_ we care to go," laughed Mary Jane and she jumped up and gave him a big bear hug. "You know we just want to go the mostest of anything in the world, we do!" "Then we'll go!" said Grandfather and he stopped his teasing and told them all about his plans. "We'll start about nine o'clock so we'll have plenty of time because we have to drive about fifteen miles and get our lunch and--" "And see the parade," interrupted John. "Oh, yes, we see the parade before lunch, you're right," laughed Grandfather. "I see there's going to be nothing skipped in this day. Then we want to see all the animals and get good seats and everything." "Then we'd better start right now," suggested Mary Jane. "Dear me, no, not for two hours yet!" exclaimed Grandfather. "That's the reason I got you that poster. See? It's all rolled up again. Now I'll help you unroll it so you can look at it while you wait for the time to start." Grandmother helped too, and the big poster picture was unrolled and a chair set on each end of it to hold it open. Then Mary Jane and John could walk around and see it well. It was a picture of the parade and showed camels and lions in cages and elephants and clowns and pretty ladies and everything and of course it was most interesting to look at. But it wasn't so interesting that the children forgot to look at the clock--indeed, no! They watched and watched and watched and finally the clock said, "Eight!" "Now then," said Mary Jane, "that's all I'm going to look. Let's roll it up and get ready. Maybe we can help Grandmother." They found a good many interesting things to do. Grandmother had decided that they had better take their lunch with them and eat it in the car because the town where the circus was to be was small and there might be no good place for them to eat. John got the lunch box from the storeroom and Mary Jane helped wrap sandwiches and chicken and cake in oiled paper; and by quarter of nine everything was ready. "Fifteen minutes to wash hands and faces and change your clothes," exclaimed Grandmother as she heard Grandfather bring the car up to the house. "Can you do it?" "'Deed yes," said Mary Jane, scampering on ahead up the stairs. "I can wash myself and you just look at the cracks. And I can put my own dress and shoes on. I can do lots!" "I should say you can!" exclaimed Grandmother admiringly. "You do all you can then, dear, and I'll help John." At one minute to nine they were all at the door ready to climb into the car and be off. "Did you give them their spending money?" asked Grandmother as she helped stow the lunch into the car. "Not yet," answered Grandfather. "I'll give it to them when they get there." "Listen to the man!" exclaimed Grandmother in disgust, "and make them miss half the fun of carrying their own money. Wait a minute!" She hurried into the house and came back in a minute with two little black purses in her hand. "There now, children," she said as she handed a purse to each child, "you can carry your own money. Here's two nickels for you, Mary Jane, and two nickels for you, John. Don't lose them!" "We won't," said Mary Jane and she clutched hers tightly in her hand, "and may we buy anything we want?" "Anything you want--anything!" Grandmother assured her. "We'll be home at six," called Grandfather as he started the car and they whisked down the drive and away. Such a jolly drive as that was! They talked about the circus they were to see and how they would spend their money. And whether the lion would roar and what they should buy. And if the lady could really truly do everything on her horse that the picture said she could and how much ice cream cones would cost. You see Grandmother had been right--half the fun of spending money was the holding the money beforehand and planning how it was to be spent. Arriving at the village where the circus was, Grandfather drove them by the great white tents--how wonderful and mysterious they did seem too!--and then he found a good place to leave the car and they walked to the main street where, from the second story of an office building, they saw the parade go by. When the sound of the calliope was growing fainter in the distance and the children were certain sure that every bit of the parade had gone by, John looked away from the window and asked, "Can we go to the circus just as soon as we eat our lunch?" "Yes, I should think we could," answered Grandfather. "Then let's eat right now!" said John eagerly. "Not such a bad idea," laughed Grandfather as he looked at his watch. "Then we'll have plenty of time." They thanked the kind gentleman in whose office they had been and walked to the car to eat their lunch. It was a good thing Grandfather had left the car out of sight of the circus tent, for it was hard enough to think about eating as it was! Had the tents been in sight it would have been harder still. But on this quiet street and with the wonderful parade to talk about they did full justice to Grandmother's good meal. And when they had finished, even to the tempting little apple pies, one for each person, they started for the circus. If you've been to a circus yourself, you know something of the sights they saw and of the sounds they heard. If you haven't better get _your_ grandfather (or your father, if your grandfather isn't handy) to take you to see one, for all the interesting things Mary Jane and John heard and saw couldn't be put into one chapter--not even if it was a double long one! They saw curious animals, munching away at their dinner as though they had lived right there in that spot all their lives instead of seven hours. They saw crawling snakes and marvelous birds and the elephants that swayed their trunks backward and forward, backward and forward, as though they were doing morning exercises. And the ponies! The prettiest little ponies! Mary Jane didn't know there _were_ such pretty ponies in all the world. She liked them the best of anything she saw. John liked the monkeys, and Mary Jane and he fed them peanuts that Grandfather bought and they felt so very important because the keeper said that the sign, "Don't feed these animals," needn't bother them! Then they went into the big tent and found their seats--just in time they were too, for the clowns came running in at that very minute and kept the children, and the grown folks, too, in an uproar of laughter. After the circus really began, it seemed to Mary Jane that she must be in a dream. It didn't seem as though all those jumping, racing, men and horses and elephants and all, _could_ be real! She had to pinch herself hard to be sure she was awake. Right in the middle a man came around with ice cream cones and John bought one. "May I buy one too, Grandfather?" asked Mary Jane. "Just as you like," said Grandfather. "It's your money." And for the first time she remembered the purse with the two nickels that she had all the time held tightly clutched in her hand! She bought the cone and ate it as she watched the circus--calmly indifferent to the fact that it was leaking onto her pretty pink dress. You simply can't notice _everything_ at a circus! Finally the great show was over. The last of the Cinderella parade slipped behind the curtains and folks began to hurry home. Grandfather took hold of each child and together they climbed over the seats till they reached the safe ground. "Shall we look at the animals again?" he asked. "We might try," said Mary Jane doubtfully, "but my looking don't see!" "Poor child," said Grandfather as he suddenly realized how tired the little girl must be. "I expect your 'lookers' are tired enough to go home." He picked her up and set her on his shoulder and then, grasping John's hand firmly, he made his way out of the crowd. "But I can't go home _yet_!" exclaimed John, when he saw they were leaving the grounds. "I haven't spent all my money!" "Well, we can't go home with any money left, that's a sure thing!" laughed Grandfather. "What do you want to get?" "Another ice cream cone," said John, as he spied a man going by with a tray. "All right," said Grandfather, "do you want one too, Pussy?" "No, I know what I want, but it isn't here yet," said Mary Jane. "Where is it?" asked Grandfather. "At the gate," replied Mary Jane. "I saw it when we came in and I want to buy it for my grandmother 'cause she couldn't come." "That's a good idea," said Grandfather. "You tell me when we come to it." Mary Jane pointed out the stand where balloons were sold, and with grandfather's help picked out a fine big red one to take to Grandmother. Of the drive home Mary Jane remembered not a thing. She had seen and heard so much that she just sat and listened while Grandfather and John talked about everything. She almost went to sleep twice--almost but not quite, because she had to stay awake to hold Grandmother's balloon and keep it from blowing out of the car. Grandmother was watching for them when they drove into the yard and was delighted with her balloon, said she felt exactly as though she had been to the circus herself. She tied it to the big glass water pitcher so they could see it all the while they were eating their supper and she thanked Mary Jane many times, for thinking to bring it to her. "I know what I'm going to do first thing in the morning," said John, as he and Mary Jane climbed upstairs to bed. "I'm going to get out that picture and see if they did everything it said." "Well, I know they did," said Mary Jane positively, "and they did more too, because they did all the noise; I heard 'em!" LEARNING TO COOK John stayed a whole week at Grandfather's and every one of the seven days, he and Mary Jane had a beautiful time. They fed chickens for Grandmother and gathered eggs; they visited the rabbits, carrying with them tit-bits of lettuce so they could the easier make friends with the little creatures; they played with the lamb and watched Mary Jane's ducks and rode in the car with Grandfather and altogether had a wonderful time. But the thing that both Mary Jane and John liked the best--well, anyway, _almost_ the best of all, was playing circus in the barn. They pretended that the downstairs was the animal tent and that Brindle Bess was the elephant--"she waves her hind tail just like he did his front tail, so that's almost the same," John said--and that the hogs were lions and little pigs, tigers. And they pretended that the loft was the performers' tent and that they were the circus folk. Mary Jane learned to turn a summerset in the hay and she tried to walk a rope but that didn't work very well because the rope came down; evidently it wasn't tied tightly. John stood on his head and did tumbling and was learning to throw three bottles at one time. They tried to do the elephant-eating-his-dinner act with Brindle Bess but she didn't seem to understand (maybe because she hadn't been to the circus herself) and tipped the table over and broke two dishes so they had to give that up. But finally Cousin Margaret came to take John home and Mary Jane was left without a playfellow. "No use moping around, Mary Jane," said Grandmother briskly as she saw Mary Jane sitting dolefully and idly on the back steps an hour after John had gone. "Find something to do as you did before John came and you'll feel happier." "But everything I know to do, needs two to do it," complained Mary Jane. "I don't know any children's things for just one!" "Listen to the child!" laughed Grandmother, "when she played the whole day long, all by herself and as happy as could be! Well, then, dear," she added kindly, "if you don't know a children's thing to do, how about a grown folks' thing?" "Oh, Grandmother!" exclaimed the little girl happily, "is there a grown-up folks' thing I can do?" "I shouldn't wonder," said Grandmother, smiling mysteriously. "I shouldn't wonder a bit." "But I don't want to sew," said Mary Jane, suddenly wondering if her grandmother might be thinking of that, "I don't feel sew-ish." "No, it's not sewing," replied Grandmother. "I haven't time for sewing this morning because I'm going to make strawberry jam." "Then what is it?" asked Mary Jane and she pressed her face up against the screen door in her effort to look inside at her grandmother's work. "You come in and wash your hands and face--wash them good with soap," said Grandmother, "then bring me one of Grandfather's big handkerchiefs and I'll tell you what it is." That puzzled Mary Jane and she immediately forgot all about John and her lonesomeness. She hurried to the bathroom and washed her hands and face the very best she knew how. Then she reached into Grandfather's drawer and picked out a handkerchief and took it down to Grandmother. "Now get me five pins from my basket," said Grandmother. Mary Jane got the pins in a jiffy and then Grandmother stopped her work and began to unfold and refold the handkerchief. "What--" began Mary Jane as she watched Grandmother's hands busy folding, "what's it going to be?" "A cap," replied Grandmother, smiling, "a cap for the cook who's going to get our dinner"; and she set the cap squarely on Mary Jane's head! "Me? Get dinner? Me? By myself?" exclaimed Mary Jane, "but I don't know how!" "Oh, yes, you do," laughed Grandmother, "and what you don't know how, you can learn. Do you know what potatoes look like?" "Why, of course," replied Mary Jane and she giggled at such a funny question for potatoes were her favorite vegetable. "I've seen 'em at home and I've seen 'em in your cellar." "Sure enough!" said Grandmother, nodding approvingly, "then you'll know what to do. Take that pan over there," and she pointed to the table, "and go into the cellar and pick out six nice smooth potatoes." Mary Jane did as she was told and she thought it was lots of fun too, to hunt over the bin as she had seen Grandmother do and pick out potatoes that just suited her. "Now then," said Grandmother when Mary Jane brought up the potatoes, "take that scrubbing brush over there and scrub them clean. Then open the oven door with this holder and lay the potatoes on the shelf to bake." "Just like I scrub my hands?" asked Mary Jane. "Just the same," answered Grandmother, "only you don't use soap." "How about some baked apples?" asked Grandmother as the oven door was shut on the potatoes; and Mary Jane noticed that she said it just as though Mary Jane could do anything or cook anything a body might want. "They're good, _I_ think," replied Mary Jane. "So do I," said Grandmother, "and we'll have some. Your Grandfather opened the last box just this morning. You pick out three, Mary Jane, and bring me the apple corer from the drawer and the flat brown bowl from the pantry." By that time, Mary Jane felt as important as any cook in the land. She washed the apples. Grandmother hadn't said to do that, but Mary Jane was sure it should be done. Then she took the bowl and the corer over to where Grandmother was working with her strawberries. "Hold the apple so," said Grandmother, showing just how an apple should be cored, "and turn the corer so--see if you can do the next, Mary Jane." Mary Jane could. Not as quickly as Grandmother had done it, of course, but she did it just the same and set it into the bowl as Grandmother had done. "Now comes the fun part," said Grandmother; "your mother used to love to fix apples I remember." "Did she do 'em just like me?" asked Mary Jane. "Just exactly," said Grandmother. "Get a cup of sugar from the bin; and a teaspoon of cinnamon from that brown box over there and the pat of butter you'll find on the pantry shelf. Mix the sugar and cinnamon together and fill up the holes in the apples with it--there's your spoon, dear." Grandmother went on with her work and Mary Jane stirred the sugar and cinnamon and filled up the apples--it was lots of fun, she didn't wonder her mother had liked to do it! Then Grandmother showed her how to put a lump of butter on the top of each apple--"just like a hat, Grandmother!" exclaimed Mary Jane delightedly--and set the bowl in the oven by the potatoes. "Now can you set the table?" asked Grandmother. "'Deed yes," said Mary Jane proudly; "I do that for Mother." "I thought so," replied Grandmother. "I won't have to show you about that." And she didn't. Mary Jane put the silver and the napkins and the pepper and salt and glasses and dishes all just as they should be. And at Grandmother's suggestion she put on a pat of butter and a glass of Grandfather's favorite jelly. "How's the circus lady?" called Grandfather, who happened to come into the kitchen just then. "She's gone," cried Mary Jane, "and a cook lady's come to visit you." And she skipped out from the dining-room to show him her cap. "Well, I like circuses," said Grandfather solemnly, "but I must say that right at this minute I'd rather had a cook lady than a dozen circuses--so there! Who's getting dinner?" he added as he saw Grandmother working away at her jam. "Mary Jane is," answered Grandmother "and I expected to be through by now to broil the steak--she's everything else ready. But," she added worriedly, "I simply can't stop for ten minutes and I know her potatoes are about done!" "Is there another handkerchief around here somewhere?" asked Grandfather suddenly. "In your drawer there's lots," said Mary Jane, but for the life of her she couldn't see what Grandfather meant. "You get it," he said, and she dashed upstairs on the errand. "There now," said Grandfather after she handed it to him, "how's that?" Mary Jane laughed and laughed at the funny sight. He had twisted the handkerchief around his head dusting cap style and was bowing to her in a grand fashion. "I guess I can cook too!" he declared, "bring on the steak!" Mary Jane got the steak out of the ice box and helped him salt and pepper it; then, while he broiled it--yes, he did know how, Mary Jane had thought he was only fooling--she took up the potatoes and apples and got the pitcher of water. "I tell you what," said Grandfather proudly as they sat down to dinner a minute later, "it's all very well to be a circus lady but personally, I prefer a good cook, Mary Jane, and if you keep on as you've begun, you'll be a good one!" "I'm going to keep on," said Mary Jane, proudly, "'cause it's more fun than playing." "Good for you," said Grandfather, "and by the way, Mother, have you told her where she's going to-night?" "Not a word," said Grandmother, smiling. "Goody!" cried Mary Jane, clapping her hands happily, "it's a surprise." "Yes, it is," laughed Grandmother, "you never did it before that's certain. But you have to finish your dinner and then take a good nap--a really for sure enough nap, before you know a single thing about it so it's no use to ask questions. I'll tell you this much though," she added as she saw Mary Jane look a bit disappointed, "you'll wear your best dress and your biggest hair ribbon." Now what in the world was coming? Mary Jane couldn't think and she went to her nap wondering and wondering and wondering. THE STRAWBERRY SOCIABLE It's awfully hard to go to sleep when you're wondering all the time what you're going to do when you wake up. But Mary Jane finally did drop off to sleep--perhaps the fact that Grandmother pulled down the shades helped. However it was, Mary Jane slept soundly and had to be called twice when it was time to get up. She blinked open her eyes and was just trying to guess if Grandfather had gone down to his breakfast when Grandmother called, "do you wear a sash with your best dress, dear?" That waked her in a jiffy and immediately she remembered about the surprise that was to come and that she was to wear her best dress and biggest ribbon. "Yes, Grandmother, my pink sash," she answered, and she tossed off the light quilt Grandmother had spread over her and ran into the next room. Grandmother was laying out her own best dress and shoes on her bed. It was the first time Mary Jane had known of her wearing them and she guessed right away that something pretty important must be going on. "What's the surprise, Grandmother?" she asked eagerly, "can you tell me now?" "Surely dear," replied Grandmother kindly, "I'd have told you before only I was afraid you'd stay awake and ask questions. To-night is the annual strawberry sociable of the village church and I thought maybe you'd like to go. Your grandfather and I always attend and I think you're old enough to go--especially now, as you've had such a good sleep." Mary Jane stared at her grandmother as though she didn't understand a word she had said. "What is it--a strawberry sociable?" she asked. Grandmother bent down and kissed her. "I forget my little city girl don't know all our ways," she said, smilingly. "A strawberry sociable is our big time of the year. We haven't taken you to our church yet, dear, because your grandfather and I don't go as regularly in the summer as we do in the winter, but maybe you've noticed it as we've driven through the village. The little white church with the steeple and the green blinds?" "Yes," said Mary Jane, nodding eagerly, "I've seen it. The one with the big yard." "That's the one," said Grandmother, "and it's that yard we're going to this evening. All our people have fine gardens and a good many of us have berry patches. We save our finest berries and take them to the church to-night for the sociable. The folks who have no berries take cake and in that way every one helps and we raise money. We're trying to get enough for an organ now." "But how do you get the money?" asked Mary Jane, to whom this was all new. "We sell the strawberries and cake--ten cents for a dish of fruit with a piece of cake," explained Grandmother. "I expect you never heard of the like before, but I think you'll have a good time all the same. There'll be other little girls there, Frances Westland and Helen Loiter and maybe others; you'll have a beautiful time. Now let's get out your things." If there was one thing above another that Mary Jane loved to do, it was to dress up in her best clothes. She loved the feel of the soft, fine materials and she liked the crisp hair ribbons and dainty shoes. She was so glad that her mother had let her bring her brand new dress that she had worn to her birthday party and the wide pink hair ribbon and sash that went with it. Grandmother said they would dress before supper as she wanted to be ready to go early for she knew that Mary Jane should not stay late. It took some time for those two busy ladies to dress. Grandmother wasn't used to hair bows and sashes of course and they went pretty slow. Then likely as not there was a good deal of visiting went along with the dressing for Grandmother and Mary Jane were good company. So it's not much wonder that by the time each had inspected the other and had decided that everything was exactly as it should be. Grandfather called to say that supper time had come. Grandmother and Mary Jane went grandly down the stairs in answer to his call and he stood at the bottom and admired and complimented till Mary Jane had to drop her grand air and giggle, he was so funny. Grandmother laughed, too, and then bustled out to the kitchen, put on a great big all-over apron and prepared the supper. "We'll not have a thing but eggs and bread and jam and milk," she announced, "because with all the cake and strawberries you're going to have that's all you should eat--just very plain food. Mary Jane, you slip on this apron and help Grandfather feed the chickens and by that time I'll have supper ready to eat." When they drove up to the village church an hour later Mary Jane looked upon a yard of hurry and fun such as she had never before seen. Men were fixing lanterns on wires, others were carrying chairs and arranging them around tables underneath the lanterns. Women were fixing great bowls of crimson berries (and oh, how good they did look, Mary Jane thought!) on a long table that stretched across the back of the yard. Other women were unpacking baskets of tempting looking cakes and cutting them up into pieces ready for serving. Grandmother took one basket of berries out of the back of the car and Grandfather took the other and they walked over to the table, Mary Jane following meekly behind. "This is my little great granddaughter, Mary Jane Merrill," said Grandmother to the lady in charge, "and as she's never been to a strawberry sociable before, I'm going to look after her till she gets used to things--you've plenty of help here anyway." "Glad to meet you, Mary Jane," answered the lady and Mary Jane made her prettiest courtesy, "you'll like the sociable better when the lanterns are lighted and the other little girls come. Don't you want to come and eat some cake crumbs now?" Much as Mary Jane liked cake crumbs, she didn't fancy staying with the strange people when she might be with her grandmother, so she hung back shyly and Grandmother declined the offer for her. "I think we'll walk around first, thank you, Miss Oliver," said she, "and get our little girl to feeling more at home." Mary Jane liked the walking around and watching the busy folks at their curious work. And, before she hardly realized it, twilight had set in, men had lighted the gay Japanese lanterns and the yard had become full of jolly people--the strawberry sociable had begun. Grandfather hunted up Helen Loiter, a pretty little black haired girl and Frances Westland to whom Mary Jane took a fancy at once. She wore a plain little white dress and a big blue hair ribbon and seemed so kind and pleasant to the little stranger. Helen, on the other hand, was dressed in a much trimmed and be-ruffled frock and seemed to feel far too dressed up to be natural. "I'm going to get you girls your berries," said Grandfather, as he settled them at a table over to one side where they could sit as long as they liked and eat and visit, "and if you want more cake, just let me know." "Let's hurry and eat this up so he'll get us some more," said Helen. "I've got a dime of my own and if he gets us another dish, that'll make three times!" "Oh, let's eat slow and talk," said Frances, "no use hurrying, maybe we won't want three dishes. Is your mother here, too, Mary Jane?" "No," answered Mary Jane, "but my sister's coming next week and my mother's coming before very long after that." "Why didn't you bring your best dress so you could wear it to-night?" demanded Helen as she took a big bite of berries. "I should think you'd like a pretty dress for tonight!" "This is my best dress," said Mary Jane in amazement, "it's my very best dress and my best hair ribbon and everything!" "Well, I don't think it looks like it," said Helen, scornfully, "it hasn't a single ruffle and not one bit of lace! I guess your father must be pretty poor!" Mary Jane looked at Helen's be-ruffled frock that was trimmed and trimmed with yards of cheap lace and then she looked at her own dress, so plain and neat with only a bit of hand embroidery for its ornament. Then she looked at Frances' dress that was more like her own. And a queer feeling of lonesomeness--a lonesomeness that she hadn't felt since the rainy day so long ago, began to come over her. But before she had time to think of an answer, Frances spoke up. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Helen Loiter! Talking that way to Mrs. Hodges's little girl! I guess folks can dress as they please without asking you! My dress isn't fancy either and my father's got as much money as yours has, so there!" Mary Jane looked at Frances admiringly and felt much better. "How old are you?" continued Frances, turning her attention pointedly to Mary Jane. "I'm five," replied Mary Jane, "how old are you?" "I'm seven, only I'm not very big for seven so you wouldn't guess it," said Frances, "do you go to school?" "No, not yet," answer Mary Jane, "but I'm going to some day." "Of course you are, stupid!" said Helen, "everybody does! Well, I'm bigger'n you are. I'm eight and I'm in second grade! So there!" And she polished out the bottom of her dish with her spoon. "I guess your grandfather's forgotten all about getting us some more cake--I'm going to get some for myself. You two slow pokes can sit around and wait if you want to. I'll not!" And she flounced herself out of her chair and ran over to the cake table. Left by themselves Frances and Mary Jane compared notes as little girls will. Mary Jane told her about her own home; about her friend Doris and her sister Alice and the birthday party and everything she could think of. And Frances told about her school and her garden--yes, she had one about as big as Mary Jane's--and about her pet calf. "Father gave it to me when it was only a day old," she said, "and when it's big enough, I'm going to sell it and get money to take music lessons. Won't that be fun?" Mary Jane thought it would; she looked admiringly at Frances and thought she was quite the most wonderful little girl she had ever met. When Grandfather came up to them a few minutes later, he had to speak twice so busy were they with their talk. He got them each another dish of berries and then, when they were through eating that, he took them walking around the yard so they could see the lanterns and so that Mary Jane would see and be seen by all his friends. Frances seemed to know every one and that was a great help to Mary Jane who wasn't used to meeting so many people. All too soon Grandmother announced that it was time to go home. The candles in the lanterns flickered out one by one; the housewives busied themselves with clearing up the remnants of cake and berries; the fathers (and grandfathers) carried baskets back to the cars, lit lights and made ready for the homeward journey. Frances and Mary Jane told each other good night and Frances promised to come over and see Mary Jane very soon. "Well, what did you think of the sociable?" asked Grandmother as they spun along home. "I saw you talking with Frances and Helen; did you like your new friends, dear?" "I liked Frances so much," said Mary Jane, "and she's coming to see me." Grandmother, who knew Helen much better than Grandfather did, understood in a minute. She slipped her arm around her little granddaughter and pulled her close. "So my little girl learned something as well as had a good time to-night, did she?" she whispered; "she learned how to pick out a friend. I'm glad Frances is coming to see you, dear!" BURR HOUSES The week after the strawberry sociable was the busiest one of Mary Jane's visit thus far. Frances came to see her twice and they became better friends each time. The Westlands lived two miles farther from the village than the Hodges did and Frances's father could easily leave her at the Hodges's home when he went into the village and get her again on his return trip. Mary Jane showed her all the interesting things she had found--the pet mice, who were getting tamer and tamer all the time; the ducks, which were losing their pretty babyness by now and were getting almost big enough to look after themselves; the lamb and the pigs and Brindle Bess. Of course Frances was used to country sights, so she wasn't as much surprised at what she saw as Mary Jane had been when she came from the city. But she was interested and she told Mary Jane many things about the farm creatures and the fun she had had with her own pets. Then one day Grandfather took Mary Jane to see Frances and Mary Jane had fun every minute of the two hours she was there. The Westlands kept many cows and Mary Jane saw twenty little calves--such gentle, soft-eyed little creatures that were so tame the girls could pet them and feed them all they wanted to. And chickens! Mary Jane had thought her grandmother had a good many but the Westlands had more! "May we feed them all?" asked Mary Jane eagerly as she saw them. "I guess Frances would be glad to have you," laughed Mrs. Westland kindly; "she has to do it so much that I'm sure she'll be glad for help at the job." So the girls went to the bins and gathered great handfuls of corn and oats for the feast. Frances gave a peculiar call which the chickens seemed to know and immediately they came a-running, hundreds of them, so fast that Mary Jane dropped the corn she held and tried to run away. "They won't hurt you," laughed Frances, "see? I can let them eat right out of my hand!" Mary Jane looked and thought that if Frances was safe she would be too. So she took some of the grain Frances handed over to her and bent down for them to eat out of her hand too. It wasn't more than a minute before she had lost every trace of fear and could let the biggest rooster gobble up his grain right out of her hand. The girls tried dropping kernels of corn on their shoes and then holding up one foot for the chickens to reach for the grain. And they tossed occasional kernels way to the outside of the feeding group and then giggled to see how quickly the greedy ones whirled around to get all they could. Then, before it was time to go, Mrs. Westland called them in and gave them each a big glass of rich milk and a plate of fat sugar cookies to eat on the porch. Altogether Mary Jane thought she had the most fun during that visit of any visit she had ever made! And before the little girls separated, Frances had promised to come over to Mary Jane's house very soon. The day after the call at the Westlands the postman brought a letter from Mrs. Merrill which said that Alice could come to her grandfather's in two days if that would be convenient. Grandfather was very fond of Alice; she had visited there before and he was hoping she would have a nice long stay there this summer. So, as soon as he read the letter he got out his car, took Mary Jane with him and went into the village to telegraph that Alice should come at once. The next morning Mary Jane helped her grandmother clean the room that Alice was to have--it was just across the hall from Mary Jane's and was so quaint and cozy with its old-fashioned furniture and ruffled white curtains. Then the next day Grandmother made a great jar full of cookies; Mary Jane loved that because Grandmother let her cut out some. They made stars and crescents and squares and some just plain round ones; and Mary Jane put the sugar and nuts over the top, too. Then they made apple pies and berry pies and a tart of each kind for Mary Jane's dinner and supper that day. Mary Jane decided then and there that she was going to be a good cook when she grew up because cooking was about the most fun of anything she had ever tried. On the morning Alice was to come, Mary Jane got up early; dressed herself as quickly as possible and ran down the stairs. Just in the nick of time she was too, for Grandfather was ready to start to the station. "Take me, please take me along!" she called as she heard him crank up his car. "Hello, Pussy; you up?" he answered; "to be sure you may go along. Get your grandmother to give you a big piece of coffee cake to eat on the way and we'll be off." Grandmother heard what he said and had the coffee cake ready as Mary Jane ran into the kitchen. A wonderful big piece, she cut, all full of sugary, buttery "wells" that Mary Jane liked so much. She wrapped it in a napkin so it wouldn't get Mary Jane's dress sticky with its sweetness, threw a woolen scarf around the little girl's shoulders for the early morning air was cool and waved a good-by as they rode out of the yard. They reached the station just as the great train pulled in and saw the conductor and porter help Alice down the steps of the car. Mary Jane thought she had never seen any one look so nice in all her life! Grandfather set her out of the auto and she ran as fast as ever she could and threw her arms around her sister. Alice held her tight a minute and then turned to kiss her grandfather. "So you're here all right, Blunderbuss," said Grandfather heartily, using the nickname he had given her long ago, "and you haven't lost a bit of your hair!" Alice laughed as he looked admiringly at her long golden braids. "I haven't," she replied teasingly, "but I can't say as much for you!" And she laughed at her grandfather's bald head. "Such a girl! Such a girl!" exclaimed Grandfather proudly; "now I suppose I'll have to get your trunk and take you home and stand your teasing the rest of the summer!" And in mock dismay he went for the trunk the baggage man had tossed off the train. That was the beginning of more fun for Mary Jane. First there was the house and farm which must be shown to Alice just as carefully as though she had never seen it before. Then there were all the jolly things that Alice thought of to do--Alice was always thinking up something to do, it seemed. She fixed up a saddle for the lamb and taught Mary Jane to ride. She tied tiny bells on the rabbits so they could be more easily found. She helped Mary Jane take the ducks down to the creek at the end of the pasture and turn them into the water. Mary Jane thought it perfectly wonderful that they should know how to swim--"just as though they had taken regular lessons, Grandfather," she said as she told him about it afterwards. And Alice learned how to make bread--with Mary Jane helping to turn the crank of the bread mixer so she wouldn't feel left out. On the third day of Alice's visit Frances Westland came over to play and the three little girls went out into the front yard and wondered what they would do. "I wish we had doll houses here like we have at home," said Mary Jane. "I know Frances would like to play with doll houses." "But you haven't any here," said Frances practically. "Maybe we can get some," said Alice thoughtfully; "we ought to be able to find something to make a doll house out of. Let's hunt." "Where'll we hunt?" asked Mary Jane. "Let me see," said Alice. She looked around the yard but saw nothing that interested her. She looked across the road to Grandmother's lot and saw all the grasses and brush that flourished there. "We ought to be able to find something over there," she said; "let's hunt." So the three little girls scrambled over the fence and roamed through the lot. The lamb was used to a good deal of petting and he supposed, of course, that was what they had come for. So he poked himself into their way at every step. "No, sir," said Alice, laughing; "we didn't come to play with you to-day! You run along, sir!" She rubbed her hand over his back to push him away and something rough and pricky scratched her. She pulled at his wool and a small brown burr came off in her hand. "Look! Girls!" she cried suddenly. "If he got this, there must be more in the lot!" "Of course!" said Frances, looking scornfully at the burr Alice held up for her to see; "there's a million over there--see? They're an awful nuisance, burrs are, even this early in the season." "They may be a nuisance," laughed Alice, "but I'll venture to say they'll make good doll houses for all that. Here! I'll show you what I think we can do." She ran over to where Frances had pointed out a lot of burrs, pulled off a handful and began sticking them together. "Yes, it works," she said in a satisfied tone, "but let's not stop to make the houses here. Let's gather a lot of burrs and take them over to Grandmother's front yard. Then we can make a whole village!" Frances and Mary Jane didn't quite see how a village was to come out of a lot of burrs, but Alice was so sure of what she was going to do that they thought she must be right. So they gathered up their skirts and filled them with burrs and then helped each other back over the fence. Under the big pine tree, where the ground was the levelest of any place in the yard, Alice had them spread out all their burrs. "Now," she said when the burrs were ready, "you make them stick together--so. Make eight rows of six burrs each. That will be the floor of the house. Then start up the sides for walls." Frances and Mary Jane got the idea in a minute and they set to work in a jiffy. Such fun as it was! The houses and barns and churches grew so rapidly that none of the girls gave a minute's thought to pricked fingers--there wasn't time! When the stock of burrs was entirely used up, Alice set the houses along in a straight line as though they were on a street. Frances put the barns back of the houses where they belonged and Mary Jane ran to her garden for nasturtiums to lay by the houses for gardens. "But we haven't any dolls to live in the houses!" exclaimed Frances suddenly. "That's easy," said Alice; "I've made dolls before. Grandmother showed me how years ago. Come on and we'll get some." She led the girls back to the orchard, where by now tiny green apples were lying on the ground, scattered there by the summer winds. "You girls get all the apples you can while I get the toothpicks." And she ran to the house. "What does she mean?" asked Frances, who wasn't used to this sort of play. "I don't know, but let's do what she says and then we'll find out," answered Mary Jane, who had great confidence in this big sister of hers. They filled their skirts with apples of all sizes and hurried back to the front yard where Alice, carrying a box of toothpicks, met them. "Now we'll all make dolls," said Alice as she spread out the picks. "Use the biggest apples for the body; stick in two toothpicks for arms and two for legs. And a middle-sized apple makes the head. Then take another toothpick and mark out eyes and nose and mouth--so!" And she set up the finished doll for the girls to see. Frances and Mary Jane picked up apples and went to work too, and first thing they knew there was a doll standing in front of each house. They were just starting on animals, pigs and horses and cows which Alice showed them how to make, when Grandmother came out with a pitcher of lemonade and a basket of cookies. So the burr making turned into a party which lasted till Mr. Westland came tooting along the road and Frances had to go home. EARNING MONEY "Now if I only had a camera," said Alice as she and Mary Jane and her grandmother were sitting out on the back porch one morning, shelling peas for dinner, "I'd take a picture of you both. Wouldn't it make a good one?" Grandmother looked at Mary Jane. The sunshine splattered through the cracks between the vine-covered lattice and shone on her bobbed brown hair, on her pink play dress and on the bright green pea pods in her lap. Mary Jane looked at her grandmother and saw the snow white hair, the kindly face that smiled above the big work apron and the busy hands. "Wouldn't it, though!" they both exclaimed at exactly the same minute. And then they all three had a good laugh. "All the same I wish I had a camera," insisted Alice. "Does your mother think you're old enough to know how to use one?" asked Grandmother. "Old enough, Grandmother!" exclaimed Mary Jane. "Alice's twelve!" And the way she said twelve showed that she thought twelve was very, very old indeed. Grandmother smiled and Alice added, "She's willing I should have one, Grandmother, only I must buy it myself. And saving money out of my allowance is slow work. I've a dollar now but I need seventy-five cents more." "Seems to me you should be able to earn that much," said Grandmother. "Earn it?" asked Alice. "How?" "Oh, by some sort of work," answered Grandmother. "Oh, could I really?" exclaimed Alice delightedly. "What could I do?" "Could I earn some too?" asked Mary Jane eagerly. "What do you want money for?" laughed Alice, as though a little girl wouldn't have use for such a thing as money! "You always want to do everything, Mary Jane!" "Of course she does," said Grandmother comfortably, "and you do too. The thing I'm thinking about is more fun if done by two anyway. But what do you want your money for, dear?" she asked the little girl. "I want it to get a present for my dear mother," said Mary Jane, "a present that she don't know anything about and that Daddah don't know anything about and that nobody gives me the money for. Can I really truly earn some money?" "Surely," replied Grandmother. "See those woods, girls?" She pointed across the garden and across the cornfield to the woods about a quarter of a mile away. "In those woods are blackberry bushes, lots of them. And this is about the beginning of the blackberry season. Now if you girls really want to earn some money you may take your little baskets and go berrying. I'll buy all you can pick at ten cents a quart. You ought to easily get your seventy-five cents that way, Alice, for the bushes ate usually loaded with berries." "But the berries are yours to begin with," objected Alice, who liked to be fair; "we can't sell you something that already belongs to you." "Of course you can't," replied Grandmother, much pleased with Alice's honesty. "I shouldn't have said 'buy the berries'; I should have said 'pay you for the picking' at ten cents a quart. If I 'bought' the berries of any one I would have to pay fifteen or twenty cents a quart. And if I hired some one to pick them for me as I have some years, I would have to pay ten cents a quart, just as I offered you. So, you see, I promised you no more than you will fairly earn." "How do you pick berries?" asked Alice. "There's only one way," laughed Grandmother, much amused at the question. "You touch them and off they come! Just pick them off the bushes and drop them in your basket and the thing is done." "Let's go now," said Mary Jane eagerly. "Not now," answered Grandmother, "because it's too near dinner time. Wait till you have your dinner and a little rest of half an hour. Then you can start and pick all afternoon." By two o'clock the girls had hunted up the berry baskets Grandmother told them to find in the attic (cunning little baskets with long, curving handles they were, too) and, tying on their biggest sun hats, they started out through the garden path. They crossed the field, climbed the fence into the woods and turned down the wagon road as Grandmother had directed them. And sure enough, there were the berry bushes just as she had said. Bushes that were fairly loaded with shining blackberries that glistened in the afternoon sunshine. [Illustration: "There were the berry bushes--fairly loaded with shining blackberries."] The girls set to work most enthusiastically and by the time Grandfather came to see how they liked their job (for, of course, he had heard all about it at dinner time) they had their baskets nearly full. He walked home with them and helped them measure out their berries with Grandmother's quart measure. Alice had a quart and a half and Mary Jane a full, even quart and Grandmother paid immediately--fifteen cents for Alice and ten cents, a bright new dime, for Mary Jane. "My, but I do be rich!" exclaimed Mary Jane delightedly. "I can get my dear mother the nicest thing!" "Of course you can, Pussy," said Grandfather, "and Alice will have her camera in no time. I get the best of all, though," he added with a mysterious nod of his head. "How do you?" asked both girls at once. "I get to eat the jam!" replied Grandfather in a comical attempt at a whisper. "They do too, bless their hearts!" exclaimed Grandmother. They shall eat all they want. I'll make it first thing in the morning." "And first thing in the morning I mean to get more berries," said Alice. "Let me see--fifteen into seventy-five:--in four more days I'll have enough money to get my camera!" And she danced around gayly, she was so delighted. "Not quite," laughed Grandfather; "don't be in too big a hurry, Blunderbuss; you have to give the berries a chance to ripen. Better plan to go every other day. You'll get more at a time that way." "And I'm going, too," put in Mary Jane, "so I can get more money for Mother's present." "I was thinking about that present while you girls were gone," said Grandmother. "You'd better get that present in the city where the stores are good. Why don't you save it for her Christmas gift? That would be nice." "But I wanted to give her something when she comes to take me home!" objected Mary Jane, who had set her heart on making her mother a gift, "something that I did." "That's all right," Grandmother assured her; "give her something then, too. Something you made yourself and save the money you earn till Christmas. How would you like to make her some blackberry jam? She likes blackberry jam and you could make that." "Could I really?" exclaimed Mary Jane, and she sidled over to where her grandmother was standing. "How silly!" cried Alice. "You know she can't make jam, Grandmother; she's only five years old. Why, even I don't know how to make jam and I'm twelve!" "Is that so?" laughed Grandmother, and she slipped her arm around Mary Jane. "Well, what you can do and what Mary Jane can do has no connection. You don't know what she can do. She's going to be a good cook; she's begun already. And if she wants to make a glass of jam for her mother, all by herself, she shall do it, so there! And you can make some, too, if you want to, dear," she added kindly to Alice. "Thank you, Grandmother," said Alice, "and I'm sorry I spoke so about you, dear," she added to Mary Jane; "go ahead and make your jam, pet, and I'll make Mother something else. I know it would be more fun for you to make it without me. May I make her a cake, Grandmother? Make it the day before she comes?" Grandmother assured her that she could and they all went in to get supper. The next morning Mary Jane put on her cooking cap and apron and she and Grandmother went at the jam while Alice and Grandfather rode to the village on an errand. "Measure out a good big cup full of berries," said Grandmother; "pile it full as it will hold and wash them and put them in this pan." Mary Jane picked out nice big, juicy berries; that wasn't hard to do because most of the berries were very fine; the girls hadn't picked any other kind. Then she washed them carefully and put them in the pan Grandmother had given her. "Now measure an even cupful of sugar," said Grandmother, "and pour it over your berries." And Mary Jane went to the sugar bin and did as she was told. "Now," continued Grandmother, "shake the berries till the sugar's well mixed in and then set the pan on the stove." While the berries were cooking Grandmother had her hunt out a nice jelly glass, one that the top fitted on firmly; wash and dry it ready for the jelly. Then Mary Jane took a big spoon and Grandmother took a big spoon and they stood by the stove and watched the jam boil. When the bubbles got big, oh, very big, and looked as shining as big glass beads, Grandmother said it was about done and must be tested. She put her spoon in and then, holding it over the pan of jam, let the hot jam drop off. "Almost done," said Grandmother, with a satisfied nod; "now you try it, Mary Jane." So Mary Jane dipped her spoon in just as her grandmother had done and again the jam dropped off, this time a little slower and with longer drops. Grandmother told her to put the glass on a chair, on a paper, and by the time she had done that the jam was ready to pour into the glass. When Alice and Grandfather came home from their errand the glass of jam was all done and was on the table near the window, covered neatly with its tin cover ready to give to Mrs. Merrill when she should come. "And that won't be so many days now either," said Grandmother. "I declare, how this summer has gone!" THE PICNIC AT FLATROCK On the very day that Alice counted out her money and found she had the seventy-five cents she needed for her much wanted camera and that Mary Jane had fifty cents, there came a telegram from Mrs. Merrill saying that she and Mr. Merrill would arrive the next morning for a stay of ten days. "Now this is something like old times," said Grandmother happily as she and the two girls bustled around making ready for the guests. "Lots of cooking to do and two nice girls to help me do it. Seems like the days when our own girls were here! Mary Jane, you've done plenty of dusting for today; you go and get your grandfather to pick out two nice fat chickens for frys while I teach Alice about making her cake. She's going to have a beauty to show her mother, that's what she is!" Mary Jane liked doing things with her jolly grandfather, so she skipped out happily and found him in the barn. "Pick out some frys, should we?" he said. "All right, that suits me, only we'll fool her, Mary Jane; we'll get _three_! I believe in having enough, I do." "What we going to do to-morrow, Pussy?" he asked when that job was done. "Why, we're going to get Mother and Father at the train and then we're coming home." "Oh, yes, I know that," said Grandfather, "but let's do more than that. Let's have a picnic to celebrate their coming." "Oh, Grandfather!" exclaimed Mary Jane, "could we?" "We certainly could," said Grandfather, "and I think it would be a fine thing to do. There's a full moon and we could go about four and come home by moonlight. Let's see what your grandmother and Alice think about it." Grandmother and Alice were enthusiastic. "I can take my cake!" exclaimed Alice eagerly. "It's a beautiful cake, Grandfather, see?" she said proudly. "It's all done but the frosting and I'm going to put that on as soon as it's cool enough." "Looks good enough to eat," said Grandfather admiringly, "and I'm sure it will be fine to-morrow." "And I can take my frys," said Grandmother, planning; "your father loves cold fried chicken, girls," she added, "and maybe your mother will make a bowl of her fine salad to-morrow while I make a custard--yes, Father, that's just what we'll do. We'll have a picnic. Where'll we go?" "To Flatrock," replied Grandfather, who had decided that point long ago, "and you needn't plan too much fixyness because Mary Jane and I have a surprise." "Oh, goody!" cried Mary Jane. "What is it?" Everybody laughed at that and Grandfather took the little girl out to the garden to show her what the secret was. But they didn't tell anybody else what it was--I should say not! It was lucky there was plenty to do that day, and many interesting things to plan for the picnic; for, even so, Mary Jane thought the day would never end--never. She hadn't realized she was so anxious to see her mother till she knew the long separation was so nearly over. "To-morrow I'll see my mother! To-morrow I'll see my mother! To-morrow I'll see my mother!" she whispered over and over to herself as she went to sleep, and she thought it was the best news she ever told herself. She was awake and up the first of any one in the house the next morning, and long before Grandfather was ready to start she was out sitting in the automobile. "Look who thinks she's going to the station!" exclaimed Grandfather. "'Fraid you can't go this time, Pussy; there won't be room." "Oh, _Grandfather_!" exclaimed Mary Jane over the big lump that suddenly came into her throat, "I _must_ go to see my _mother_!" And then she looked at her grandfather and saw the twinkle in his eye. "You're just teasing, aren't you, Grandfather?" she added anxiously. "Yes, I am, and I ought to be shot for it, so there!" said Grandfather, who, when he saw how eager she was, regretted his hasty teasing. "Surely you can go--we'll start in two minutes." It wasn't more than a second after her father and mother got off the great train before Mary Jane was held tight in her mother's arms and oh, how good it did feel to be there! "I didn't know how much I did want you," cried Mary Jane, "till you're here!" Mother replied with a satisfying whisper and another pair of kisses, one on each rosy cheek, and then Father had to have his hug and they started gayly home. After breakfast Mary Jane showed them all the creatures she had learned to love--from the lamb in the pasture lot to the ducks that now lived down by the creek. Then they went back into the house and Mary Jane gave her mother the glass of jam made all by herself (and you can just guess how proud and happy Mrs. Merrill was over _such_ a gift!) and Alice showed her cake. "Look's good enough to eat right now," said Mr. Merrill, smacking his lips; "let's have a piece." "I should say not!" exclaimed Alice; "that's to take to the picnic!" So then they told all about the plan for the picnic, and Father and Mother were pleased just as everybody had known they would be. And every one set to work at the pleasant preparations. Mrs. Merrill, Grandmother and Alice stayed in the kitchen, while Mr. Merrill joined Mary Jane and Grandfather in making preparations for the secret. They didn't let any one see a thing of what they were doing and they carefully covered up the big basket that they stowed away in the back of the car. At three o'clock they were off and with such good company and over fine roads the twenty-five mile ride to Flatrock seemed all too short. "Now you folks who think you have the eats," said Grandfather as they all got out of the car, "can just fool around any way you like. Mary Jane and I are going to build a fire for the coffee her father and I will be sure to want." "That's no surprise," laughed Alice; "Grandmother has the coffee in her basket and she told me I could help you make the fire!" "Isn't that amazing!" teased Grandfather, and Alice knew from the way he talked that she hadn't guessed the secret after all. Flatrock was a rough, wooded spot, most unusual for that region; and right through the middle of the woods a pretty little creek ran tumbling over some broad, flat rocks. It was by the side of one of these rocks, close by the little stream, that Grandfather started his fire. He pulled two logs together till they formed a big V; then he and Mr. Merrill and the girls gathered wood, twigs and branches and leaves, till they had a big pile between the logs. They set fire to these and soon they had a heap of glowing coals. "Now," said Grandfather, "I think it's about time for our surprise. Shall we get it, Mary Jane?" She nodded "yes" and he went to the car, bringing back with him the mysteriously covered basket. "You shall take the cover off, Pussy," he said. Mary Jane pulled back the cover cloth and there, inside, was a basket full to the brim of--yes, it was--roasting ears! The very first of the season! "We keep watch of our corn patch, we do," said Grandfather, and he nodded solemnly at Mary Jane, "and now we're going to have something good." They piled the roasting ears in on the hot coals, then they built another fire over the top of them, and by the time that had burned down the corn was ready to eat. Grandmother and Mother and Alice unpacked the baskets and they all sat around and enjoyed the feast. Grandmother's fried chicken and crullers and rolls and Alice's fine cake, which was given the place of honor on a rock by itself where it could be seen all the time till they were ready to eat it, were pronounced the best ever. The moon rose so clear and big and beautiful that it was hard to tell just when day ended and night began. So it was a surprise when Grandfather announced that it was eight o'clock and high time they were starting home. The few scraps, and there weren't very many, were packed neatly into one basket and the party regretfully left the rocks and started for the car. "Nobody ever comes along this road at this time of night," said Grandfather. "I'll just get the car out into the middle of the road where you can get in easier." So he pulled it away from the fence where he had left it, and ran it out into the middle of the road. "Here, Pussy," he added, "run around on the other side of the car and hand me that basket." Mary Jane did as she was told and after he had taken the basket from her she waited in the middle of the road, by the car, till he should be ready to help her in. No one ever knew quite how it happened--it was all so sudden. Perhaps the other driver, too, thought that no one was ever on that road at that time of the evening. Out of the shadows and the moonshine, around the curve of the road, came a roadster moving so fast that before its driver could realize that some one stood in the center of the road, he had hit Mary Jane squarely and had tossed her over the fence on the opposite side of the road. Grandfather jumped over the fence after her as quickly as he could out of the car, but, quick as he was, Mary Jane's father was quicker. He picked up the little girl, carried her back to her mother and together they ran their hands over her--no bones seemed to be broken; her heart was beating and she was breathing. But _just_ breathing, that was all. She lay in her mother's arms as still and quiet--so still and so quiet that she didn't seem like Mary Jane--the Mary Jane who was always running and talking and lively. Without more than a half-dozen necessary words Grandfather and Grandmother, Father, Mother and Alice got into the car and Grandfather put on all speed. The one thought in every one's mind was to get to Dr. Smith as quickly as ever they could. Grandfather was thankful for the moonlight that made the way so plain and he drove home the fastest he had ever driven. And so they came back from the picnic at Flatrock. HOME AGAIN "Would you speak to her, doctor?" asked Mrs. Merrill anxiously. It was eight o'clock the next morning. They had reached home about an hour after they left Flatrock and fortunately had found Dr. Smith at home. He came at once in answer to their telephone call and was there even before they had Mary Jane undressed and put to bed. He examined her carefully and could find no broken bones and no injury, but still Mary Jane slept on, breathing, but so quietly and unnaturally that she didn't seem like herself. Her mother and father had stayed by her all the night long; Grandmother, Grandfather and Alice had with difficulty been sent to bed after midnight and Dr. Smith had stayed most of the time. But when she still didn't stir the next morning Mrs. Merrill grew more and more anxious. "I don't know," said the doctor doubtfully; "we might try. You speak to her; your voice would be the best." Mrs. Merrill bent low over her little girl and whispered, "Mary Jane! Mary Jane! Mother's here!" No answer, but Mrs. Merrill thought she saw a quiver on the little girl's face, so she tried again. "Mary Jane! Mary Jane! Mother's here!" she repeated. "I know," whispered the little girl; "you com'd to-day," and she opened her big blue eyes and looked at her mother. Mrs. Merrill kissed her rapturously and held her close, and Mary Jane raised her arm enough to pat her mother's shoulder. Then she looked around the room in surprise. "Where's the moon?" she asked. "The moon?" said Mrs. Merrill, and the laugh she tried to give with her answer sounded very near tears. "The moon went to sleep a long time ago." "And where's the picnic?" continued Mary Jane wonderingly. "The picnic was over before you were hurt," said Mrs. Merrill. Mary Jane stared at her wide eyed for two or three long minutes. "Don't talk to her," whispered Dr. Smith very softly; "let her think it out herself." So Mrs. Merrill just held her little girl close and waited. "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Mary Jane as suddenly she remembered it all, "it came around the corner so fast--something big did, and then I'm here!" "And lucky you are to be here, young lady," said Dr. Smith, coming around to where she could see him. "How do you feel?" "Hungry," said Mary Jane briefly. Dr. Smith and Mother laughed so that the others heard them downstairs and came running to hear what the good news could be. "Is he going to stay for breakfast?" asked Mary Jane as she sat up in bed and pointed to Dr. Smith. "It _is_ breakfast time, isn't it, Grandmother?" "Bless the child!" exclaimed Grandmother from the doorway, "of course it is! She shall have anything she wants!" They could hardly believe their eyes--those five who had seen the accident, but it was true. Mary Jane had not been hurt a bit--not more than a half-dozen scratches--only stunned by her fall. She got up in a few minutes, and with her mother's help (and how good it did seem to have her mother there _to_ help) they soon came downstairs to breakfast. Grandmother was so happy and excited that if it hadn't been for the help of Alice, who could always be counted on to be "steady" when there was excitement a-foot, there's no telling what would have happened to that breakfast. Alice got out the honey and set the extra place for Dr. Smith and cut the melons and brought the eggs to her grandmother. And Grandmother made some of her wonderful griddle cakes and they had a merry feast. "Aren't you glad that big thing hit me?" asked Mary Jane of Dr. Smith as she passed up her plate for a third (or was it the fourth) helping of cakes, "'cause if it hadn't, you wouldn't have had any of Grandmother's griddle cakes this morning, you wouldn't." Dr. Smith had to admit that some good comes of everything and that he certainly was glad to get those griddle cakes. "The whole trouble," he added, "was because you didn't take _me_ to the picnic--of course that's not a hint!" They all laughed at that and promised that he should go to the very next picnic they had--the very next. How the days did fly after that. Mary Jane would never have supposed that ten days could go so swiftly. They took long rides in the car; had several fine picnics--with Dr. Smith along whenever he could go; went fishing in the river miles away and spent a day on a farm where threshers were working--a wonderful day the girls thought for it was all new to them. And finally it came time to pack the trunks and start for home. Mary Jane had hard work deciding what to put in, just as she had had when she packed to come. She wanted to take all the burr houses and green apple dolls they had made; and the ducks and a lot of corn and apples for Doris. She finally agreed that she would leave out all the other things if she could take _one_ house of burrs and _one_ green apple doll just to show how they were made and then a nice box of red cheeked eating apples to give to her little friend. It was decided to go home by the day trip. The journey was shorter that way and Alice begged to go at a time when they might eat in the diner. So they took the train at nine in the morning and would reach home in time for dinner that night. Mary Jane found it very hard to say good-by to Grandmother and Grandfather. She had learned to love them dearly and they had been so good and kind and thoughtful to her she would never, as long as she lived, forget the happy days she had spent with them. But, nice as it was to go away to visit, it was nicer still to be going home. Home to her own dolls and toys and friends and duties--everything that Mary Jane loved--that is, most everything, for it was hard to leave the lamb and the duck now grown so big and interesting and the baby mice--the new baby mice that had come to the barn loft family. She waved good-by to her Grandmother and Grandfather as long as she could see them--which wasn't very long for the train pulled away so quickly from the little station where the Merrills got on; and then she turned to her mother and said, "now let's talk about something quick." "Very well," said Mrs. Merrill, "I was just wanting to do that. Let's talk about what you are going to do this winter." "Do this winter?" exclaimed Mary Jane in surprise, "I'm going to do just like I always do. I'm going to play with my dolls and play with Doris and sometimes with Junior and help you and everything like I do, Mother." "Think so, dear?" asked Mrs. Merrill, "how old are you?" "I'm five," answered Mary Jane in surprise. "Five and a little more than a quarter," corrected Mrs. Merrill, "and seems to me that's big enough to be going to kindergarten. What do you think?" "Oh, is it, Mother?" exclaimed Mary Jane happily, "am I really big enough?" "I'm afraid my little girl is growing up," said Mrs. Merrill with half a sigh, "and that she ought to go to school. What do you think, Father?" "I think she'll like it and that she ought to go," said Mr. Merrill promptly; "suppose we start her the first of October?" So it was settled that Mary Jane was to go to kindergarten. They made plans and talked till the porter came through the car and called, "First call for luncheon! First call for luncheon! Diner in the rear of the train!" And then they all went through the train to the diner and Mary Jane ate her first meal on the train. And if you want to know about what Mary Jane did after she got home from her summer trip; and about all the fun and good times she had after she started to kindergarten, you must read-- MARY JANE IN KINDERGARTEN 
18256	----	WOODSIDE [Illustration: THE VISIT TO THE WATCH-DOG. _Page 13._] Thomas Nelson and Sons, _LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK._ [Illustration: THE ARRIVAL AT GRANDPAPA'S. _Page 10._] WOODSIDE OR, _Look, Listen, and Learn._ BY Caroline Hadley, AUTHOR OF "CHILDREN'S SAYINGS," "STORIES OF OLD," "STORIES OF THE APOSTLES," ETC. ETC. London: T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW. EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK. 1902 "And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: 'Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee. "'Come wander with me,' she said, 'Into regions yet untrod, And read what is still unread Of the manuscripts of God.' "And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe." H. W. LONGFELLOW. Contents. I. GRANDPAPA'S HOUSE, 9 II. LISTENING IN THE WOODS, 17 III. TOM'S BIRDS' EGGS, 27 IV. JACK AND THE GARDENER, 36 V. HIVING THE BEES, 47 VI. WASPS AND THEIR WAYS, 58 VII. CHARLEY FOSTER'S PETS, 66 VIII. A TALK WITH AUNT LIZZIE, 80 IX. AFTER THE RAIN, 95 X. THE SIX CLOSED DOORS, 105 List of Illustrations. THE ARRIVAL AT GRANDPAPA'S, _Frontispiece_ THE VISIT TO THE WATCH-DOG, _Vignette_ THE VISIT TO THE PONY, 13 TOM SHOWING THE REDBREAST'S EGGS, 29 JACK AND THE THRUSH'S NEST, 36 REYNARD HARD PUSHED, 45 CHARLEY FOSTER'S COLLECTION, 68 THE TEA ON THE LAWN, 82 WOODSIDE. I. _GRANDPAPA'S HOUSE._ "Now for the dear, dear country, Its trees and meadows fair, Its roses, cowslips, violets, Whose sweetness fills the air. "'Tis there we hear the music Of lark's and blackbird's song, And merry little finches, Singing the whole day long."--C. H. One bright spring day, not so very long ago, three little children arrived at their grandfather's house. They had come to pay a long visit, as their parents were travelling abroad for two or three months. Now grandpapa lived less than twenty miles from London, yet his house was quite in the country,--indeed you might have thought that it was a hundred miles away from any town,--and it was called Woodside. You may be sure that Jack, Mary, and Annie--for those were the names of the children--thought the change from London most delightful. Jack was the eldest--that is why I have put his name before those of his sisters--and he was ten years old. Mary was the next in age, and she was nearly nine; while Annie, the youngest, was seven. On the day they arrived they felt very quiet, all was so strange after London; besides, they were busy unpacking their toys and picture-books, and in finding places for all their treasures in the rooms grandmamma had set apart for them. They went to bed early too, and never once woke till their nurse called them in the morning. At first they felt sorry it was time to get up, but when Jane drew up the blinds, and they saw the bright sunshine and the clear blue sky, they made haste to dress, so that after breakfast was over they might go out of doors. Each of them had visited at Woodside several times before, but they had not been all together there at the same time. They knew very well how many interesting things there were to see out of doors, and they hoped that there would be something new. There was sure to be a difference among the animals and flowers. The old house looked the same as they drove up to it, with its twenty oak trees in a semi-circle and the gates in the middle. There was the same watch-dog, Lion; and on the parlour hearth-rug, lying curled up in the sunshine, lay Smut, grandmamma's large black cat. A very respectable old gentleman was Smut, with his sleek, glossy coat; but he stood too much on his dignity ever to play. The children coaxed him and patted him; yet he took no notice, he just curled himself round and went to sleep again. A proud old cat was Smut; he would never touch food or milk in the kitchen. His food was put on a plate for him out of doors, and he had his milk in a saucer in the parlour. When he was out of doors, he always came in again by the front door, never at the back. The children soon spied something new in the shape of a long-haired kitten, whose fur was gray and soft. She was bright and lively, and was very pleased to play with the children; for Smut would never take any notice of her, or play with her one bit: so she and the children became very good friends, and had many a game together. After breakfast was over, grandmamma told the children they might put on their hats and go out of doors. They did not need to be spoken to twice. First of all they had a run round the garden, peeped into the greenhouse, and said "How do you do?" to the gardener. But they did not stop long among the lovely spring flowers, for they were in such haste to see the animals. [Illustration: THE VISIT TO THE PONY. _Page 13._] Jack said, "We must pay our first visit to the pony;" so away they went to the stable. The pony was very sober and steady, and, I am sorry to add, rather lazy; so the children did not get much fun out of him. He lifted up his head and gave a little neigh to Jack, for he seemed to remember him; and then he went on eating his hay in the most unconcerned manner. They then went to see the large dog in the yard. Lion was very glad to see them. He harked with delight, wagged his tail, rattled his chain; in fact he seemed as if he would break away from it, in his eagerness to meet the children. "Lion is ever so much nicer than the pony," they said. The fact was, the pony had not much work to do, and his chief thoughts were about his hay and his corn and his nice warm stable. Now Lion, although he was generally chained to his kennel, had to watch for others. He was always listening to hear if any one came upon the premises who had no business there; and he barked so loudly that tramps and idle people thought it best to go away. He always welcomed the gardener and the servants, and especially his master, whenever they came to see him; so that every one about the place would give a pat or a word to the friendly dog whenever they passed that way. "Now let us go and see the fowls," said Mary. On the right hand side of the drive up to the house was a wide strip of grass planted with shrubs. Here, standing back, were some wire enclosures inside of which were some choice broods of chickens. The girls could have stopped here "for hours," they said, watching the little chickens, that looked like balls of white or yellow or gray down running about or hiding under their mothers' wings. However, most of the fowls were in the orchard, close by which was the hen-house. Fancy what a pretty sight that orchard was this sunshiny spring morning! How alive with different sorts of fowls running hither and thither--black, and gray, and speckled; old motherly hens, and pert, lively young ones; while the cocks strutted about and crowed one against another. Then a hen would come out of the hen-house, where the nests were, telling all the world, by her loud, proud cackling, that she had laid an egg. What noise there was then, for cocks and hens would all join in chorus. Some of the hens seemed to get together to have a quiet chat, as if they were talking over their family affairs; about which they did not always seem to agree, if you might judge by their noise. By this time grandpapa had finished reading his newspaper and came to the children. He took them to the cow-house to see the new calf, and he lifted Annie up to let her stroke it; but the mother looked so fierce that they did not care to stay long there. Then they went into the yard to see the pigs. The little pigs looked so funny running about the large, clean sty, as if they loved the bright sunshine and liked to play about in it. But when they fed they would put their feet in the trough, and this was not very mannerly of them. By the time the children had paid a visit to all the old places they were getting rather tired, and then they went back to the house. II. _LISTENING IN THE WOODS._ "I hear the blackbird telling His love-tale to his mate; And the merry skylark swelling The choir at 'heaven's gate.' The cuckoo away in the thicket Is giving his two old notes; And the pet doves hung by the wicket Are talking with ruffled throats. The honey-bee hums as he lingers Where shadows on clover heads fall; And the wind with leaf-tipped fingers, Is playing in concert with all." ELIZA COOK. Now grandpapa's house, Woodside, stood on the side of a wood; in fact there was only a grassy road between the gates and the wood itself. Such a wood! with large old elms and oaks and other trees. In the more open spaces were trees and bushes of hawthorn, now completely covered with white blossom, the pretty May-bloom. There too grew primroses, violets, wild hyacinths, besides a long list of other wild flowers, ferns, and feathery green moss. One fine day grandmamma took the children herself across the road into the wood. She sat down in one of the open spaces upon the trunk of a fallen tree, while the children played at hide-and-seek among the bushes or picked the wild flowers. By-and-by they came back to grandmamma, who was reading while they were playing about, and said, "Grandmamma, will you tell us about papa when he was a little boy?" Grandmamma took off her spectacles, shut her book, and the children sat down quite close to her, on the grass at her feet. Then she began:--"When your father and your uncle and aunts, were about as old as you are now, they came with me into this very place one summer day. "After they had played awhile they came to me, and I said to them, 'Children, what do you hear?' "'Hear, mother?' they said; 'why, nothing in particular. What _is_ there to hear?' "'Well,' I said, 'now all of you shut your eyes and listen, and don't speak till I tell you.' "After a short time I told them to open their eyes; and I asked John, who was the eldest, what he had heard. "'First of all I heard the birds singing, then I noticed that there were different sorts of birds singing: I heard the blackbird, the thrush, the little finches, and the warblers--I could not tell you how many; some of them singing as if they could not make sound enough, and others sung a low song, with twitterings and chatterings all to themselves. Some seemed calling to birds a long way off; then I heard those other birds answer, but the sound was so faint that I should not have heard it at all if we had not been so still. I was trying to catch a faint sound of a bird some distance down the wood, which sounded like the coo of the wood-pigeon, when you said, "Open your eyes."' "Then I turned to Harry--your father, children--and he said, 'Of course I heard the birds, but I thought, I can hear them any day; I shall listen for all sorts of odd sounds. I heard the distant rumble of a farmer's waggon, and the cows lowing at Brown's farm; every now and again I heard the sound of the village blacksmith's hammer, the faint puffing of a train, a man's footsteps coming through the wood, and the voices of boys--after birds' nests, I suppose.' "'Well, Lizzie, what did you hear?' I asked, turning to one of the girls. "'I heard the wind moving very gently among the trees, making a soft rustling noise. I could scarcely believe in the difference there is between this quiet sound and the roaring of the wind in a storm. Then I heard the wild bee's hum, and the little tiny noises made by the small creatures that live in the wood. I heard our gardener sharpening his scythe, and the trickling of the brook in the hollow.' "'Now, little Fanny, tell us what you heard.' "'I heard the hens cackling and calling to their chickens. I thought I heard our dog bark; but all was so warm, and still, and sleepy, that I felt as if I should go to sleep too if I kept my eyes shut much longer. I heard the birds though, and a great bumble-bee that flew by when our eyes were shut.' "'Now, children,' I said, 'you have all heard something, and yet a little while ago you told me there was nothing particular to hear; nor is there, if you hear without listening.'" Here grandmamma stopped awhile, then, looking at the grandchildren at her feet, said there was a poet once who wrote about a little girl called Lucy. She lived among all the beautiful things that are to be seen in the country, and she loved them dearly. The poet thought how, as she grew up, she would be yet more and more charmed by them, and that loving all grand and beautiful natural objects would make her charming. Among other things he said,-- "She shall lean her ear In many a secret place, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face." "How can sound show itself in a face, grandmamma?" asked Jack. "Supposing you heard a loud, sudden scream, you would be startled and frightened by the cry; if you heard a tremendous clap of thunder, you might look a little frightened too, but you would also look solemn and still as you heard the grand sound; but you would have quite another look if you were lying on your back under a shady tree some calm summer evening, listening to the low song of the birds, and to the many sounds that are almost silence." "Cuckoo! cuckoo!" "O grandmamma, there's the cuckoo!" cried all the children at once. "Yes; there are a great many cuckoos about here. They say it is only the male bird that calls 'Cuckoo,' that the female simply makes a chattering sound." "Did you ever see a cuckoo, grandma?" "No, never a live bird, only one stuffed. I will tell you a story of how I heard one once. It was about five-and-twenty years ago. I wanted some primroses for a nosegay. I used to pick the long feathery moss that grows in these woods and put the primroses among it. I ran across the road outside of our gates--for I could run in those days--and soon filled my basket with as many primroses as I wanted. As I was standing under a large tree, I heard all at once, exactly over my head, a loud, gruff cry of 'Cuckoo.' I was so startled, the cry was so near, that I thought it must be a rude man, and I dropped all my primroses and ran back to the gates. "Then I thought, 'How foolish of me to be frightened; it is the 18th of April, the right time for the cuckoo to come back to England from the warm country where he has been all the winter,--of course it is a real cuckoo.' So I went back and picked up my primroses, but I heard no more of that cuckoo. "I told my children when I came indoors about my adventure; and how they did laugh at their mother for being frightened at a bird. "I shall always think, though, that that particular cuckoo must have caught a bad cold on his long journey to England, or soon after his arrival, for his voice sounded as if he had a sore throat." "Now children," said grandmamma, rising from her seat, "it is time we walked homewards." As they came near to the house they saw Smut sitting on the door-step, waiting patiently to be let in at the front door. Within a short distance of the house was a brook, almost hidden in places by overhanging bushes and long reedy grass. Then it flowed into more open ground; but it was very quiet in its flow, for the bed was soft and not stony. Of course the next day the children set off for this brook, to listen to its "murmuring sound." Jack lay down upon the ground and leaned his head over the brook, thinking he could hear better in that fashion. Mary said she should sit down by a bend in the stream and be comfortable, for she was sure she could not listen well if she were afraid of rolling into the water; while little Annie sat by her sister's side, holding her hand and shutting her eyes. If you had seen those children then, you would have wondered what they were doing, they were so serious and intent; but by the quiet look upon their faces they seemed to enjoy the music of the softly-flowing stream. So low was the sound, that you would hardly have noticed it if you had not been thinking about it. Often during this visit they would have games at "harking," as they called it; for they said, "We may as well hear as much as we can, as our father and uncle and aunts did when they were children." They would shut their eyes for some minutes, and then they would tell each other what they had heard. I can tell you their ears grew very sharp with all this practice; for, like other children, they had their quiet moods, when under the lofty forest trees or in the garden nooks they would listen, not for fun but for enjoyment. III. _TOM'S BIRDS' EGGS._ "The goldfinch, and blackbird, and thrush, Are brimful of music and glee; They have each got a nest in some bush, And the rook has built his on a tree." BERNARD BARTON. About a mile off, at the other end of the wood, was a village, which joined an old town so closely that they seemed to be only one place. The old town was quiet now; but it had been a very busy place many years ago, in the old coach days. I cannot tell you how many coaches daily ran through it, or changed horses at the different inns, on their way from London to towns in distant parts of England. Now the railway had stopped every coach, and in the valley, through these very woods, the trains rushed along, panting and puffing as if they were running a race with Time. Fortunately, the trains ran through a tunnel at this spot, so the beauty of the woods was not disturbed. There was a large green belonging to the village, on the edge of which lived the children's aunt Lizzie, who had married a doctor. She had two children--Tom, who was eleven years old, and Katey, who was nine. They went to school daily in the adjoining town, so they were unable to see much of their cousins, excepting upon half-holidays, as it was now school time. But you must not suppose that Jack and his sisters did nothing but play during this long visit. As soon as they had settled down, grandmamma engaged a young lady to come to teach them for about two hours every morning. Woodside was too far from the town for the children to go to school with their cousins. When they were at home they went to a kindergarten school, where they learned in the wisest and pleasantest fashion. [Illustration: TOM SHOWING THE REDBREAST'S EGGS. _Page 29._] The children always looked forward to the half-holidays, when they either went up to their cousins' home, or Tom and Katey came down to them. One Saturday afternoon, when they went to the green, Tom showed them his collection of birds' eggs. He kept them in shallow boxes full of bran, so that they should not get broken, for he was very careful over them. Tom's mother told him never to take more than one egg from each nest, unless there were a great many, as there are in wrens' nests, so that the mother bird might not grieve. "Please show us a robin redbreast's egg," said little Annie. Tom took two or three from under the bran, and showed her the eggs, which were yellowish-gray mottled with red-brown. "Mrs. Redbreast has not nearly so red a breast as Robin," he said. "I suppose you have plenty of sparrows' eggs," said Mary, "they are such common birds." "Yes; here they are. They are rather large for the size of the bird; they are spotted and streaked all over with gray and brown." "What a lovely pale greenish-blue egg that is!" exclaimed Mary. "Yes, that it is," said Tom; "and it belongs to a dear little brown bird--the hedge-sparrow. It is not at all the same kind of bird as the house-sparrow, for it is one of the warblers. It is a prettier bird, and has prettier eggs than the common sparrow. He builds his nest very early, before the hedges are covered with leaves; so his nest often gets stolen. He is one of the birds that stay in England all through the winter.--These speckled eggs of a bluish-gray belong to the linnet, which has a very sweet song, although not very powerful.--These belong to the chaffinch; they, you see, are greenish-purple spotted with brown. See here! I have a nest made by this bird." "It is perfectly lovely," said Mary. "It is, indeed; it is one of the most beautiful of all the birds' nests--such a nice round shape, and so firm that it does not easily fall to pieces. Inside it is lined with hair and feathers, and downy things, which make it ever so soft. Just put your finger inside, Annie, and feel it. Outside it is made of moss, fine dry grass, and wool, all matted together, and covered all over with the lichen which grows on the trunks and branches of trees. It is often very difficult to find this bird's nest, it looks so exactly like the part of a tree." "Have you a blackbird's egg?" asked Jack. "I know his note, for it is clear and louder than that of most of the other birds." "Yes, here are some. You see they are of a bluish-green colour, with dark blotches; and very pretty they are too.--Those blue eggs with a few black spots on them belong to the thrush. You must have heard the thrushes singing about grandpa's garden; there are plenty of them there." "I'm afraid you haven't a cuckoo's egg, Tom," said Annie. "I am so lucky as to have one, Annie. It is very small for the size of the bird, and not particularly pretty. You see it is a dull-looking egg, whitish, with pale-brown markings. This particular egg was taken from the nest of a hedge-sparrow; but cuckoos' eggs have been found in the nests of many other birds--robin's, and skylark's, and chaffinch's, linnet's, blackbird's, and wren's, and many more besides." "Why does not the cuckoo build a nest for herself?" asked Annie. "Nobody seems to know why she doesn't; but there's the fact. When the cuckoo has laid an egg, she carries it in her wide, gaping mouth, and puts it into the nest of another bird that she has chosen for it. When the egg is hatched, the young cuckoo grows so fast that he wants all the nest to himself. He turns the other young birds that have been hatched with him out of the nest, and the true parents of these little birds have to spend all their time in feeding the cuckoo. It takes a great deal to feed him, because he grows so fast, and is so much larger than they are. They don't seem to mind it though.--Those pale-green eggs with dark-brown spots belonged to a rook's nest in the elm-tree at the bottom of the garden. There's a curious story about those rooks down there, for they have not been there long. There is an old rookery belonging to the Rectory close by our house; and one day the rooks from there came to our elm-tree. It was in the spring. At last they came frequently, and chattered, and cawed, and flew round and round, as if they did not know what to do about building their nests in it. By-and-by their visits ceased, and they built their nests as usual in the Rectory trees. That very summer, during one still night, a large branch, almost a third of the elm-tree, fell to the ground. The rooks seemed to know that the tree was not safe, and so they would not build in it. That was two years ago; and this spring they have begun to build, and there are several nests now in our elm-tree. It is most interesting to watch the ways of rooks; they seem to have a lot of business on hand. There is another rookery in the town, in the garden of Mrs. Cross, a friend of my mother's. Rooks always leave the town rookeries for the country as soon as their young ones are able to fly. Now Mrs. Cross noticed that her rooks, after they had gone to the fields, always came back each morning quite early to look after their nests. They stayed a little while to talk over matters; then they flew back again to the fields. One very stormy morning she noticed that instead of the whole flock coming and alighting, one solitary rook ventured through the wind and rain, flying round and round the trees without settling, and then flew back again to the others to give his report that all was right in the old home." "What clever birds they must be!" said Mary. "They are," said Tom. "There are lots of stories about rooks, but what I have told you happened under our very eyes.--I have a sparrow-hawk's egg here, white, spotted with brown. It was given to my father by a man for me. There are not many of these birds about here." "Oh," said Jack, "I wish I could get a collection of birds' eggs!" "It is almost too late in the season now," said Tom. "Still, you might get some from late nests. I can spare you some from mine, to make a beginning. I know a young fellow, who lives about a half-mile off, who has a large collection of eggs. We'll go and see him one Saturday afternoon. He is sure to have some to give away, for he is always adding to his store, and he is very good-natured." IV. _JACK AND THE GARDENER._ "Oh! fie upon you, little birds, To eat up _all_ our cherries! Why don't you go into the woods And dine upon the berries?"--C. H. A few days after Tom had shown his cousins his collection of birds' eggs, Jack, as he was coming away from a visit to Lion, passed by the end of the potting-shed. The gardener was in there, and he called out, "Master Jack, I've got something for you in here." Jack went into the shed, and the gardener fumbled about on a shelf till he found what he was looking for. "There," he said, "is a thrush's nest; I thought you'd like it. I took it out of one of the trees in the orchard. It has got four pretty eggs in it." [Illustration: JACK AND THE THRUSH'S NEST. _Page 36._] "Oh," said Jack, "how splendid! What a treasure! It does seem a shame, though, to take it from the birds." His delight soon got the better of his scruples, especially when he heard the gardener say,-- "There are too many birds about here already. Missus does encourage them so, that they are as bold as possible. I can tell you, Master Jack, who gets most of the cherries. It is not us that does; it's them birds, especially the thrushes and blackbirds. I'm up early, and I see; and I hear 'em too before I'm up. There they are, at the fruit as soon as 'tis light. They have their breakfasts hours before you get yours. One wouldn't grudge them a few cherries now and again; but to clear the trees as they do is downright greediness, I say. And I wouldn't be hard on them for taking a few currants, for we have plenty of them; but they just go and strip off the largest and reddest of them, and leave the stalk hanging, and that's all that's left of a fine bunch. Then as to the pease--you like pease, don't you, Master Jack? your grandpa's uncommon fond of 'em--well, I have to sow the pease pretty thick, or, I'll warrant ye, we shouldn't have a tidy row come up at all. I have to dodge about with netting and scarecrows to keep what we do get; for I hate a patchy row, I do. Last winter was a very cold season. I don't know how you found it in London, Master Jack, but here there was a long hard frost for three weeks. We'd had a good deal of rain; then it turned to snow, and froze and snowed again till the snow lay pretty thick all over the ground. Then it cleared up, and the sun shone; but the sun hasn't much power at that time of the year, so it did not melt the snow. It was bitter cold by day, and worse at night. The birds that eat grubs and insects could not get any food at all. So your grandma had a big lump of fat put into a piece of coarse netting, and it was hung up in a likely place--the long branch of a tree--where the birds could get well at it. You should have seen the poor creatures pecking away! It was soon gone, and we had to put more lumps into the net before the frost went. I thought to myself it was almost a pity to try to save their lives; it was just a natural way of getting rid of a lot of them. They do say that dying by cold is an easy way--it's like going to sleep; so I'm not wishing any great harm to the little things. And now, Master Jack, how do you think these birds paid back your grandma for all her kindness? Why, as soon as ever the frost was gone, and the weather became warmer, and the yellow crocuses came into bloom, if these very birds, or some of them at least, did not slit the flowers all to pieces with their bills--that's what _they_ did. The ground was covered with bits of flowers.--Do you know Mrs. Jones who lives on the green, Master Jack?" "No," he said; "I don't." "Well, she's a great friend of your grandma's; but she is not over-strong, and doesn't get out in the winter. She likes to have the birds about her, and she fed them on her lawn with crumbs and pieces; and her fine bed of crocuses in front of her windows was just spoiled. It was mostly the yellow ones that they tore to shreds; and the primroses too--there was hardly one fit to pick. The starlings and the sparrows were the worst; they did a lot of mischief." "Oh," said Jack, "perhaps they were after insects, or something they wanted to eat. I don't believe they _meant_ to do any harm." "Perhaps not," said the gardener; "but the crocuses were spoiled all the same. You know, Master Jack, I'm about the place summer and winter, and I see a lot. Now, if there's one thing more than another that I hate about a garden, it's cats. They do trample down things and spoil the beds. As this house is lonesome rather, we don't get much of that pest, I'm glad to say; and then Smut is not a sociable cat. But I'll tell you of a curious thing that happened to him one day. There was a pair of thrushes who had built their nest in the laurel hedge at the bottom of the garden next to the field. You know, Master Jack, there's a broad gravel path along the garden side of the hedge. One day, just as the young birds were able to get out of the nest, the young cat at my cottage close by walked into this garden, where, of course, she'd no business; but there she was in that gravel path, and she saw one of the birds and caught it. I saw her with it. The thrushes scolded her, flew at her with a sharp, angry cry, and puss was soon off the premises. The next day, Mr. Smut was walking along this gravel path, enjoying the sunshine in a quiet way, never thinking of birds, for he's a deal too lazy to put himself out of the way to catch anything. I've tried him with a mouse, but he never put out a paw to touch it. He blinked at it in the most unconcerned way, and didn't show the least bit of interest in it. Well, as I said, Smut was walking along, when out flew the thrushes from the hedge, swooped down upon him, pounced on his back, pecked his head, and screeched at him, till poor Smut was quite dazed. They fairly chased him out of that part of the garden. You would have laughed to have seen sober old Smut take to his legs as fast as he could run. The robins, too, soon afterwards began the same game, and would stand and scold within two or three yards of the cat, if he was asleep in the garden. I have often seen them sit just over him, and scold him till he woke up and came indoors. As to the gravel path by the thrushes' nest, Smut never came into that path again all the summer through. Smut's a deal too particular," added the gardener; "but I have heard of another cat that was almost as bad. The house-maid told me that in one of her places there was a fine tabby cat, or rather a good-sized kitten, which would never eat anything in the kitchen, and was so particular in his ways that he was called 'Sir Thomas.' At dinner time he had a trick of jumping up as quick as lightning just when any one was going to put his food into his mouth with his fork. He would give the fork a knock with his paw, so that the meat tumbled off; which he ate before one could see what had happened! Such behaviour was not to be borne; so Sir Thomas was always turned out of the room at dinner time. He was a good mouser, and foraged well for himself out of doors. One day he ate some poisoned meat, at least it was supposed he did so. He became so thin, and his fur came off; so he had to be killed, and that was the end of Sir Thomas." "I hope poor Smut won't come to any harm," said Jack. "I should have liked to see the birds chasing him, though. I wonder the thrush wasn't afraid of getting on to a cat's back." "Why, the bird was safe enough; Smut couldn't reach it, and he was almost frightened out of his senses. You know animals, when they have their young to take care of or their lives to defend, can do things which seem contrary to their nature. Birds don't make their perches on cats' backs, except for very good reasons. "I heard of a dreadful thing that happened once," said the gardener, lowering his tone. "There was a cat--it was a half-wild one--and some boys had a dog that was very fond of worrying cats. They set this dog on to the poor cat, expecting to see a fight. But puss made a clean jump on to the dog's back, and fixed herself there. Lifting up first one front paw, then the other, she beat and scratched the dog's head terribly. The boys then wanted to get the dog away, but they durst not touch either of them--the cat would have flown at them; besides, they were cowards, as cruel people always are. Then a gentleman came up, and he got a pitchfork, and secured the poor beasts, and they were both killed. At least the dog was, for certain. Now that's a fact," said the gardener. [Illustration: REYNARD HARD PUSHED. _Page 45._] "I can tell you another curious thing," added he; "it's about a fox this time. It didn't happen anywhere about here, but in a part of the country where there's a deal of hunting going on. This poor fox was being hunted, and away he went through woods, over ploughed land and meadows, the pack of hounds and the huntsmen in full cry after him, when they came to a small village. Up the street ran the fox, the dogs at his heels, when he saw the open door of a house and ran inside, up the stairs, and crouched under a cot where a little child lay fast asleep! The mistress of the house saw the fox rush in, and she instantly shut the front door, as she knew she would have the whole pack of hounds in her house. As it was, two dogs, a little in front of the others, rushed past her through the hall into the kitchen, then into the yard; so they at once shut the kitchen door, and the dogs just missed the fox. There was a sight all round the house; the dogs were just mad to get in, and trampled down the flower-beds--for there was no keeping them out of the front garden--making such a yelling and barking as you never heard. At last one of the huntsmen came into the house, caught the fox, and carried him away in a bag. The next day a gentleman sent his gardener to put the garden straight again, after the dogs; but the crocuses, which were just showing nicely for bloom, were quite spoiled. They sent the fox's brush--that's his tail, you know--to the mistress. I've been inside this very house, and seen where the fox went to hide himself. It's not the way of the creatures that live in the woods to come into houses, but the poor fox was hard drove; he was. "But now, Master Jack, I've finished my job in this shed, and I must go." V. _HIVING THE BEES._ "Busy bee, busy bee, where do you go?"-- "To meadows and gardens whose sweets I know; Filling my baskets with spoils from the flowers, Working hard for the hive in sunny hours."--C. H. In a sunny corner of the kitchen garden stood a row of bee-hives. Many a time did the children stand to watch the busy workers, flying out of the hive to gather honey from the flowers, either to feed the bees or to store it into cells for future use. They would watch them returning laden, not only with honey, but with pollen, the yellow dust found in the inside of flowers. Bees get covered with this powder while they are sucking the honey out of the flowers; and they carefully brush it off their bodies with their hairy legs, make it into lumps, and then place it in a curious kind of basket or pocket which every bee has in the middle of each of its hind legs. The children often saw the bees with these yellow lumps piled up so high that it seemed a wonder they did not fall off. And so they might have done, had it not been for the fringe of long hairs at the edge of the basket, which, by making a kind of lid, kept the precious load safe. They watched the bees fly into the hive, but they could not see what happened next and what became of their treasure. Shall I tell you? First of all, other bees come to help them to unload; then those that are hungry eat the honey; and what is not wanted is stored away in the cells which those that stay at home are making. But how do they get the wax for their cells? It does not grow in flowers. No; they make it out of honey which they retain instead of storing. It comes while the bees are quiet; and many bees hang together for a long time while the wax is forming. It then oozes out in thin flakes on their bodies; and this they knead till it is soft enough to build with. They bring home from the fields something besides pollen and honey; it is a gummy substance which they get from the buds of trees. They use it with the wax, partly as a varnish and partly to make it stronger. They mend up broken places with it, and it answers the purpose of cement. They use their cells for three things: to store honey, to store bee bread, and others are used to rear the young bees,--nurseries, in fact. Bees have a great deal to do besides getting honey and building their cells. They have their young ones to take care of. As soon as an egg is hatched they feed the grub with great care; and in about ten days it wants no more food, but spins a kind of web round itself, and lies quite still for about ten days more, when it comes out a bee, ready for work. Only one bee lays eggs. She is the queen and the mother of all the others. She is a good deal larger than they are, and they all obey her. One day about the end of May, just as the children's lessons for the morning were over, they heard the gardener come into the hall to tell their grandpapa that one of the hives had swarmed. "Oh! what is that?" they cried. "Do tell us; do let us go and see." "Wait a little, wait a little," said grandpapa. "It means that the hive won't hold all the bees any longer; there are too many of them in it, and the old queen bee has left it, with some thousands of her subjects, to a young queen that will now reign in her stead." "We must see about a new hive for her, gardener." "Yes, sir; we have it all ready. Bob is waiting with it in the garden now." Bob was the young man who milked the cow, and minded the pony and the pigs and fowls. "Oh, do let us go too," cried all the children. "I must hear what grandmamma says," said grandpapa. "It won't do for any of you to get stung, you know." Just then grandmamma came into the hall to see what all the commotion was about. The three children turned to her and said, "Do let us go to see the bees put into their new hive." "Where have they swarmed?" asked grandmamma. "On to a plum-tree, ma'am, quite close to the hives," said the gardener.--"I don't think the little ones will come to any harm if you will let them go," he added, when he saw their eager looks. "Well," said grandmamma, "there really is no danger, if you will all keep perfectly still. It is easy to hive them from a branch, but needs a great deal more care if they swarm upon the ground. If any bees should settle on you, you must let them stay till they fly off of their own accord. If you try to brush them off, they will be nearly sure to sting you." "I am almost afraid to let little Annie go, lest she should be frightened." "I will take care of Annie," said grandpapa.--"You won't be afraid in my arms, will you, my little pet, even if some bees do settle on you? Yes, yes, you shall come," he said; for he could not bear to have her disappointed. "If they cover me," said Jack, "I won't touch one of them!" So all but grandmamma started off for the garden; and sure enough there was hanging from one of the lower branches of the plum-tree a huge bunch of bees; it was wonderful how they managed to keep together. "They'll hive easy," said the gardener. Bob held the new hive directly under the cluster of bees, and the gardener gently shook the bough on which it was hanging, when the bees fell into it. Numbers, however, flew about hither and thither in a state of great commotion. "Don't be frightened, Annie dear," said grandpapa; "they won't hurt you--keep quite still." A few bees settled on Jack and Mary, many more on the gardener and Bob, but only two or three on grandpapa and Annie, for he was a little farther off than the others. By-and-by all the bees flew away into the hive after their queen, and no one was stung. The hive was then placed upon a board on the ground and left there. In the evening, when all was quiet, the gardener took up the hive and set it by the side of the other bees. After the children had gone back to the house, Mary asked grandmamma why she did not come to see the bees hived. "My dear, it is no new sight to me. Why, I hived the very first swarm we ever had myself." "_You_ hived them, grandmamma? Do tell us about it." "It was a year or two after we were married, and a friend had given us a hive of bees in the spring. They swarmed one sunny day when your grandpapa had gone to London, and the only man handy was the gardener. He had not been with us long, and he stayed but a very short time, as he did not suit us. "I saw the swarm myself hanging on to a red-currant bush, and I asked the gardener if he could hive the swarm. He said he didn't know anything about bees, and he didn't care to meddle with them. "I didn't care to ask for any help from him, so I went into the kitchen and said to one of the servants, 'Ann, would you be afraid to help me hive the bees, for they have swarmed?' "'Not at all, ma'am,' she said. "So I told her to draw a pair of stockings over her hands and arms, and to tie a thin shawl over her head and neck; then, when she was ready, we went into the garden." "What did you put on, grandma?" "Nothing special. I was vexed at the gardener's cowardice, and I really did not feel afraid, so I went just as I was. I well remember the dress: it was muslin, with large open sleeves, so that my arms were bare. I did not even wear a hat! "Ann held the hive, and I shook the bees into it. We were both of us covered with bees that settled on us, as they did on the gardener and Bob this morning. We let them take their own time to fly off from us, and neither of us was stung. "Bees are very curious creatures; they seem to have their likes and dislikes as well as other beings. "My grandfather kept bees; but he was obliged to get rid of them, for they would sting my grandmother whenever she went into the part of the garden where they were kept. No one ever knew the reason of this." Bees keep the inside of their hives very clean. If a bee dies, they turn it out; or if anything like a snail, for instance, crawled in, which would be too large for them to push out, they would completely cover it over with wax. Here grandpapa came into the room and said, "That was a strong swarm of bees that we have just hived; first swarms generally are." "How many bees do you think there were, grandpapa?" asked Jack. "I should say about five thousand. A well-stocked hive will hold from fifteen to twenty thousand bees. We may expect another swarm from that same hive in a week or ten days; but it won't be worth so much as this one." "Did you ever hear the old rhyme, children? "A swarm of bees in May Is worth a load of hay; A swarm of bees in June Is worth a silver spoon; But a swarm in July Is not worth a fly." "Why not?" asked Annie. "Because it is smaller and weaker, and it is later in the year, so they have not such a long time to get honey to keep them through the winter. They will generally die off, if they are not fed." "Suppose the queen dies, what do the bees do then, grandpapa?" "They are greatly concerned; they run about the hive touching every bee they meet with their little horns or feelers. Then, when all the bees know of their loss, they set to work to feed one of the grubs in the royal cells with a particular kind of food, and a young queen after due time makes her appearance. They take great care of her, and obey her as they did the old queen." VI. _WASPS AND THEIR WAYS._ "An elegant shape is yours, Sir Wasp, And delicate is your wing; Your armour is brave, in black and gold; But we do not like your sting."--C. H. The next morning Jack went to see how the new hive had settled, and he found everything going on as usual. The bees were very busy, flying in and out, and working hard to build the cells of their new home. The gardener was working near, and he said, "Master Jack, did you ever see a wasp's nest?" Jack shook his head. "Well, now, if you come into my cottage, I'll show you one this evening. It's not a very good one, for it got broken digging it out of the ground in one of the garden paths. We'd been terribly plagued with wasps for weeks, and it was some time before we could find the nest. We watched them go into a hole in the ground; so one evening when they'd all gone to bed we got some pitch and brimstone, and laid them with some lighted sticks on the top of the hole. The wasps woke up, and came out to see what was going on; but they were smothered by the brimstone smoke, and were soon done for. The next day we dug out the nest. "Wasps are great pests, Master Jack, I can tell you. They are very fond of honey, and they go into the bee-hives to steal it, especially when the mornings and evenings get cool, and the bees are not watching at the holes of their hives, because they've gone inside to keep themselves warm. "The wasps spoil a lot of fruit. If there's one peach finer than another, they know it; and as for the plums, green-gages in particular, why, they are as mad after them as the birds are for the cherries. What with the caterpillars and slugs being after the vegetables, and the birds and the wasps making such havoc with the fruit, I wonder sometimes how we ever get any for ourselves." "There always seems plenty of fruit and vegetables, though," said Jack. "Well, yes," said the gardener, "maybe. The birds do help us with caterpillars and slugs, I'm bound to own; and then we are always on the look-out to destroy wasps: and as to the birds, I dodge them with netting; and sometimes we take the nests out of the fruit-trees, as much as to tell them to go elsewhere." That evening Jack went into the gardener's cottage and saw the wasp's nest. It looked like the cells of bees made in whity-brown paper. "What is it made of?" asked Jack; "it isn't wax." "Well, I've heard that the wasp, which has very strong jaws, bites bits of wood off posts and rails, and moistens them by chewing them into a kind of paper, and then makes a comb of it like what you see here." "I wish I had seen this wasp's nest taken." "No, Master Jack; why, you'd be in bed at that time: besides, I don't suppose your grandmamma would have let you go, even if you had been here, for you might have been stung. It's rather a touchy job, is taking a wasp's nest,--very different from hiving bees; we give them a home, but we take one from the wasps. "If the queen bee falls into the new hive, the bees are right enough--they are sure to go where she is; but the wasps are naturally angered and frightened at being suffocated out of their home. So, I say, keep clear of wasps' nests; those jobs are best done on the quiet." "Was anybody stung when this nest was taken?" "Yes, your grandma was. She's naturally curious about such things, and came with your grandpa to see the sight. One half-stupified wasp settled on her hair, and she didn't know it; but after she got back to the house it revived a bit and moved, and she, not knowing what it was, touched it, and it stung her badly on the top of her head. I don't think wasps will sting unless they are touched; but they are such creepy things that you don't always know where they are, and you are apt to touch them without meaning to do so." The next morning at breakfast Jack was talking about the wasp's nest that he had seen on the evening before at the gardener's cottage. Grandma remarked, "There is a kind of wasp called the mason wasp, which bores holes several inches deep in sand-banks. The inside of this long narrow passage is covered with a gummy paste which the wasp makes with her mouth. Here she lays her eggs, and then brings some green caterpillars into the holes, ready for the young wasps to eat when they come out of the egg. Then she closes the holes by a ball of sand, so that nothing can get in to eat the young grub. Sometimes these wasps choose a brick wall instead of a sand-bank for their eggs. "A friend of mine watched one of these wasps in a wall in her garden. She saw the wasp go into a small round hole in the mortar between the bricks. After a few minutes she walked out of the hole, turned round, and went in again backwards. There she stayed, her little horns and bright eyes being all that could be seen of the wasp. My friend tried to make the wasp come out of the hole, but nothing could move her; so then she had to go away, but not before she had put a mark by the spot. "The next morning she went back to the wall and found the wasp had gone, and had carefully and cleverly covered up her hole with what looked like mortar. "The lady then took a pen-knife and scraped away this door to the hole. She then put in a fine crochet-hook, and out tumbled no fewer than fifteen small green living caterpillars. At last, quite at the back of the hole, she found a small oval thing, something like an ant's egg, only more transparent. That was the wasp's egg; and the caterpillars were for its food when it was hatched, which would be in about three weeks." "Don't wasps make honey?" asked Annie. "No; the common wasp feeds her very young grubs upon the sweet juice of ripe fruit; in fact they like fruit over-ripe, and that is why they choose plums and pears and peaches that have fallen down to the ground. It is dangerous to eat any ripe fruit that has fallen, without first looking to see if there is a wasp inside it. "But the young wasps soon want green caterpillars and flies to eat, and many a blue-bottle fly is killed by wasps." "If wasps don't store up honey for the winter, what do they live upon when there are no insects about?" asked Mary. "When the fruit is all gone, and the nights get cold, about the beginning of October, then some instinct tells them what to do, for only a few of them live through the winter. "The wasps cease to bring in any more food for the young. They tear open the cells and expose the young grubs to the weather, when they die, or the birds eat them. Generally they pinch them to death, for they will not let them live to die of starvation; and while they are in this state they do not feel pain. So what looks like cruelty is really kindness. "The full-grown wasps soon become sleepy with cold and die off, all but the few which live to be the mothers of the wasps next year." VII. _CHARLEY FOSTER'S PETS._ "Sweet is the love which Nature brings."--WORDSWORTH. On the following Saturday afternoon the children went to see their cousins. As soon as they arrived, Tom said to Jack, "I saw Charley Foster yesterday, and told him we would go to see him this afternoon. I asked him that, if he had any birds' eggs to spare, would he give them to you, that you might take them back with you to London. He said he should be most happy to do so; and that we had better stop till after tea, and go home in the cool of the evening. So," continued Tom, "as soon as you're ready we'll be off." "I'm ready now," said Jack; so the boys started for Charley Foster's house, which was about half a mile off, along the upper edge of the wood, so the walk was a pleasant one. Presently they saw two men come out of the wood with large, square-looking packages, covered over with black linen. "What are those men doing?" asked Jack; "and what have they got in those packages?" "They are bird-catchers, and those are the traps and cages for the birds. It's a downright shame to keep a thing with wings in a cage. I can't see what pleasure it can be to listen to their song when they are shut up like that. I like plenty of room myself, and so do birds," said Tom. "What birds have those men been catching?" "Linnets and goldfinches chiefly. They get nightingales, too, out of these woods: they are very easy birds to trap, as they are not shy; but it is now rather too late to catch them. The bird-catchers are after them about the middle of April, when they first come back to England." "Do nightingales sing only at night, Tom?" "No; they sing pretty nearly all day long, only you don't notice them because other birds are singing too. They begin their night song between ten and eleven o'clock, when other birds are quiet, and that's the time to hear them if you happen to be awake. There's Charley Foster's house, that low white house on the left hand side of the road. There's Charley, too, looking out for us." Charley was two or three years older than Tom, but having the same tastes they were often together. Charley took them at once to his "den," as he called it, a small room at one end of the straggling house, reached by a long passage. "Here," said Charley, "I can do what I like, and make my litters without disturbing anybody." Not but that the room was orderly, otherwise Charley would never have been able to find his things when he wanted them. He told Jack that he had already put up a box of birds' eggs for him, with a list and description of the eggs in it. [Illustration: CHARLEY FOSTER'S COLLECTION. _Page 68._] "I'm tremendously obliged to you, I'm sure," said Jack. "Not at all," said Charley; "I like to give to any one who really cares for such things: besides, I've not been very generous, as I have only put in those eggs of which I have other specimens. There are some very good sorts, though, in your box; for, you see, I've been collecting for some time. Tom, I've got an owl's egg for you, that white one, and two jay's eggs--dull green, speckled with olive brown. Look here, too! I've got a jay itself, which a farmer who lives near here shot and gave to me. I'm going to try and stuff it." "What pretty blue and black wings it has!" said Jack. "Yes; it's a handsome but a very thievish bird. It's very clever, too, in imitating all kinds of sounds that it hears. It will bleat like a lamb, mew like a cat, neigh like a horse, and imitate the sawing of wood exactly." "How are the red starts getting on?" asked Tom. "All right," said Charley; "the young birds are hatched now." Charley turned to Jack, and explained that there was a pair of red starts that had a nest just outside of the window of the room,--"as you can see." Jack went to the window and saw in a hole of the low roof a little bluish-gray bird with a white crown sitting on a nest; and presently her mate came with his red tail wagging, bringing an insect in his beak. Now Jack could see several little red starts poking out their heads from under their mother's wings, all looking as if they wanted to be fed first. "This is the third year that these red starts have built their nest in that hole," said Charley. "Before that, it seemed as if a pair of sparrows had looked upon the hole as belonging to them, for when the red starts first came there were a good many fights between them and the sparrows. "One day when the hen red start was sitting, two sparrows made a dead set at her; and although she behaved in a very plucky manner, she was getting the worst of it. She then uttered a peculiar cry, and her mate came to her help directly; and between them they drove off the sparrows. "That seemed to be the final battle, for there were only a few trifling skirmishes after that, and the red starts have considered that hole their own private property ever since." Charley next showed Jack his collection of butterflies, moths, and beetles; and after the boys had finished looking at these beautiful and curious creatures, it was time for tea, so they went downstairs. When they had finished tea, Charley said, "We will go out of doors and see our old raven, Grip." There were all sorts of odd places outside of this rambling old house which Charley said "just suited him." In a little enclosure by the side of the kitchen garden was Grip's home. He was kept at night, for safety, in a large wooden cage with open bars, something like a hen-coop; but in the day he had his liberty--although he did not wander far away, for he was very tame. "He knows all the sounds of the poultry-yard," said Charley, "only I expect he won't show off when we want him to do so. One morning, he had not been let out of his cage, and he wanted his breakfast. He called 'Cluck, cluck, cluck,' just as a hen calls her chickens. In fact some chickens really thought it was their mother calling them, and they ran to Grip! I am sorry to say he helped himself to one of them; the others were frightened and made their escape. Ever since then Grip has been in his present quarters; he was too near the poultry-yard before. Many a time has he cackled like a hen that has laid an egg, so that the maids have gone out to look for the egg. He will get up into that elm-tree there and crow so exactly like a cock that he will set off all the cocks in the poultry-yard; and, in fact, all the cocks in the neighborhood that are within hearing will start crowing." "He knows we are talking about him--Don't you, old Grip?" Grip gave a croak, as much as to say "Yes," and turned his wise-looking old head, first on one side then on the other, in a very knowing fashion. The boys were just going, when there was a long loud crow from Grip, exactly like a cock's, which made them all turn round. "Before we had Grip we had a jackdaw," said Charley. "He was a very clever bird. He used to go round to the kitchen window every day at a certain hour, for a potato that the cook used to give him. If it was not ready she would tell him so, and he would go away for a while, but he always came back for it. "One evening he was shut out of his roosting-place by accident, so he went to the glass doors of the dining-room, which lead into the garden, and tapped on them loudly with his beak till some one went to let him in. He hopped about the room, and looked as much as to say,--'I want to be shown to my bedroom.' "Poor Jacky! he was killed by an accident; and then we had Grip in his stead. "You know we have a pair of hedgehogs, Tom," said Charley. "Well, they've got some young ones; suppose we go and see them." The boys went into the kitchen garden, and in a thick hedge at the bottom they came to the nest which the hedgehogs had made on the ground. It had a sort of roof to keep the rain off, and inside it was lined with moss and leaves. "I never saw a hedgehog," said Jack. "Well, now, that is one there," said Tom. Jack saw a little creature rather more than nine inches long, with a thick body, a long snout, short legs, and no tail to speak of. It was covered with spines, and could make itself into a ball whenever it pleased or when it was frightened, and then no dog or beast could touch the little spiky ball. "The mother is inside the nest with her young ones," said Charley. "They are about a fortnight old. These hedgehogs are very tame and know me well. I'll try to get her to come out of the nest." Charley went to the cabbage bed and found some slugs, which he put on to a leaf, and called to the hedgehog. She soon made her appearance, and the little ones with her, so the boys had a good look at the funny little things. "I say, Charley, you won't want six hedgehogs," said Tom. "Can't you spare me a pair, when these little ones have grown bigger?" "I daresay I can," said Charley, "I suppose your mother wouldn't mind having them in the garden: they are apt to make little holes in the paths, but then they eat slugs and insects. They are quiet, too, in the day time, but get lively towards evening. "They are useful little creatures, and soon get tame. I have heard of their being kept in kitchens to eat up the crickets and beetles there, sleeping all day and awake at night when these creatures are about. They eat vegetables and soaked bread, and are easy little things to keep." "I wish I could see one roll itself into a ball," said Jack. "Oh, that's soon done," said Charley. He took a stick and gently poked the hedgehog they saw first. "There, see now! he is bending his head, and drawing his skin over it like a hood, and closing himself up. See how stiffly his spikes stick out all over the round ball that he is." "Well, that is funny," said Jack. "I wonder how he manages to do it?" "He knows the trick of it," said Tom; "for you can't possibly open him against his will." The boys left the hedgehog to uncurl himself when he pleased, and next went to a cucumber frame where Charley kept a pet toad. "Don't toads spit poison?" asked Jack. "No; that's all nonsense. Their skins secrete something unpleasant, which they can make come out of it when they are frightened or in danger. Dogs don't like catching hold of a toad with their mouths; but they are perfectly harmless, in fact they are very useful in a garden, as they eat slugs, beetles, caterpillars, and earwigs. See, this one will eat out of my hand; but I must find something for him first." Charley soon found a fat little slug, which he brought to the toad; and he at once ate it from his hand. "I'll find you something else, old boy;" and Charley soon found a fly, which was snapped up by the toad in a twinkling. "What beautiful bright eyes he has!" said Jack. "Yes; and he makes good use of them, too. Didn't you notice how quickly he darted out his tongue after the fly?--I say, Mr. Toad, I believe you are growing out of your skin." "What do you mean, Charley?" "Don't you see he has grown so much lately that his skin is very tight, and it is looking dull. He'll soon cast it off. It will split down his back, and then he will draw his legs out of it.--And you'll have a nice new suit complete, won't you, old Toady?" "I think frogs are very interesting creatures too," said Tom. "So they are," said Charley. "I often stand by our pond down there and watch them. The pond is in a damp part of the garden; just what frogs like. In the spring there's a lot of that spotted, jelly-looking stuff, which is the frogs' spawn, or eggs, about the pond. "By-and-by, in about a month or so, a tadpole comes out of the egg. There are swarms of them wriggling about the water, with heads and bodies and tails, but no legs. In about six weeks more the legs begin to grow, and gradually the tadpole changes into a frog. See what a number of young frogs there are hopping about here on the edge of the pond! They are just out of their tadpole stage. They'll eat just what toads eat, so they do no harm in a garden." "I think I'll take some home with me and put them into the little pond in grandpapa's garden," said Jack; "for I shall like to watch them growing." So Jack caught a few carefully, and tied them loosely in his pocket handkerchief. "Well," said Tom, "I think we must say good-bye, Charley; it's about time for us to go home." "We must not forget the box of birds' eggs; and thank you," said Jack. "No," said Charley; "I'll fetch the box and go home part of the way with you. It's a very fine evening for a walk." VIII. _A TALK WITH AUNT LIZZIE._ "I can show you the spot where the hyacinth wild Hangs out her bell blossoms of blue, And tell where the celandine's bright-eyed child Fills her chalice with honey-dew,-- The purple-dyed violet, the hawthorn and sloe, The creepers that trail in the lane, The dragon, the daisy, and clover-rose, too, And buttercups gilding the plain." EDWARD CAPERN. After the boys had started for Charley Foster's, the little girls went upstairs into what was once the nursery, where Tom and Katey kept all their toys and books and learned their lessons; in fact it was still the children's room. Katey showed her cousins her various belongings, and said, "I'm afraid I have not anything so pretty to show you as Tom's birds' eggs. I thought I would make a collection of wild flowers and leaves, and press them and fasten them on to paper. So I began with the leaves of the forest trees, and here they are." The children looked through the sheets, on which were pressed the leaves of the oak, the elm, the birch, the willow, and many others besides, all so different in shape. "The _leaves_ are very well," said Katey, "but not the _flowers_. I soon left off pressing them, for the poor flowers looked so wretched, so unlike the living ones, that I did not care to go on." "I have felt just the same about some of the things in the museums in London," said Mary. "They may interest grown-up people, but not us. They are so dried and withered, that they don't give you much of an idea of what they were in life. Who would ever guess what a man was like by seeing a mummy? and some of the things are no better than mummies." "I am very fond of flowers," said Katey: "they look lovely in their own places where they grow, but just like mummies, as you say, dried up and stuck upon paper." "I'll tell you what: we are going to have tea on the lawn, and after tea we'll ask mother to show us some sketches she has made of wild flowers. Now they do give you a real notion of the flowers themselves." Katey went to the window, and said, "Oh! there is Sarah bringing out the table for tea already. Let us go downstairs into the garden." So they all went down to watch Sarah lay the cloth, and put the bread and butter and cake on the table, then the milk and sugar, and last of all she brought the teapot. "Here comes Aunt Lizzie," said Annie; and all the children joined in the request that when tea was over she would show them her paintings of flowers. "To be sure I will," she said; "and we will look at them out of doors as soon as the tea-table is cleared." "I _do_ like having tea out of doors," said Annie; "we can never have it in London, however hot it is." [Illustration: THE TEA ON THE LAWN. _Page 82._] "We cannot have it for very long in the country either," said Aunt Lizzie, "because our weather is so changeable. Sometimes we have cold winds with bright sunshine, or it rains, or the grass is damp. Still, during the long summer days we can frequently manage it; but it is not always summer even in the country." "Do the woods seem very dreary to you in the winter, aunt?" "No; I have known and loved them all my life, and they have a very different look in winter from what they have in summer." "But they look so bare when the leaves are gone," said Annie. "Yes; but you can see the shapes of the trunks and branches, down to the little twigs. You can tell the name of the tree from its skeleton, for each has its own form--the sturdy oak, the stiff poplar, the drooping willow, and the elegant silver birch. You should see them after a fall of snow. Each tree bears the weight of snow after a different fashion--like itself. "In fact the woods during a bright hard frost are as good as Fairyland. The brown dead oak leaves lying on the ground are fringed all round the edges with what looks like small diamonds sparkling in the sun. The frost takes every blade of grass, every twig and straw, and covers them with glittering crystal, and the whole air is clear and bright." "We have some very beautiful days in winter," said Katey. "Yes," said her mother; "calm, still, cloudless days--like midsummer, only of course colder. Not very often, it is true, but occasionally. "I was walking on one such day till I came to what had been the private road leading to a gentleman's house. The house itself was old and uninhabited, and the way to it was open. I walked along, and the trees on either side of it were bare, sparkling with frost and looking like other trees outside. Presently I came to a bend in the road, and saw that on both sides the space was planted with evergreen shrubs and trees, and some of the trees were very tall. There were evergreen oaks, and pines, and firs, and plenty of the large-leaved ivy. It seemed as if I had walked from midwinter into midsummer. The bright sun was shining, the air was still, the sky a cloudless blue, and all the trees were green! I stood still to enjoy the sight, then I walked on for a very short way, when another sharp turn of the road brought me back to the wintry landscape of bare trees and more open country. That sight can be seen any winter now." "I thought the country was dull in winter," said Mary. "We have dull days, rainy days, and dark days; but then, although Nature is so quiet, she is still alive, and there are always changes going on. "I knew a gentleman, who is dead now, but he lived to be very old. For a very great many years he always took one walk, at a certain hour every Sunday morning, all the year through. It was a very ordinary country walk--through the little town, up by the side of a fir plantation, along hedge-rows and scattered houses, over a stile into a long ploughed field generally planted with turnips for cattle, then over another stile, through winding lanes that led to farm-houses and at last came out into the public road. "It interested him to watch the changes week after week--the first appearing of buds in the spring time, their growth during the week, then the bursting of the leaves. Then there was the white blossom of the black-thorn, which comes before the leaves; then that of the white-thorn or 'May;' the silvery blossom of the willow tree; and the yellow catkins of the hazel, called by country children 'lamb-tails.' Then came the wild flowers of very early spring, till, as the weeks went on, their bloom was over with summer and autumn. Now the hedges were red with hips and haws. At last the leaves fell, and winter came once more. "Besides all these changes there were the birds to notice--when they first came back to England after their winter absence, when the cuckoo was first heard, and many other things as well. "You may take the same walk fifty-two times a year, year after year, as he did, and yet no two walks will be alike. "Now Sarah shall clear the table and I will fetch my portfolio of sketches." When Aunt Lizzie returned she said, "These are all wild flowers here.--You know that one?" "Why, yes, it is a primrose. We should know what a primrose was like better by this than by the dried ones. Why, aunt! you have painted a whole lot of them growing just as they do grow." "Yes; I like, if I can, to paint the flowers in their natural places, besides taking a single flower and painting it the size of life. Look at that wild rose-bush mixed with bramble in that piece of hedge; underneath it I have painted a small spray of roses and buds." "What is that pretty little flower?" asked Annie; "I don't remember ever having seen one like it." "It is the wood-sorrel; a very lovely little thing it is too. It is common in woods and shady places; but the flowers are almost over now." "We have some roots of it in the shrubbery, and I saw one flower in bloom there this morning," said Katey. "Well, you may all go and look at it, if you like." So the children scampered away to look at the small pale, drooping flower. "What pretty leaves it has!" said Mary. "I have brought one with me; it looks like a cluster of leaves in one." "Yes; the bright, transparent leaves and stems are very delicate. These leaves will frequently fold up, if knocked, like the leaves of a sensitive plant. You can look for a plant in the woods and try it. The leaves, too, have a very acid taste." "I see a violet root. I like violets because of their sweet smell," said Annie. "I like what are called dog-violets too," said her aunt. "They have no smell at all, but they grow all the summer through, in hedges and in grass, in such large quantities that the turf often looks like an embroidered carpet. "The flower is very similar to the scented violet, only it is of a pale grayish blue. I have painted two roots side by side, one of the scented, one of the dog-violet; also a specimen of the white violet, which is not so common as that of the dark kind, but its smell is quite as delicious." The children were delighted to recognize, among others, sketches of daisies, cowslips, buttercups, wood-anemones, wild hyacinths, forget-me-nots, eyebright, red and white clover, and many kinds of flowering grasses and graceful fern leaves. "What is that?" they said, as they saw something that looked curious but not pretty. "That is one of the sketches I took in Cornwall two or three miles from the Land's End. It is a poor, unhappy furze-bush, covered with dodder. The dodder is what is called a parasitical plant; that is, a plant that lives entirely on another. There are several kinds of dodders: some live entirely on flax, some on nettles, but those that stick to clover and furze-bushes are the most common in this country. "When the seed of a dodder dropped into the ground begins to grow, it feels about for the kind of plant it wants to live upon: if it cannot find it, it dies. "This furze dodder, you see, has found what it wanted, and, having done so, began at once to coil its pink thread-like stem on that of the furze. Now it had gained its footing, and threw out a great many more fine stems in all directions, after the fashion of strawberry runners, rooting as it grew. There are thousands of little dodder plants sucking the life out of the furze. I have seen many of the bushes quite smothered, and even killed, by this unpleasant and greedy plant. "When you are older, if you study the ways of plants, you will find them quite as interesting as those of animals. They have to get their living; and some, like the dodder, prefer to get it at the expense of another; and others resort to all kinds of plans to keep themselves and their kinds alive. "The acid of the pretty wood-sorrel is a poison, so nothing will eat it; and the buttercups growing in meadows are untouched by cattle, because of the poison in their leaves and stems. "I might tell you of many other plants that live in safety because they are defended by poison, or thorns, or prickles, or some peculiar shape. The leaves of the common holly are only prickly on the lower branches, where it needs protection from browsing cattle. "Then there are wonderful contrivances for keeping not only the single plant but its kind alive, which you will learn one day. "There are plants which bear seeds in very great numbers, like the field-poppy, so that some of them are sure to survive. The winds carry other seeds to great distances, because they have beautiful feathery down attached to them, which causes them to be easily blown about--such as thistle and dandelion seeds. "Birds, too, are great seed-sowers: they eat the wild fruits which contain the seed. These fruits are generally red or black, so as to attract birds to them. Among the red ones are hips, the fruit of the wild rose; and haws, which contain the seed of the white-thorn. Among the black are blackberries, the fruit of the bramble; and sloes, which are like a very small hard plum. The birds eat these, and drop the seed which is inside of the fruit on to the ground." Then Sarah came into the room to say that Jane had come from Woodside to take the children back. "We must wait for Jack," said Mary. "Yes," said Aunt Lizzie. "I daresay the boys will be home directly. Why, here they are.--How hot you look, Jack!" "It is so warm to night, aunt, and we have walked fast. We've had a splendid time of it at Charley Foster's, and we stayed till the last minute, so we hurried home at last." Where-upon Jack drew out his pocket-handkerchief to wipe his hot face, forgetting all about the little frogs. The loose knot slipped, and you may guess what happened. The frogs, delighted to get out of Jack's warm pocket, were soon hopping about the room. "What have you there, Jack? what does this mean?" asked Aunt Lizzie. But she could not help laughing, for she knew what odd things boys will do. Jack explained to her how he had caught the young frogs to put into the Woodside pond, that he might watch them there. "Well, you must catch them again," said his aunt, "and I will give you a paper bag to carry them in, only you need not suppose that there are no frogs in grandpapa's pond. Charley's pond is large and shaded, while the Woodside pond is small and open; and the weather has been very dry lately, so the frogs have kept in the soft mud at the bottom. You will see plenty of young frogs after the next shower of rain hopping about the edges of that pond." IX. _AFTER THE RAIN._ "The very earth, the steamy air, Are all with fragrance rife; And grace and beauty everywhere Are bursting into life. Down, down they come, those fruitful stores, Those earth-rejoicing drops; A momentary deluge pours, Then thins, decreases, stops." ANON. "There seems likely to be a change in the weather," said grandpapa one morning at breakfast. "The wind has got round to the west, and there are clouds about." "I am so glad," said Mary. "So am I," added Annie. "It has been too hot for the last two or three weeks." "We shall all be glad to see a little rain," said grandpapa; "the garden wants it badly enough, and so do the newly-mown fields." Grandpapa was right, for sure enough during the day there were many cooling showers, which made everything out of doors look bright and fresh. In the evening grandmamma sat at work in the drawing-room by the open doors which led straight into the garden, and the children were with her. Jack was lying on the floor with his face to the garden, and supposed to be reading a book; while the little girls were busy with some easy fancy-work, making something to take home to their mother when they left Woodside. Jack seemed to be more interested in something out of doors than he was in his book. At last he exclaimed, "Grandmamma, do look; isn't that a beautiful white fleecy cloud?" "Yes, it is indeed, Jack. Clouds _are_ beautiful and well worth looking at." The girls put down their work and went to the doors to look out, or rather up, at the deep blue sky, covered with patches of downy white. "That cloud looks as if it were made of snow mountains and caves," said Mary. "See how it changes its shape: now there is another cloud coming to it: now they have melted into one." "The sky is one beautiful thing that you can watch anywhere, in town or country, in summer or winter," said grandmamma. "It is like a picture-book that is always open; and the pictures are always changing." The children stood and watched the clouds as they sailed about like majestic swans. Some moved faster than others, and came in front of them. They mingled and they parted, and took all sorts of shapes. The colour changed from pure white to delicate gray; and again a stormy cloud appeared, dark with rain that would fall somewhere before long. "O grandmamma, look!" they all exclaimed, as the evening sun shone from behind a cloud, gilding its edges with gold. At last, when they had been for some time feasting their eyes with the beauty of cloudland, something else struck Jack, and he said, "How sweet everything smells after the rain!" "Yes, it does, Jack. The very gravel paths and garden mould smell fresh; and as to the flowers, they are sweeter than ever." "I can smell mignonnette," said Mary. "I can smell the stocks," said Jack. "And I can smell the honeysuckle," said Annie. "Do, grandmamma, let us walk round the garden, to smell the flowers," said all the children; "the gravel is almost dry." "Very well, you may go; but don't go on the grass--keep to the path." Jack was off at a bound, and his sisters were not much behind; and they visited flower after flower, sniffing their sweet perfumes. The tall white lilies gave out so strong a scent that, sweet as it was, they did not care to bend them down to their faces; but the roses, after the rain, were so delicious that they did not want to let them go. They found, however, that it was not the large showy roses which had the sweetest smell. They went to the arch along which the honeysuckle was growing, and then they smelled the rich carnations and the fragrant mignonnette. Grandmamma called to them not to stay out too long; but they said, "May we pick you a little nosegay first? the flowers are just lovely." "Very well," grandmamma said; "but don't let it be too large." It really was difficult to know what to leave out when all was so sweet; but they thought mignonnette, a half-blown moss rose, some sweet-peas, a piece of honeysuckle and of white jasmine, some pinks, and a little stock, could not fail to be agreeable. They thought more of what would smell sweet than of bright colour; and grandmamma was well pleased with her nosegay. "Grandmamma," said Jack, "there is a poor-looking flower like a small stock in the garden; it smells so sweet." "It is a stock--the night-flowering stock. The flower is dull-coloured and insignificant; but it has a powerful odour. You must not suppose that the sweet scent of flowers is for our pleasure alone. The perfumes are of great use to the plants themselves, and to the insects that live on honey." "Of what use can they be to the plants?" asked Mary. "The perfume is chiefly due to a kind of oil found in the blossoms of plants, and sometimes in the leaves as well. Lavender, rosemary, thyme, and herbs used in cooking, are examples of plants whose leaves as well as flowers possess this ethereal oil, as it is called. Caterpillars do not like the taste of these oils, and leave these highly-scented plants alone. It is, however, generally the flowers only that smell; and now you can guess why they are protected by their fragrance. What is the most important part of the flower?" "Its seed," replied Mary. "Yes; and as the cattle will not eat the flowers, the seed is safe from them." "But they eat flowers in hay," said Jack. "True; but by the time the grass is cut many seeds have ripened and have dropped out of their husks; and when flowers are dry, as they are in hay, they lose their particular scent and the oil with it. But the very perfume which keeps away the enemies of the flower attracts its friends the insects, whose sense of smell is very keen." "Why do flowers want insects?" asked Annie. "Because they want their yellow dust taken from one flower to another, to ripen their seeds, or to fertilize them, as it is called. The seeds are far better if they are ripened by the pollen or dust of another blossom than by the pollen of their own flower. The bees, as you know, get covered with this dust as they visit one flower after another; some of it sticks to the bees, but a great deal of it drops off as they rub against the flowers." "It's give and take," said Jack. "The flowers give the honey for the insects to eat, and the insects carry their pollen away for them." "Yes, that's something like it," said grandmamma. "And now you can see why flowers which bloom at night need to have a strong odour. There are some plants which 'Keep their odours to themselves all day' but towards evening they 'Let the delicious secret out;' and it is that moths and insects that fly about at night may know whereabouts the flowers are. The bees are busy in the day-time; but there are a great many kinds of moths, in fact there are more moths than there are butterflies, and they only fly about at night, and the honey of flowers is their sole food. So you see the scent of flowers has a great use." "I never thought of that before," said Mary. "If the flowers which keep open late in the evening have not a very strong perfume, they are generally white or pale yellow, so as to be seen easily. There is one of these plants called the evening primrose--not that it is like a primrose except in colour--at the bottom of the garden walk." "Do let us go and see if there is a moth on it, grandmamma." Grandmamma smiled and said, "Jack might go and look, and then he could tell his sisters what he saw." Jack scampered away, and after a minute or two he was back with the report that he had counted seven winged flies and moths all busy feeding upon the honey of the different blossoms of the plant! "Insects can smell things at a far greater distance than we can," said grandmamma. "The sense of smell seems to be their strongest sense." "Do you think it is a good thing to be able to smell so very much, grandmamma?" "Certainly I do. I know a keen sense of smell is sometimes disagreeable for its owner; but as a rule, when a smell is unpleasant it is unwholesome, and the nose is like a sentinel that gives warning of danger, so that we may either get out of the way or remove the cause. Some people really seem to have no noses, considering what they will endure in the way of bad smells, and how careless they are about keeping windows shut that ought to be opened to let in the fresh air and sunshine. "You must remember, children, that your five senses are but doors which the mind must keep open. It is the mind that perceives. We say, 'I perceive this apple is sour;' 'I perceive this cloth is rough;' 'I perceive a smell of roses;' 'I perceive this flower is white;' 'I perceive the birds are singing.' So the word 'perceive' will do for tasting, feeling, smelling, seeing, and hearing." X. _THE SIX CLOSED DOORS._ "Say what is it, Eyes, ye see? Shade and sunshine, flower and tree; Running waters swift and clear, And the harvests of the year.-- Tell me, Ears, what ye have heard? Many and many a singing bird; Winds within the tree-tops going, Rapid rivers strongly flowing; Awful thunder, ocean strong, And the kindly human tongue.-- These and more an entrance find To the chambers of the mind." ANON. The end of the visit had come at last. Tom and Katey were at Woodside spending the last day with their cousins. It was evening: the long shadows were falling over the lawn, and the summer air was still. Grandmamma was sitting under a tree on the lawn knitting, when the children clustered around with the old request, "Please, grandmamma, tell us a story." Grandmamma looked a little gravely upon the dear, eager faces, and began:-- "A little boy found himself one day, he could not tell how, in a cell, or rather a small room, which was very comfortable. He could not remember anything that had happened before he came there, nor did he feel frightened although he was quite alone. "For some time he was content to pass the time without taking any particular notice of anything. At last he saw that there were several doors--five--in the walls of his room. He noticed that two were high and wide, the rest seemed smaller; and he thought, 'I will open one of these first. Doors must be meant to lead somewhere, and I am rather tired of this little room, although it is comfortable.' "He opened the door very easily, and he found himself in a large room. In the middle of it was a table covered with things that seemed good to eat. "He did not see any one, but he heard a voice say, 'Come in and _taste_.' "So he took up one nice thing after another, according to his will; and after awhile he heard the voice say, 'This is enough for once; you may come again.' "He turned to go back to his room, but the door was gone. The way to his cell was open, and this beautiful room was added to his smaller one. "Now he had plenty of amusement. He learned how different were the tastes of the objects before him;--some sweet, some sour; others were bitter, or salt, or spicy; some with flavours that cannot be put into words, they were so delicate and varied. As soon as he had had enough he could taste no longer; so he always knew when to leave off. "He was satisfied for a long time with this room, for fresh objects were daily added. At last he looked longingly at the door by the side of the opening where the late door was. "He opened it and walked out, not into a room, but into a lovely garden. The walls were high, but the garden was very broad and long. "There were the fruits whose delicious flavour he knew: now he found that some of them at least had a fragrant _smell_. However, he scarcely noticed them; for a strange, sweet odour of flowers greeted his newly-found sense. After awhile he felt almost overpowered by this fresh pleasure, and turned to go back for awhile into his little room, when he found that this door had also vanished. He was glad of this, for the delicate perfume of the garden freely came into his cell. "What a growing pleasure was this garden! Every flower had its own special odour--the rich rose, the tall, queenly lily, and the lowly violet--each in its way the sweetest. "At first he thought that only the flowers had perfume, but he soon found this was a mistake. By taking more careful notice he perceived that leaves as well as flowers were sometimes scented, as in the musk plant, the geranium, and even those of black-currant bushes. "As he walked down an avenue of lime trees, he noticed a most delicious scent, which he found came from the small blossoms of the trees high above his head. He turned into a shrubbery, and was greeted by the fresh fragrance of the pine trees, and found that even the resinous buds of other trees had a pleasant scent. The very earth too, after a shower of rain, had a refreshing smell. "By-and-by he looked at the high walls of the garden, for there seemed to float over them a blended sweetness of something, he knew not what; but in after days he knew it as that of new-mown hay. "Again, the wind would bring him a smell of something that certainly did not belong to flowers or fruit. It seemed to make him strong, and long to know what was over the wall. It was the sea-breeze that came to him from the vast ocean, and made him feel that his lovely garden was, after all, too bounded. "He turned the handle of another door. It was that of _touch_, and he found himself in a passage. He walked along a little way, and saw an open archway on his right, through which he went, and there he was in the room of taste. He took up a cherry, and it felt smooth; a peach, and it felt soft and downy; a pine-apple, and it was rough. He looked toward the archway through which he had come, when, behold! the whole passage wall had vanished, making the old room larger. "He went into his garden: the gravel path felt hard and firm, the lawn felt soft and springy under his tread. He touched a rose-stalk and he felt its prickles, while the leaves of the flowers were soft. Some flower-stalks felt sticky, others smooth, and the bark of the oak tree was rough. "The bright sunshine felt warm to his cheek, and the marble of the fountain felt cold. "There were now two large doors left, and he resolved to open that of _hearing_. "All was dark as he stepped into a room or passage, he knew not which. He walked on a little way, then he stopped, for he faintly heard the sound of music. The sweet strains grew longer and louder, drawing him along till he came to a large hall where an organ was being played by a master. Here he stayed to listen and to wonder, spell-bound by the strange high music;--now swelling to a triumph, now sinking to a soft echo; now it told of gladness, and again of sorrow. Then it changed to a solemn, stately march; then there was a sound of rippling sweetness, ending in a lullaby so soothing that he fell fast asleep. "When he awoke he was in his cell; the door was gone and the mystic hall had vanished. He went into his garden, and heard for the first time the sweet song of birds, the hum of insects, and the soft sound of flowing water from the marble fountain. He heard the swaying of the wind among the leaves and branches of the trees, and the sound of his own footsteps on the path. "'Now for the last door,' he said, as he opened it, and was dazzled by a flood of light which nearly blinded him. _Sight_, which had been before but faint and dim, now became clear and open. He found himself in his old room of taste; but instead of the walls were crystal windows, and his table of fruits and food looked small in the midst of the vast space. He turned into his garden: what a change was there! He saw that the roses were a deep, deep red, and pink, and yellow, and white; that the flowers were of every hue and shade of colour, and the trees of varying green. "Now he saw the birds whose sweet songs he had often heard, some in bright plumage, and others of graver colours. "He saw the insects flying about with whose soft hum he was familiar; some too of whose existence he knew nothing before--the noiseless butterflies of brown and gold, of deep orange or pale yellow, of azure blue or cream and brown and crimson. "He saw the darting dragon-fly, shining in black and blue, with gauzy wings of pearly tints; and other insects brilliant with many colours, shining or dusky, flitting by or crawling along the ground. "Tired out at last with all these wonders, he went back to his cell and slept. "He awoke thinking, 'There are now no new doors to open;' but when he turned to the wall on the opposite side, he saw a door that he had not noticed before. "He went up to it, but it was bolted and barred from without, and the key was in the lock on the outside. 'That door is not meant for me to open,' he said; and he went once more into his garden. The high walls were gone, the room with the crystal windows had vanished, but the senses of taste, of smell, of touch, of hearing, and of sight remained. "He could now go where he liked. He saw the meadows whose sweet smell of newly-mown grass had delighted him in his garden; and he wandered down to the shore, where he felt again the strength of the sea-breeze. He heard with awe the sound of many waters as myriad waves dashed against the rocky coast--those same waves which farther along, as the shore became sandy, rippled out in the lowest murmurs. In the caves, too, he saw new forms of life--the many-coloured sea-anemones, sea-weeds, shells; and in the sea itself fishes shining like mother-of pearl. "There were some mountains in the distance, and he went towards them. While climbing up their sides, the sky, which had been bright blue, now became overcast. Black, thick clouds quickly gathered, till day seemed turned into night. Then there shot through the darkness a swift, bright flash, lighting everything up for a moment, then leaving all darker than before. He had not recovered from his astonishment when he heard a sudden crash, as if the mountain were splitting into pieces, followed by a long deep roll of boundless sound. Again and again he saw the lightning's flash and heard the thunder's roar. Then the raging ceased, the blue sky began to re-appear, the sun shone through the rain-drops, and on the departing clouds he saw an arch of many colours, beautiful in form and brilliancy--the lovely rainbow. He gazed at it with strange new feelings till it all melted away. "At night he always returned to his cell. This night, however, he was so full of the wondrous scene he had witnessed on the mountain that he stayed out of doors, walking up and down his familiar garden path with downcast eyes. He was deep in thought, when at last he raised his eyes, and instead of a clear sky he saw tiny points of light shining through the gray twilight. As the darkness deepened he saw myriads and myriads of these bright points--the stars. He wondered at the mystery. "He now began to meet with beings like himself, at first one or two, then many more. He found the difference in human beings was very great indeed. Some of them kindly came to him, and told him many things about the world in which he now daily lived. They taught him how to read books in which was written the wisdom of men who had lived long ago. Here was a new, wide opening, as he looked back into the past, into the times so very far away. But the books were not all old; some were written by living men, into which they had put their choicest thoughts, and they gave him an insight into the best part of a man--his soul and mind. Others told him of the wonderful discoveries made by clever men. They brought him a telescope, to look through to the stars at night; which stars, they told him, were other worlds, and that this little world where he lived was but a speck compared with the rest of creation. In looking through the telescope he saw into great depths--stars beyond stars, in number far exceeding his powers of thought. They showed him a microscope; and in looking through it he saw undreamt-of beauty in familiar flowers and insects, and in all natural objects. They told him of the useful and beautiful things that men had found under the ground--coal, metals, and precious stones. Some of these they showed him when polished;--the diamond, which seemed to have taken the rainbow to itself and given it back in a flash, now of pure, now of many-coloured light; the delicate opal, which looked like a rainbow vanishing; the red ruby, the green emerald, the violet amethyst, the clear crystal, and many more besides. They showed him lovely forms, that men had sculptured in white marble; and paintings representing many things--now a stormy sea with waves lashed into fury against the rocks--again a summer evening landscape whose calm soothed his spirit. Scenes from the old books were made to live again; and then, again, were painted familiar objects. Wherever he looked, he saw more to see; whenever he listened, he found there was more to hear. What surprised him most of all was, that there were some men who did not care to find out and learn more about the wonders in them and around them; and then he noticed that those who would not use their eyes, and ears, and other senses, became dim of sight and hard of hearing, gradually shrinking back into the state they were before they had opened the doors of their cells. "He thought of the barred door, and sometimes through its chinks he felt something steal as once the sea-breeze stole over his garden wall. The thought of that something followed him more and more. "By this time he knew that all sights were not fair to look upon, nor all sounds delightful; and whenever he saw and heard the sad and wrong, he seemed to be most conscious of the something beyond his cell. He felt that he was in the world not alone to learn its wonders, but also to teach the ignorant, to help the weak, to be kind, and true, and brave, and patient to all. "Knowledge was a good thing, but goodness was better. The longer he lived, he felt the less he knew; and the reason was, that he saw more and more clearly the vast extent of creation. "Then some one came to him and spoke of an old Book which told of the great Creator of the world, and that all its wonderful beauty was the work of His hand; that the sorrow and the wrong which he had seen around him were but for a time, for the Creator was also the Father of the universe, and had sent His Son into the world as its Saviour, and to die for its deliverance. "Afterwards he read in this Book the story of the life and death of this Son of God, who was also the Son of man; and he learned that a fuller and truer life lay beyond the things that are now seen. So with reverent feeling he waited, thinking much of the closed door. "At last, the bars were undone, the key was turned in the lock, the door was opened, the walls of his cell fell down, and he stood young and strong on the outside! Then he saw and heard things I cannot tell you about, so like the old, and yet so different. But he felt no fear; for he knew he was under the same wise, kind, righteous laws, under the Ruler of the universe, and that the kingdoms of the seen and the unseen are but one." THE END. 
7027	----	This eBook was produced by Joel Erickson, Charles Franks, Juliet Sutherland A HIVE of BUSY BEES Effie M. Williams TABLE OF CONTENTS How It Happened The Sting of the Bee Bee Obedient Bee Honest Bee Truthful Bee Kind Bee Polite Bee Gentle Bee Helpful Bee Grateful Bee Loving Bee Content Bee Prayerful Home Again How It Happened [Illustration: Children looking out a window.] "The sun's gone under a cloud," called Grandpa cheerily over his shoulder, as he came into the dining room. Grandma, following close behind, answered laughingly, "Why, my dear, this is the brightest day we've had for two weeks!" "But look at Don's face," said Grandpa soberly, "and Joyce's too, for that matter"--glancing from one to the other. "Children, children," said Grandma kindly, "do tell us what is wrong." No answer. "Only," said Daddy at last, "that they are thinking about next summer." Grandpa threw back his white head, then, and laughed his loud, hearty laugh. "You little trouble-borrowers," he cried, "worrying about next summer! Why, only day before yesterday was Christmas; and by the looks of the dolls, and trains, and picture-books lying all over the house--" "But, Grandpa," said Don in a small voice, trying not to cry, "summer will be here before we know it--you said so this morning yourself; and Daddy says he's going north on a fishing trip--" "--And so," added Joyce sorrowfully, "Don and I can't go to the farm and stay with you as we did last year, and the year before last, and every year since we can remember." Joyce looked anxiously from one face to another. Daddy's eyes were twinkling. Mother looked rather sorry, and so did Grandma. But she knew at once, by the look on Grandpa's face that _he_ understood. He only nodded his white head wisely. "I see," he said. And some way, after that, Joyce felt that it would come out all right. It did. On the last morning that Grandpa and Grandma were there, Daddy said at the breakfast table--quite suddenly, as if he had just thought of it-- "Mother, suppose we let the children choose for themselves. You and I will go to the lake next summer, and catch the big fish; but if they would be happier on the old farm, why--" "Oo-oo-ooh!" cried Joyce delightedly. "Don, you and I may go to Grandpa's house next summer, if we like!" "How do you know?" said Don rather crossly. "Daddy hasn't said that we could." "Why, he said it just now--didn't you, Daddy?" "Not exactly; but that's what I was going to say," said Daddy, smiling into Joyce's shining eyes. After that, it wasn't a bit hard to tell Grandpa and Grandma good-by. "Only until next summer," whispered Joyce when she kissed Grandma for the last time. Long months followed, but June came at last. One happy day the children came home and threw their books down on the table; and Don raced through the house singing the last song he had learned at school: "School is done! school is done! Toss up caps and have a run!" "And now," said Mother that night, "we must begin to get ready for our trips. Are you sure, children, that you still want to go to Grandma's?" "Sure!" whooped Don, dancing about the room; while Joyce answered quietly, "You know, Mother, that nothing could ever change my mind." "Very well," said Mother. "Tomorrow we must go shopping, for you will need some new clothes--good, dark colored clothes to work and play in, so Grandma won't have to be washing all summer." What fun they had in the days that followed! Mother's sewing machine hummed for many hours every day. And at last she got out the little trunk and began to carefully pack away the neatly folded gingham dresses, the blue shirts and overalls, a few toys and other things she knew the children would need. A letter had already been written to Grandma, telling her when to meet them at the station. And she had written back, promising to be there at the very minute. When the great day came, the children were so excited they could hardly eat any breakfast. Mother wisely remembered that when she packed their lunch-box. The last minute, they ran across the street to tell their playmates good-by. When they came back, Daddy had brought the car to the front of the house and was carrying out the little trunk. Mother was already waiting in the car. It was getting near train time, so Daddy quickly drove off to the station. He bought the children's tickets, had the trunk checked, and then he gave Joyce some money to put into the new red purse Mother had given her as a parting gift. He slipped a few coins into Don's pocket, too, and the little boy rattled and jingled them with delight. How grown-up he felt! The children were very brave, until the train whistled and they knew they must say good-by. Joyce could not keep the tears back, as she threw her arms around her mother's neck; but she brushed them away and smiled. "Joyce, dear," Mother was saying, "I am expecting you to be my good, brave little daughter. Take care of Don. Remember to pray every day--and be sure to write to Mother." Joyce promised; and then, almost before the children knew what was happening, they were aboard the train, the engine was puffing, the wheels were grinding on the rails, and they were speeding along through the green countryside. Joyce was trying very hard to be brave, for Don's sake. But a lump _would_ keep coming in her throat, when she thought of Mother standing beside the train and waving her handkerchief as it moved away. Although Joyce was only twelve herself, she really began to feel quite like a mother to eight-year-old Don. She must try to help him forget his loneliness. Soon they were looking out the window; and what interesting sights were whirling past! First there was a big flock of chickens; then some calves in a meadow, running away from the train in a great fright. A flock of sheep with their little lambs frolicked on a green hillside; and a frisky colt kicked up its heels and darted across the pasture as the train went by. By and by, in her most grown-up way, Joyce looked at the watch on her wrist. It was just noon, so she opened the lunch-box; and dainty sandwiches and fruit soon disappeared. But they saved two big slices of Mother's good cake--to take to Grandma and Grandpa. After lunch, the train seemed to creep along rather slowly. But at last it stopped at the station where Grandma had promised to meet them. And sure enough, there stood Grandpa with his snowy hair and his big broad smile. Grandma was waiting nearby in the car. It was late afternoon when they reached the old farmhouse, and Grandma soon had supper ready. After supper, Joyce helped to clear away the dishes; and then the little trunk was unpacked. Grandma was watching keenly, to see if the children were lonely. "Now," she said briskly, "it is milking time. Run down the lane, children, and let the bars down for the cows to come through the lot; and we will give them a good drink of water." Away scampered Joyce and Don; and soon the cows were standing at the trough and Grandpa was pumping water for them. "Let us pump!" cried Joyce. "Fine!" said Grandpa--"that will be your job every evening--to water the cows." After that, they watched the foaming milk stream into the shiny pails; and then they all went into the house together. It was almost dark now; two sleepy children said their prayers, and Grandma soon had them tucked snugly in bed. The Sting of the Bee [Illustration: The Sting of the Bee.] "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" called Don in a shrill voice, dancing into his sister's room. Joyce opened her eyes and looked about her. The bright morning sunlight was streaming in through the little pink-and-white curtains. "Wh--where am I?" she asked sleepily, seeing Don standing there. "Where _are_ you?" cried Don merrily. "Why, on the farm, of course! Don't you hear that old rooster telling you to get up? There he is," he added, pulling aside the curtain. "He is stretching himself, and standing on his tiptoes. Grandpa says he's saying, 'Welcome to the farm, Don and Joyce!' Do hurry and get up! We must go out and help Grandpa do the milking." Half an hour later, Grandma called two hungry children in to breakfast. After that, they were busy and happy all the morning long. Joyce helped Grandma to wash the dishes and tidy the house, and Don followed close at Grandpa's heels as he did his morning's work about the farm. He felt very grown-up indeed when a neighbor came by, and Grandpa told him he had a "new hand." After dinner, Grandma settled down for her afternoon's nap. Grandpa went to help a neighbor with some work, and so the children were left alone. They began to run races in the wide grassy space in front of the old farm house. But they made so much noise that soon Joyce said, "I'm afraid we will wake Grandma, Don. We'd better be quiet." "Let's go to the orchard," said Don. "We can be as noisy as we like there, and she won't even hear us." So away they scampered, to play in the shade of the old apple trees. But Grandma's nap was not to last long; for soon she was awakened by a scream from the orchard. Hurrying out, she found Joyce dancing up and down, with her hand pressed tightly over one eye. Don stood watching her with round, frightened eyes. He could not imagine what had happened, to make his sister act like that. But Grandma knew. Away back in the orchard, Grandpa had several hives of bees. Joyce had gone too near one of the hives; and a bee had done the rest. Grandma did not say much. Quietly she took the little girl's hand and led her back to the house. Soon Joyce was lying on the couch, and Grandma was wringing cold water out of a cloth, and gently placing it on her eye. Before long the pain was gone; but the eye began to swell, and soon she was not able to see out of it at all. "It's all my fault that we went to the orchard," said Don, looking sober. "No, it's mine," said Joyce. "I was afraid we would wake Grandma." "Well," laughed Grandma, "I guess it was mine, because I forgot to tell you about the bees." When it was time to get ready for bed that night, Grandma bathed the swollen eye again. "I wish there were no bees, Grandma," said the little girl suddenly. "Why, you like honey, don't you, dear?" asked Grandma. "Ye-es, I like honey; but I don't like bees--they sting so!" "Bees are very interesting and hard-working little creatures," said Grandma; "and if they are let alone, they will not harm anyone." "I didn't mean to bother them," said Joyce, "but one stung _me_." "That's so," said Grandma; "but they have certain rules, and you must have broken one of them. A bee's sting is the only thing she can use to protect the hive against intruders--and the bee that stings you always dies. That's the price she has to pay to do her duty." "Oh!" said Joyce, "I'm sorry I went too near. But please, Grandma, tell me some more about bees." "There are lots of things to learn about them," said Grandma. "They live in queer little houses called hives. They have a queen; and if she is stolen, or dies, they will not go on working without her. Only one queen can live in each house; when a new queen is about to come out of her cell, the old queen gathers her followers and they swarm. "The queen bee lays the eggs; and when the eggs hatch, the hive is so full of bees that it cannot hold them all. As soon as they find another queen, some of them must move out. "When the bees are swarming, they always take good care of their queen. Sometimes they settle on a limb of a tree; and while they are there, they keep their queen covered, so no one can find her. They send out scouts to find a new home; and as soon as it is found, they all move the re. "Sometimes Grandpa finds the queen, and puts her in the hive. Then she makes a sort of drumming noise, and the other bees follow her inside." "Was it the queen bee that stung me?" asked Joyce. "No, the queen never uses her sting except when in battle with another queen bee; but the other bees take care of her, even if they must die for her sake. There are different kinds of bees in the hive. Drone bees cannot sting; and they will not work--they are lazy fellows. In the fall they are all killed, so that during the long winter months they cannot eat the honey which the workers have gathered. "Bees are busy all the time. On sunny days, they gather honey; and on cloudy days they make little wax cells in which to store the honey." "That's why they say, 'busy as a bee,'" said Joyce. "It means 'busy all the time.' I didn't know there was so much to learn about bees." "I have been thinking about another kind of bee," said Grandma. "Do they sting, like the bees in the orchard?" asked Joyce with a little shiver. "Their stings are much sharper," answered Grandma, "and the pain lasts much longer. There is a hive full of these bees, and they are always very busy. But it is bedtime now. Wait till tomorrow night, and perhaps I shall tell you about one of them." Ten minutes later Don fell asleep, wondering what the strange sort of bee was like, and hoping it would never sting him as the cross bee had stung Joyce. Bee Obedient "I have something to show you," said Grandma after breakfast the next morning. "Come with me." "Oh, a little calf!" exclaimed Don a moment later. "Isn't he cute?" cried Joyce. "See how wobbly his legs are. What's his name, Grandma?" "Grandpa says he's not going to bother naming him, when he has two bright grandchildren here on the farm," answered Grandma, smiling. "Does he mean that _we_ can name him?" asked Joyce. "Yes," replied Grandma, "he means just that." "Oh, Don," cried Joyce, "what shall we call him?" "I think Bruno is a nice name," said Don. "So do I; we'll call him Bruno," agreed Joyce. "I wonder if he would let me pet him," said Don, gently touching the calf on his small white nose. The little fellow tossed his head and wobbled over to the other side of his mother. The children laughed merrily; and they were so interested in watching the little creature that Grandma had to leave them and go back to her work. The hours passed by very quickly and very happily--there were so many new things to do! Of course Joyce had to write a long letter to Mother, telling her about the sting of the bee, the new little calf, and many other interesting things. Late in the afternoon the children remembered about the cows, and they thought they would pump the trough full of water ahead of time. It was such fun that they kept on pumping until the trough overflowed, and the ground around it was all muddy. After supper, they let down the bars for the cows to come through. The cows had just finished drinking, when Don slipped in the mud and fell backward right into the trough. He kicked and splashed about, trying to get out; and Joyce got a good drenching when she tried to help him. Grandpa had to come to the rescue, and fish him out; and then they all had a good laugh--even Don. The children could not watch the milking that night, because they had to go to the house and put on dry clothes. Later in the evening, they reminded Grandma that she had promised to tell them a story. They drew their chairs close to hers, and she began: "It was to be a story about a bee, wasn't it? Well, this bee has a sharp sting, and it goes very deep." "I hope it will never sting me, then," said Joyce. "I hope not," said Grandma. "The boy and girl in my story were stung severely; but it was all their own fault, as you shall see. "Anna and her brother lived near a pond, and when the cold weather came it was great fun to skate on the ice. Oftentimes they would slide across it on their way to school. One morning, as their mother buttoned their coats, she said, 'Don't go across the ice this morning, children. It has begun to thaw, and it is dangerous.' "'No, we won't,' they promised. "When they reached the pond, Willie said, 'Why, see, Anna, how hard and thick the ice looks. Come on, let's slide across it.' "Instantly the bee began to buzz about Anna's ears. 'Bz-z-z-z-z! Don't do it!' said the bee. 'It's dangerous. You promised Mother.' "'We'd better not, Willie,' said Anna quickly. 'We promised Mother, you know.' "'But Mother'll never know,' said Willie. "'But you _promised_,' buzzed the bee again. "'Mother thought the ice was thawing,' added Willie. 'She won't care, when she knows it isn't. You may do as you like, Anna; but I'm going to slide across right now.' "When Anna saw her brother starting across the pond, she followed, in spite of the bee. But they had gone only a little way when the ice began to crack, and then to give way under them. "Anna turned and hurried back to the bank; but Willie had gone too far. She saw him go down in the icy water; and she ran to the road, screaming at the top of her voice. "A man was passing by at that moment. He picked up a board and ran to the pond as fast as he could. And he reached it just in time to save little Willie. "Dragging the lad up on to the bank, he called loudly for someone to come and help him. Two or three men came running; and they worked over Willie, until at last he opened his blue eyes and asked faintly, 'Where am I?' Then they took him home to his mother. "She thanked God for saving the life of her disobedient boy, but the danger was not yet past. For many weeks, Willie was a very sick little boy. When at last they carried him downstairs, he lay on the sofa day after day, pale and quiet--sadly changed from the merry, romping Willie of other days. The springtime came; but it was a long time before he could go into the woods with Anna to hunt for wild flowers or sail his toy boats on the pond. "There was no more school for Willie that year. As Anna trudged off alone day after day, she seemed to hear again and again the buzzing of the bee about her ears--'Bz-z-z-z! You promised Mother!' "'I heard it so plainly,' she would say to herself. 'It must have been my conscience. But I wouldn't listen--and I _almost_ lost my brother.'" The old farmhouse kitchen was very quiet for a moment, after Grandma had finished her story. Nothing was heard but the ticking of the old-fashioned clock. "I'm so glad it didn't happen--_quite_!" said Joyce at last. "What was the bee's name, Grandma?" "Bee Obedient," answered Grandma. "It has sometimes stung boys and girls so deeply that the hurt has never been healed. "But," said Grandma cheerily, "this bee will never bother you, if you listen to its first little buzz." "We will, Grandma, we will!" cried the children as they drifted off to the Land of Dreams. Bee Honest [Illustration] It seemed to Don that he had just fallen asleep when he heard Grandma's cheery voice calling, "Breakfast!" He dressed as quickly as he could; but when he got downstairs, all the others were waiting for him. After breakfast Joyce dried the dishes for Grandma; and then she helped with the sweeping and dusting. Don helped Grandpa to grease the wagon and oil some harness; and he handed staples to Grandpa, while he mended some broken places in the fence. The children were kept busy until dinner time; but in the afternoon they were free to do anything they liked. Today, they decided to play house in the orchard; so they got out some of the things that Mother had packed in the little trunk, to fix up their house. But Don soon grew tired of that sort of play. "Let's play hide-and-seek," he said. "All right," answered Joyce. "I'll run and hide, while you count to one hundred." Away she ran, and Don began to count. Just as he said, "Ninety-five," she ran to the chicken-house door. It was standing open, so she stepped inside. Now there was something in the chicken-house that Joyce did not expect to find. One of Grandpa's pigs was there, rooting around in the loose straw. The pig was not looking for company; and he was so frightened that he ran toward the door pell-mell. Joyce, standing just inside, was in his way; and as he ran against her, she was lifted off her feet and thrown on to his back. Mr. Piggy dashed wildly out of the chicken-house. Just outside the door was a large, shallow pan full of water, which Grandma kept there for the chickens. Joyce fell off the pig's back into the pan of water; and then she rolled over in the dirt. Don stopped counting when he heard her screams, and Grandma came hurrying out. Poor Joyce! What a sight she was! And she was so frightened that it took Grandma quite a while to quiet her sobs. But a bath and a change of clothes made the little girl feel quite like herself again. That evening when Grandma came up from the milking, she found the children on the porch waiting for another story. "Very well," said Grandma, "I shall tell you a story tonight about Bee Honest. "Many years ago there lived three little boys--Joe, Henry, and Charles. They all started to school at the same time. For a long while they kept together in their classes; and they were very good friends. "But when they were about fourteen, two of the boys--Joe and Henry--began to go out nights; and it was always late when they got home. Charles stayed at home in the evening and studied his lessons for the next day, as he had always done. "Of course, the difference soon showed up in their school work. Charles always knew his lessons, while Joe and Henry fell far behind. "When examination time came, the boys begged Charles to help them. "'No,' said Charles firmly, 'I will never do anything like that. My mother says that my father wanted me to be honest; and I mean to be.' "'Aw,' said Henry, 'your father has been dead a long time; and your mother'll never know.' "'I say there's no harm in giving a fellow a lift in his examinations,' grumbled Joe. "'It would be cheating,' said Charles quietly; 'or helping you to, and that would be just as bad.' And with that he turned to his own work, and began to write diligently. "Of course Charles passed all his examinations with honors; and of course Joe and Henry failed. "After that, the boys tormented Charles in every way they could. They called him 'Mother's honest little darling'; and when they saw him coming they yelled, 'Go home and hang on to your mother's apron string.' "Mother knew, by Charles' sober face, that something had gone wrong. 'What is it, son?' she asked; and Charles told her what had happened. She told him how glad she was that he would not do wrong; and how proud his father would be of such a son. "'I shall never be ashamed of you,' she said, 'as long as you are perfectly honest. Sometimes you will find it rather hard; but just wait a few years, and you will see that it pays.' "Charles had been almost discouraged; but Mother's words made him feel quite strong and brave again. The next time he saw the boys, his honest blue eyes looked straight into their faces, unashamed and unafraid. They dropped their eyes, and hurried away as quickly as they could. They did not bother Charles again; for the principal had heard of their actions, and had punished them severely. "When school was out, the boys began to think about doing something to earn a little money. Henry was passing the drug store one day when he noticed a sign in the window--'Boy Wanted, Apply in Person.' He went into the store at once, and asked for the job. "The druggist took him to a little room back of the store. 'Here,' he said, 'is a chest of nails and bolts. You may sort them.' "The boy worked for a while, and then he said to himself, 'What a queer job this is!' He went back into the store and said to the druggist, 'If that is all you have for me to do, I don't believe I want the job.' "'Very well,' said the druggist, 'that is all I have for you to do just now.' He paid Henry for the work he had already done, and the boy went home. "The druggist went back to the little room, and found bolts and nails scattered all over the floor. He put them back in the chest; and then he hung his sign in the window again. "The next day Joe passed by and saw the sign; and he too went in and asked for the job. The druggist took him to the little room and showed him the chest of nails, and told him to sort them. "When the boy had worked only a little while, he went back to the druggist and said, 'Those rusty old nails are no good. Why don't you let me throw them all away? I don't like this kind of job, anyway.' "'All right,' said the druggist; and he paid Joe for what he had done, and let him go. As he put the nails and bolts back in the chest he said to himself, 'I am willing to pay more than this to find a really honest boy.' "Later Joe and Henry, sauntering down the street together, saw the same sign in the window--'Boy Wanted. Apply in Person.' "'Guess he doesn't want a boy very bad,' said Joe. 'That's no job--sorting those old rusty things. Did you find anything in the chest besides bolts and nails, Henry?' "'I'm not telling _everything_ I found,' said Henry with a laugh. "Joe looked up, puzzled and a little alarmed. 'Now I wonder--' he began--but broke off suddenly and started to talk about something else. "A few days later Charles passed by the drug store and saw the sign in the window. He went in and told the druggist he would like to have the job. "'Are Joe and Henry friends of yours?' asked the druggist, looking at him sharply. "'Oh, no, sir.' replied Charles quickly. 'We used to be good friends; but something happened between us that I don't like to tell; and they wouldn't have anything to do with me afterward.' "'I'm glad to hear that,' said the druggist. 'I rather think you're the boy I want.' "For two or three hours Charles worked steadily, now and then whistling a snatch of tune. Then he went to the druggist and said, 'I have finished the job you gave me. What shall I do next?' "The druggist went to the little room to see how Charles had done his work. The boy had found some boxes lying about; and he had placed the bolts in one, the nails in another, and the screws in a third. "'And see what I found!' exclaimed Charles. 'It was lying under those old crooked bolts in the bottom of the chest.' And he handed the druggist a five-dollar gold-piece. "The druggist took the money and said with a smile, 'Now you may place the bolts and screws back in the chest just as you have them arranged in the boxes.' "After he had done that, Charles was sent on a few errands; and then he was dismissed for the day. "A few days later the druggist gave Charles a key and said, 'You may come early in the morning and open the store, and do the sweeping and dusting.' "At the end of the first week, when Charles received his pay-envelope, he found the five-dollar gold-piece along with the week's wages. "One morning not long afterward, when Charles was sweeping the floor, he found a few pennies lying near the counter. He picked them up and laid them on the shelf, and told the druggist about them. Another day he found some pennies, a dime, and two nickels. These too he laid on the shelf, telling the druggist where he had found them. "About a month later, when he was sweeping one morning, he found a bright, shiny new dollar. How he did wish he might keep it for himself! "'The druggist would never know it,' whispered a tiny voice. "But just at that instant, Bee Honest began to buzz around his ears. 'Don't forget what Mother told you,' said the bee. 'She said she would never be ashamed of you, as long as you were perfectly honest.' "Charles turned the shiny dollar over and over in his hand. The bee kept on buzzing--'Never do anything that will make your mother ashamed of you. Be honest! Be honest!' "'Yes,' said Charles at last, 'I will.' He laid the dollar up on the shelf; and when the druggist came in, he told him about it. "The druggist smiled and patted him on the shoulder. 'You are an honest boy,' was all he said. And at the end of the week, Charles found the shiny dollar in his pay-envelope, beside his usual wages. "A few weeks later, the druggist began to give Charles large sums of money to take to the bank for him. 'I have found that I can trust you, my boy,' he would say. "Charles worked in the store all that summer; and when school opened again, he helped the druggist mornings and evenings. His tired mother did not have to take in so many washings now; for Charles always gave her his money at the end of the week. "After he had finished school, the druggist gave him a steady job in the store, with good wages. "'Charles,' said the druggist one day, 'do you remember the day you sorted bolts and nails for me?' "'Indeed I do,' answered Charles. 'How glad I was to find work that day, so I could help my mother a little! And I shall never forget how surprised I was when I found a five-dollar gold-piece at the bottom of the chest.' "'I put it there on purpose,' said the druggist. 'I wanted to find out what sort of boy you were.' "'You did!' exclaimed the astonished boy. "'Yes; and when you brought it to me I was pretty sure that I had found an honest boy. But I wanted to be able to trust you with large sums of money, so I tested you still further. I left pennies and nickels and a dime on the floor; and last of all, a dollar. When you picked them all up, and laid them on the shelf, and told me about them--I knew then that I could safely trust you.' "'I should like to ask you,' said Charles suddenly--'was there a gold-piece lying in the bottom of that chest when Joe and Henry sorted the nails, too?' "'Yes,' said the druggist, 'each of them found a gold-piece there; and each of them kept it for himself.' "'So you lost ten dollars!' exclaimed Charles. "'Yes, lost ten dollars hunting for an honest boy. But it was worth it--for I found one at last!'" "Is that the end of the story?" asked Joyce, as Grandma paused. "Not quite," said Grandpa, who had been listening. "Tell them what happened to Henry and Joe." "Oh yes; I must not forget to tell you about them," said Grandma. "Soon after Charles started working for the druggist, Henry was caught stealing some things from a department store. He was arrested; but his father paid the fine, so he was allowed to go free. "But his dishonest habits soon got him into trouble again. He broke into a house while the family was away, and stole some money. He was sent to a reformatory for boys; and he had to stay there a long time. After that, he never could keep a job long; for he was so dishonest that no one could depend on him. "Joe did not get into so much trouble in his boyhood; but after he became a man he forged a check, and was sent to the penitentiary." "How much better it would have been," said Joyce thoughtfully, "if Henry and Joe had only listened to the bee in the first place." "Yes indeed;" said Grandma, "I have often thought of that; for I am sure the bee talked to them, as well as to Charles." "Maybe," said little Don softly, "they didn't have a Grandma to tell them how to be good." "Maybe not," said Grandpa, smiling as he rose to take the little fellow in to bed. "Didn't they ever change into good men?" asked Joyce. "I'm afraid not," answered Grandma. "That's the saddest part of the whole story. They felt the sting of the bee as long as they lived." Bee Truthful [Illustration] Every day Joyce and Don went out to meet the mailman; and how glad they were this morning when he brought them a letter from Mother! Mother and Daddy were having a good time at the lake; and there was a picture of Daddy smiling at them, as he held up a day's catch of fish. "What a string of fish!" exclaimed Grandpa, when they showed it to him. "And what fine big ones they are!" "I wish," said Don, "that we could go fishing, Grandpa." Grandpa whispered something in his ear; and the little fellow began to dance about and clap his hands. "What is it?" asked Joyce excitedly. "Only that we're going fishing tomorrow," said Grandpa. "We'll start out bright and early in the morning, take our lunch, and spend the day at the river." Joyce and Grandma were busy all morning about the house; and in the afternoon they baked cookies, and got the lunch as nearly ready as they could for the trip. Grandpa and Don went out to the garden to dig bait. They soon had a can full of worms; and then Don found a larger can, and filled that, too. When Grandpa said they had enough, Don covered the worms with loose dirt and set the cans out in the shed. Then they got out the fishing tackle. Late in the afternoon, Grandma called the children and asked them to catch a chicken for her, so she could get it ready for their picnic lunch. The children asked if they might pick off the feathers. They had watched Grandma do it so many times, they thought it would be an easy job. But when they tried it, they found it was not so easy after all. They turned the chicken round and round, picking first in one place and then in another. It took them a long time to get all the feathers off. Then Grandma cut up the chicken and put it in a crock, and took it to the spring house to keep it cool. "I will fry it in the morning," she said. How quickly the day passed by! It was already time to do the evening chores. Grandma was trying to teach the brown and white calf to drink milk from a pail. Grandpa was busy in the barn, so she called the children to come and help her. The calf was kept in a lot near the orchard. "I want you to drive him to the corner of the fence for me," said Grandma. "Then I will try to coax him to drink the milk." But the little creature was not so easy to manage. As soon as they had driven him into the corner, he would back away; and off he would go again, across the lot. After this had happened several times, Don said, "Just wait, Grandma; when we get him into the corner again, I will hold him there." So the next time, he grabbed the calf about the neck and jumped on his back. Instantly the calf turned and galloped across the lot. When he reached the farther side, he turned again, and Don rolled off on the soft grass. Just then, Grandpa came to the rescue. He drove the calf to the corner and held him there, while Grandma coaxed him to drink from the pail. "We must go to bed early tonight," said Grandpa as they started for the house. "We want to reach the river by the time the sun comes up." "But you'll tell us a story first, won't you, Grandma?" asked Don. "Yes," said Grandma, as she sank into her comfortable old rocking chair in the kitchen. "About another bee?" asked Joyce. "Which one?" "Bee Truthful," answered Grandma. "Boys and girls who will not listen to him often come to grief--as the boy did that I shall tell you about. "Little Milton lived on a farm. His father had a number of mules, which he used in plowing his fields. Two of the young mules were very ill-tempered. Milton's father was very careful to keep the little pigs and calves out of their way, for fear the mules would paw them to death. "When Milton was almost nine, a little baby brother came into his home. His name was Marion. Milton loved the baby dearly, and never grew tired of playing with him. "Their father built a fence around the yard. They were careful to keep the gates of the fence closed, so little Marion could not wander away; especially after the two ill-tempered mules were put out to pasture in the lot just back of the house. "Late one afternoon, Milton was helping his father in the back lot. Daddy had to go and do something else, so he left the boy to finish the job. "'As soon as you have finished,' said Daddy, 'you may go to the house. But be sure to latch the back yard gate.' "Daddy did not get home until after dark. 'Milton,' he said, 'did you latch the gate when you came in this afternoon?' "Milton knew he had forgotten, but he thought to himself, 'If I tell the truth, I shall have to go out and latch the gate now; and I am afraid of the dark.' "Aloud, he said, 'Yes, Daddy, I did.' "'Are you sure?' asked Daddy. "'Yes,' said Milton again. "The little boy suddenly heard a bee buzzing in his ears--'Tell the truth, Milton; tell the truth!' But he said to himself, 'It won't matter if the gate stands open all night; I will latch it the first thing in the morning.' And so he soon forgot all about it. "The next morning, right after breakfast, Milton's mother sent him on an errand. Marion was still asleep. "'Where's Marion?' asked Milton when he came back. "'He woke a little while ago,' said Mother. 'After I gave him his breakfast, I let him go out in the yard to play--it's such a bright morning.' "Instantly Milton thought of the gate; and he went to look for Marion. "A moment later he heard his father cry out in alarm; and looking toward the pasture where the two young mules were kept, he saw little Marion just inside the fence. "Daddy ran toward the baby as fast as he could; but he was just too late. One of the mules kicked Marion, and he fell over in a little heap. The mule, seeing Daddy coming, ran toward the other end of the pasture. "Daddy picked up the limp little body and carried it to the house. The baby lay so still that at first they thought he was dead. "Milton was terribly frightened, and he cried almost all day; for he knew this dreadful thing had happened because he did not latch the back yard gate--and because he had told Daddy a lie about it. "Poor little Marion was taken to the hospital. His spine had been injured, and it was many, many months before he could sit up. And never again was he able to run about like other children. "It was a long time before Mother and Daddy found out how the baby came to be in the pasture with the mules. But one day, after little Marion had been brought home, Milton told Daddy the whole, sad story. "'I'm very sorry,' said Daddy kindly, when he had finished. 'I wish you had told me the truth. I wouldn't have sent you out alone in the dark, son. I would have gone out and latched the gate myself.' "It was almost more than Milton could bear, to have his father talk to him so sadly and yet so kindly. The sting of the bee went deeper and deeper, as he watched his pale-faced little brother day after day. Always after that, he was careful to listen to the buzzing of little Bee Truthful." Two very sober children said good-night to Grandma just as the clock struck half-past eight. Bee Kind [Illustration] "Don," said Grandma, shaking the little sleeper, "it's time to wake up!" Don turned over, rubbed his eyes, and with a deep sigh settled back to sleep. "Here, here!" cried Grandma, shaking him again. "Do you want us to leave you at home all alone? We're going fishing today!" Instantly Don was wide awake. He bounced out of bed and began to dress as quickly as he could. In five minutes he was in the kitchen; but Joyce was there ahead of him, helping Grandma to pack the lunch basket. Don was so excited that Grandma could coax him to eat only a few bites of breakfast. He was the first one in the car, ready to start for the river. The sun was just peeping over the hills, when they drove into a pretty, shady nook on the bank of the river. "This is always a good place to fish," said Grandpa. They stopped under a tree whose great, spreading branches leaned far out over the water; and soon they were untying the fishing poles and baiting their hooks. "I'll give a nickel to the one who catches the first fish," said Grandpa. Suddenly Don's cork began to bob up and down in the water. Joyce felt a strong pull on her line, too. Almost at the same instant each of them lifted a fish from the water. Grandpa took the little perch from Don's hook, and a catfish from Joyce's; and with his big, hearty laugh he gave them each a nickel. The hours passed so quickly that before the children knew it, it was time for lunch. But when Grandma spread out the chicken and sandwiches and cookies and lemonade in the shade of the big tree, they found that they were as hungry as bears. After lunch, Grandma lay down in the shade and tried to take a nap, while the others went back to their fishing. But the fish did not bite so well as they had done in the morning. They had already caught a great many fish, so they decided to go home early. Grandpa had been stringing the fish one by one, as they had caught them; and he had let the line hang down in the water. Now, when he lifted it out, the children were delighted to see how many fish they had caught. "That is a longer string of fish than Daddy has in the picture!" cried Don. "We cannot use so many fish ourselves," said Grandpa. "We shall have to share with the neighbors." When they reached home, Don helped Grandpa to clean the fish. Grandpa skinned the catfish, and Don scraped the scales from the perch. When they had finished, Don had fish scales all over him--even in his hair. But this trouble was all forgotten at supper time, when Grandma set a large platter of fish on the table. Grandpa said it tasted better than the fried chicken. In the evening, the children came to Grandma for their usual story. They sat down on the porch, with the soft summer dusk gathering about them. "I shall tell you a story tonight," began Grandma, "about a bee that every child should listen to and obey. Its name is Bee Kind. "James and Richard lived near each other, and they were playmates. One day they were flying their kites in a vacant lot, when they saw a dirty little puppy. Richard began to stamp his feet and try to scare it; but as he could not chase it away, he threw stones at the poor little thing. "A stone struck the puppy on his head, and hurt him very badly; for he began to turn round and round, whining and howling pitifully. Richard laughed, as if he thought it a great joke. "'Shame on you!' cried James, 'for treating a poor little puppy like that!' "'You're a sissy,' said Richard, 'or you wouldn't care.' "'You may call me what you please,' said James, 'but I shall never hurt a poor little dog that can't help himself. Maybe he's lost.' "With that, he lifted the little creature in his arms and carried him home. The puppy's head was bleeding where Richard had struck him with the stone. James washed the blood away and gave the little dog something to eat, talking to him kindly and petting him all the while. "When his father came home that evening, he told James that the puppy showed marks of being a very good dog; and that if the owner never came, he might keep him for his own. "James was delighted. He named the dog Rex, and at once began to teach him to do all sorts of tricks. Rex learned to walk on his hind feet, sit up straight and beg for something to eat, play 'dead dog,' roll over, chase his tail, and run through a hoop. "In a few months, Rex had grown to be quite a large dog. By this time, James had taught him how to swim; and when the boy would throw a stick into the water and say, 'Go get it, Rex,' the dog would bring it back in his mouth. "All the boys in the neighborhood liked Rex; and he liked them all-- except Richard. Whenever he came around, the dog would growl and show his teeth. "Two years later, one warm Saturday afternoon in April, James called Rex and started for the pond. Oftentimes fishing parties visited this pond, so a number of small boats were tied among the willows fringing the shore. On this particular afternoon, Richard and his little brother Harry had also gone to the pond; and Richard untied one of the boats to take a ride. Of course he had no right to use a boat that did not belong to him; but he thought that no one would ever know. "Just as James came around a clump of willows, he saw the little boat tip over; and Richard and Harry fell in, at the deepest place in the pond. James knew they could not swim; so he began to call for help as loudly as he could. Rex ran back and forth whining, looking first at James, then at the boys in the water. Suddenly a happy thought struck James. Pointing to the two boys, he said, 'Go get them, Rex!' Immediately the dog jumped into the water and began to swim toward the boys. He soon had Harry's collar between his teeth, and was swimming back to shore. "James helped Harry to his feet; and then, pointing to Richard, he said, 'Go get the other one!' "Richard had gone down the second time when Rex reached him; but as he came up to the surface of the water, the dog caught him and began to swim back. It was a hard task, as Richard was heavier than Harry; but at last Rex brought him safely to shore. "All this time James had been calling for help; and now several men came running toward the pond. They began working with Richard, and after some time he came back to consciousness. "'Who got me out of the water?' he asked, as soon as he could speak. "'Rex,' answered James. "Tears rolled down Richard's face as he said brokenly, 'Just think! I almost killed him when he was a little puppy! I know one thing--I'll never do such a thing again.' "Everybody petted and praised Rex for what he had done. Richard's father bought a beautiful new collar for him. But although the dog had saved Richard's life, he never would have anything to do with him afterward. He could not forget how cruelly the boy had treated him in his puppyhood." "Daddy promised to get a puppy for me soon," said Don. "I shall name him Rex, after the good dog in the story." "And I'm quite sure," said Grandma, "that you'll always be as kind to him as James was to Rex. But I know a little man that will be asleep in about five minutes. Hustle him off to bed, Grandpa, or you'll have to carry him upstairs." Don said a sleepy good-night; and sure enough, five minutes later he was fast a-sleep. Bee Polite [Illustration] When the children came down to the kitchen in the morning, they found that Grandpa had eaten his breakfast, and had gone out to build a pig-pen behind the barn. Don hurried out to help him; and Joyce went to the spring house to do the churning for Grandma. The little girl plunged the dasher into the thick cream, lifted it, and plunged it again, until her arms ached. At last the dasher began to look clean, and tiny particles of golden butter clung to it and she knew that the butter had "come." Then she took the butter paddle and the bowl and cooled them in the spring, just as she had seen Grandma do. She lifted the butter from the churn with the paddle and began to work it to get the milk out. She had watched Grandma do this many times, and it had looked very easy; but she found it quite another thing, when she came to doing it herself. After she had worked for some time, she had a solid roll of butter. She salted it, and worked it some more; and then she called Grandma to come and see it. "I could not have made better butter myself!" said Grandma. So Joyce had something new to write about, in her next letter to Mother. After dinner the children went to the orchard to play. They found an ant hill; and it was very interesting to watch the ants as they worked. One ant was carrying a bread crumb several times larger than herself, and the children were watching eagerly. The old turkey gobbler came strutting toward them; but they did not notice. Joyce was bending over, watching the industrious little ant, when suddenly the gobbler perched upon her back and began to beat her with his wings. "Grandma!" screamed Joyce. It was a comical sight that Grandma saw when she came to the door. There was Joyce, running toward the house, with the gobbler after her, and Don coming behind. The gobbler was right at Joyce's heels, when suddenly the little girl dodged behind a tree and began to go round and round it, keeping the tree between her and the gobbler. At last Don found a stick and chased him away. When Grandma had comforted Joyce, she explained that it was the little girl's red dress that the gobbler didn't like. Joyce declared that she would never wear that dress again while she was on the farm. She never did; and so the gobbler did not bother her any more. At bedtime, the children were ready for their usual story. They clambered up on to the arms of the old rocker on the porch, while Grandpa sat down on the step. "What do we hear about tonight?" asked Grandpa. "I believe I like to hear the stories as well as Don does." "All boys are just alike--big and little," said Grandma with a smile. "My story this time is about Bee Polite." "Oh," said Don, "I know a little verse about politeness. I learned it at school: "'Politeness is to do and say The kindest thing in the kindest way.'" "Then politeness means kindness, doesn't it, Grandma?" asked Joyce. "Yes--and more than that," replied Grandma. "A polite person is never rude. The story is about two children who were stung by Bee Polite just once--but they never forgot it. "Daisy and Dan were twins. When they were babies, their mother took them from their home in the East to live in a far Western state. They could not remember their grandmother, who still lived back in the old home town. All they knew about her was what their mother had told them; and she often wrote long letters, and sent them lovely presents. "One day they received a letter from Grandma, saying that she was coming to spend a few weeks with them. They could hardly wait for Thursday to come when she was to arrive at the station. "The train was due at six o'clock in the evening, and Mother promised the twins that they might go to meet Grandma. After school she sent them to the store to buy some things for supper, and she gave them ten cents to buy candy. "Now there were some children living in the neighborhood who were very rude. For this reason the twins were never allowed to play with them. But today, on their way to the store, they met these children, and all went on together. "They crossed a vacant lot, where there was a pile of crushed rock. Near the rock pile, they met an elderly woman carrying a small satchel. She spoke kindly to them; but one of the boys answered her very rudely, and then stuck out his tongue at her. The lady turned to him and said, 'My boy, you need someone to teach you how to be a gentleman.' "'Oh, do I?' said the boy roughly. And picking up a stone from the rock pile, he threw it at her. Another lad did the same, and still another. "Now the twins had been taught to be polite--especially to old people. Just now little Bee Polite began to buzz about them. But when children are in bad company, it is always hard for them to hear the small voice of conscience. For a moment they stood and watched the boys throw rocks at the old lady; and then they began to throw them too. "No matter how hard she tried, Daisy could not throw a stone straight. But Dan had a better aim, and he threw a rock which struck the old lady's hand. "When the twins reached the store, there were several customers ahead of them; so they had to wait their turn. It was nearing supper time when they came out of the store with their bundles. The rude boys had waited outside for them all that time; and the twins gave them some of their candy. "When Daisy and Dan reached home, they were much surprised to find a visitor there. It was the old lady whom they had treated so unkindly. Mother was crying, as she bathed the hand that had been hurt by Dan's rock. "'Children,' she said, 'this is your dear grandmother who has come to see you. She came on an earlier train than she expected; and she inquired the way, and walked out from the station alone. Some rude children treated her very unkindly on the way. You will have to very good to her, to make up for it.' "'Well, well,' said Grandma kindly, 'is this Daisy and Dan? I should never have taken them to be my grandchildren.' "The twins expected her to add, 'So _you_ are the naughty children who threw stones at me.' But she did not say it; and Daisy and Dan hurried out of the room as quickly as they could. "So the good times the children had expected to have with their grandma were spoiled in the very beginning. After that, whenever they went into the room where she was, they felt very uncomfortable. "'I don't understand why the twins act so strangely,' said Mother one day, as she and Grandma sat mending together. 'I am really ashamed of them. They had planned to do so many things to make you happy during your visit. But they seem to keep away from you all they can.' "Daisy, who was passing outside just under the window, heard every word distinctly. Her heart pounded like a hammer, and she held her breath, to hear what Grandma would say. "Grandma went on mending, without saying a word. 'Dear Grandma! She won't tell on us for throwing stones at her,' said Daisy to herself. 'Then I'll tell, that's what I'll do!' she added with a sob. "An instant later, Mother was surprised to see the little girl dash into the room with tears running down her cheeks. She threw herself down by the chair and laid her head in her mother's lap. She was crying so hard that for a moment she could not speak. "'There, there, little girl,' said Mother, 'what has happened? Tell Mother all about it.' "Then Daisy told the whole story. When she had finished, she threw her arms around Grandma. "'I'm so sorry, dear Grandma!' she cried. "Just then Grandma looked up and saw Dan standing there. He had come in so softly that no one had noticed. "Grandma held out her hands to him; and he burst into tears. 'It was my fault, lots more than Daisy's,' he sobbed. 'I threw a stone before she did; and besides, it was my stone that hit your hand.' "Grandma talked to the twins for a long time, then, in her own quiet way. She told them that children who were in bad company were almost sure to do wrong themselves; and that polite boys and girls usually grew up to be the best men and women. "'I know that such a thing will never happen again,' she said, kissing them both; 'so now it is all forgiven and forgotten.' "But the twins could not forget. Two or three weeks later, Grandma went home. She still wrote letters and sent presents, just as if nothing had ever happened. But for many years--long after Daisy and Dan had grown up--every time they thought of their dear grandmother, they felt the sting of their rudeness and cruelty to her." Joyce winked the tears out of her eyes, as she threw her arms around her grandma's neck. "I could never treat you like that, dear Grandma!" she cried. "Neither could I," said Dan soberly, kissing her good-night. Bee Gentle [Illustration] In the morning, another letter came from Mother. "Daddy and I are getting lonesome for you," she wrote. "We're having a better time than Mother and Daddy are," laughed Don. "If they had come with us to Grandpa's, they would not have been so lonesome, would they, Joyce?" "I should say not!" answered Joyce. "The days go by too fast for that; and besides, something is always happening. If it's nothing else, the old turkey gobbler chases me around the tree." Don and Grandma laughed heartily and Joyce joined in. Grandma had promised to make some cookies this morning; so with Joyce on one side of her and Don on the other, she mixed up the dough and rolled it out on the large board. Then she got some cutters from the pantry, and cut out the cookies in all sorts of shapes. There were different kinds of animals: a bird for Joyce, and a queer little man for Don. His eyes, nose, and mouth were made out of raisins; also the buttons on his vest. Then she put the cookies in the oven to bake. When they were done and Grandma took them out, Joyce's bird stuck to the pan and its tail came off. And Don's man had grown so fat that he had burst one of the buttons off his vest. A long time ago, when the children's mother had been Grandma's little girl, she had lived on this very farm. In those far-off days she had planted a lilac bush and a cluster of prickly pear. Grandpa did not like the prickly pear, but he had let it grow all these years because his little girl had planted it. "Isn't the grass nice and soft here?" said Don. "It feels just like a velvet carpet. Watch me turn somersaults on it." With that, he began to turn somersaults, going in the direction of the prickly pear. Joyce called to him to be careful, but it was too late; he came down right in the middle of the cactus plant. The long thorns pierced him like sharp needles; and although he tried to be brave, he could not keep back the tears. There was nothing to do but pull out the thorns one by one, and it took Grandma quite a while to do that. And although Don turned many somersaults afterward, he was always careful to keep away from the prickly pear. When story time came, Grandma, gently rocking back and forth, began: "I shall tell you tonight about a bee that it is very necessary to have in the home; and it is also much needed by those who have anything to do with animals. Its name is Bee Gentle. Have you ever noticed how gentle Grandpa is with all his animals?" "Yes, I have noticed it," said Joyce. "And the horses love him for it, too. Whenever he goes to the pasture, they trot up to him and begin to nose about his pockets." "He usually carries something in his pockets to give them," said Grandma. "He has raised all his horses from little colts; and he has always treated them kindly. Some men think they must treat animals roughly, to make them obey; but that is not so. "Jake and Jenny were a brother and sister who loved each other dearly, but they were quite different in disposition. All the animals about the place were afraid of Jake, for he treated them roughly, and sometimes beat them. But they loved Jenny because she was gentle with them. The dog would follow her about, and the cat would curl up on her lap and purr itself to sleep. When she went to the pasture, the horses would trot up to her and rub their noses on her shoulder. She often gave them lumps of sugar, or other dainties that horses like. No matter how wild or shy they were with others, Jenny could always catch them easily. "Of all the horses in her father's pasture, Jenny loved best a beautiful swift-footed mare called Fanny. Sometimes she would ride about the country on Fanny's back. But as gentle as the mare was with Jenny, she was afraid of Jake and would not let him catch her in the pasture. "'It would be much better,' Jenny would often say to her brother, 'if you would not treat the animals so roughly. See how easily I can handle Fanny--just because I am always gentle with her.' "'Oh,' Jake would answer with a laugh, 'that is all right for a woman, Jenny; but a man, you know, must show his authority.' "Very early one morning, Jake's father came into his room. 'Jake,' he said, shaking the boy, 'wake up, son! Mother was taken very ill in the night. Catch Fanny and go for the doctor as quickly as you can.' "The hired man was sleeping in the next room, and he heard what Jake's father said. He also got up and dressed, and hurried out to the pasture to help Jake catch the mare. "The two were gone quite a while. At last they came back to the house, and Jake said, 'I can't catch Fanny, Father. She has jumped the ditch a dozen times. What shall I do?' "'Try again,' said his father. 'I can't leave Mother long enough to go to the pasture; and she must have help soon.' "Just then Jenny came in. 'I will catch Fanny for you, Father,' she said, and hurried out to the pasture. "'Fanny, O Fanny!' she called; and the beautiful creature turned her head and trotted toward her. But an instant later, to Jenny's surprise, she galloped away across the field. Glancing behind her, Jenny saw Jake and the hired man coming up the lane." "'She sees you coming,' called Jenny; 'that's why she won't let me catch her. Go back to the house and wait; I'll bring her to you.'" "Jake and the man went back; and Jenny went further into the pasture, calling, 'Fanny, O Fanny!' Instantly the mare turned and trotted toward her. She came close; and when Jenny gave her a lump of sugar, she rubbed her nose against the little girl's shoulder." "Quickly she put the bridle on the mare, and led her through the lane to the barn. Then she harnessed her and hitched her to the buggy, and called to Jake. The boy hurried out, looking rather pale and worried; and as he stepped into the buggy Jenny stroked the mare's neck, saying gently, 'Now go along, dear Fanny, and do your best for Mother.'" "Fanny rubbed her nose against Jenny's shoulder again, as if to say, 'I will, little mistress; you may depend on me.' Then as Jake lifted the reins, she trotted down the road at a rapid gait." "Jake found the doctor just sitting down to breakfast. When he heard the boy's story, he did not stop to eat. He rode right back with Jake, and in a short time he was at the mother's bedside. She was indeed very ill. 'If I had been a little later,' said the doctor in a low tone, 'I could have done nothing for her at all.' "When Jake heard that, he went into the kitchen, sank down on a chair, and leaning his head on the table, he sobbed like a child. Jenny found him there a little later. "She stood there beside him, gently stroking his hair. 'Jake,' she said at last, very softly, 'don't cry any more, because God was very kind to us and didn't let it happen. But just think what might have been, if I hadn't been able to catch Fanny this morning. Don't you think it would pay to always be kind to the animals?' "Jake nodded; he could not trust himself to speak. "The sting of little Bee Gentle went very deep. Never again was Jake cruel to animals. He tried hard to make friends with Fanny; but she would have nothing to do with him. She remembered how roughly he had treated her in the past; and being only a horse, she did not understand that he never would do so again." "How glad Jenny must have been," said Joyce, "that she had treated Fanny kindly! Because Fanny brought the doctor, the doctor saved her mother's life." "And besides," added Grandma softly, "people are always glad when they know they have done right." Bee Helpful [Illustration] "What are you going to do with that rope?" asked Don, as Grandpa came from the shed with a coil of rope on his arm. "Come with me, and you will find out," answered Grandpa. "And you may call Joyce, too, if you wish." Don ran to the house to get Joyce, and soon the two came back together. They followed Grandpa down the lane toward the pasture where he kept his pigs. The children kept asking him what he intended to do, but he would only answer, "Wait and see." Grandpa had a good many grown hogs, and ten little pigs. He opened the pasture gate and called to them, and they all came out into the lane, grunting and squealing. Then he coaxed them toward the pig-pen that he had been building. He closed the gate, and turning to the children said, "Now if you watch me, you will see what I intend to do with the rope." When the children were both safe on the other side of the fence, Grandpa climbed into the pig-pen and coiled the rope a number of times in his hands. Then he cast it from him, and it fell over one of the little pigs. He drew it in, and the pig was caught. Then he lifted him and placed him in the pen. How the little fellow squealed, and how hard the old hogs tried to get to him! Some of the larger ones started toward the fence where Don and Joyce were perched on posts. Grandpa laughed to see how quickly the children scrambled down. "Now," said Grandpa, "you see why I wanted the fence between you and those hogs, don't you? If they could get to you, they might tear you in pieces; for they want to take care of the little pigs." Grandpa coiled the rope again, caught another of the little pigs, and then another and another, until all ten of them were in in the pen. Then he opened the gate and turned the others back into the pasture. Grandpa had caught the pigs so easily--only once or twice had he had to try a second time. "I don't see how you could catch them when they were running away from you," said Don. "I couldn't catch them if they were standing still." "Perhaps not," said Grandpa. "But I can catch you if you try to get away from me. Just try it." At that, Don began to run as fast as he could; but he had not gone far when he felt the rope slip over his shoulders, and he was lifted off his feet. "What fun!" shouted Joyce. "Now try it on me." Grandpa spent quite a while catching first one and then the other. Joyce was the hardest to catch, for after a few times she learned how to dodge the rope. "Why did you put those little pigs in the pen?" asked Don, following close at his heels. "They are getting in the cornfield," answered Grandpa, "and eating too much of my corn." "But can't you keep them out?" asked Don. "No," said Grandpa; "for when I mend one place in the fence, the little pigs are sure to find another place big enough to squeeze through. So the only way I can keep them out is to pen them up. Don, you may carry water for the little pigs--and they will need plenty, too, because it is so warm." That pleased Don, and he began at once to fill the trough which Grandpa had placed in the pen. That evening, Grandpa and Grandma and the children sat on the porch, listening to the chirp of the katydids and the call of the whippoorwills. "Grandma," said Don, "what kind of bee will you tell us about tonight?" "Bee Sleepy, and go to bed," said Grandpa, with a wink at Grandma. The children laughed. "No," said Don, "I don't want to hear about that bee--not yet." "All right," said Grandma, "we'll have our story first; but we must begin right away, because it is almost bedtime. The bee I am thinking about tonight comes often to us all--especially to little children. "Once there was a boy named Alfred who was the only child in his home. He was very selfish; and often he was determined to have his own way. But he had his good points, too. "Alfred lived in the country; and during the Christmas holidays, he visited a friend of his who lived in the city. Then his friend in turn visited him during the summer vacation. "As soon as his company came, Alfred thought it was quite too much for his mother to ask him to help her. He forgot how very ill she had been, and how frail she still was. Indeed, it was hard for him to think of anything but having a good time with his friend. "The two boys had planned to spend a certain day at the creek, fishing. Of course they were eager to start as early as they could that morning. After they had gathered together everything that they needed for their trip, they went out to the kitchen and found Alfred's mother packing a lunch for them. "'Alfred,' she said, 'I wish you would help me a little with the work before you go. I am afraid that I shall not be able to do it all alone. Would you mind stopping long enough to wash the dishes and clean up the kitchen for me?' "Alfred began to pout, but his mother continued, 'I really wish you were not going fishing today. Your father will be away all day; and I would rather not be left alone, for I do not feel as well as usual. But I will not keep you, if you will wash the dishes before you go.' "'Now, Mother,' said Alfred angrily, 'why do you ask me to do that, when you know I want to get started early? If I have to wait half the day, I don't care to go at all.' "Just then the bee began to buzz about Alfred's ears. 'Help your mother! Help your mother!' it said. But Alfred did not pay any attention. 'Let the dishes go,' he cried. 'I don't care whether they are ever washed or not.' And picking up the lunch which his mother had packed so nicely for him, he started toward the creek. He did not even look back to say 'good -by.' "The boys found fishing very good that day. They caught a fine string of trout, ate their lunch, and in the middle of the afternoon were ready to start for home. Alfred was much pleased with their catch, and on the way home he said over and over, 'Won't Mother be glad we went fishing today, when she sees our string of trout? She is so fond of trout.' But even while he was saying it, he could not forget the tired look on his mother's face, or the hurt look in her eyes when he had refused to wash the dishes for her. "When the boys reached the house, it seemed strangely quiet. They found the dishes cleared away, and the kitchen neatly swept. Alfred's mother was lying on the couch, and she seemed to be resting very comfortably. "'See, Mother,' said Alfred, 'isn't this a nice string of trout?' "But Mother did not answer. Alfred spoke to her again. Still no answer. He touched her hand then, and found it icy-cold. "Then the awful truth dawned upon him--his mother was dead! She had died while he was fishing; but she had done the work that she had asked her boy to do. "All his life, poor Alfred felt the sting of the bee that had buzzed about him on that summer morning. What hurt him most deeply was that he would never again have a chance to help his frail little mother who had done so much for him." "I'm so glad," said Joyce, "that I still have my mother, and that I can do things for her when she is tired." "It's a sad story, Grandma," said little Don, "but I'm glad you told it to us. I'm going to remember it always." Bee Grateful [Illustration] Another morning came to the farm--another day for the children to roam about the fields and enjoy themselves in God's big, free out-of-doors. How much more pleasant than having to play in their own yard in the city, these hot summer days! In that long-ago time when the children's mother had lived on the farm, Grandpa had given her a pony of her own to ride to school in the village. Old Ned was still on the place. Grandpa was always ready to saddle and bridle him, whenever the children wished to go for a ride. Today, as the children wandered to the back of the orchard, wishing for something to do, Ned stood on the other side of the fence and neighed at them. That gave Don an idea. "O Joyce!" he cried, "let's ride Ned around in the pasture." "Without a saddle?" exclaimed Joyce. "Of course," answered Don in his most grown up tone. "Why not?" "All right," said Joyce a little doubtfully. They went out through the barn lot, leaving the gate open behind them. Then, letting down the bars, they soon found themselves in the pasture. Joyce led old Ned to the fence, holding to his mane. She climbed up on the fence, and then onto the horse's back. Don quickly climbed on behind her. In his younger days, Ned had been taught a number of tricks, which he still remembered. He would shake hands, and nod his head, and ride up the steps. And when a rider was on his back, if he gripped his knees in Ned's sides, the old horse would gallop away as fast as he could. Always, before this, the children had ridden with a saddle; and so they had never had to hold fast with their knees. But today Joyce knew she would have to hold on tightly, so she pressed her knees hard against old Ned's sides. Instantly he started to gallop across the pasture. He went up the lane, through the open gate into the barn lot, and on to the watering trough. Joyce still held to his mane with all her might, gripping him tightly with her knees. Don bounced up and down behind her, with his arms about her waist. When Ned reached the watering trough, he stopped. Suddenly he lowered his head, and both children slipped off into the trough. It was about half-full of water, and Joyce fell in face downward. Such sputtering, puffing, and blowing, as they scrambled out of the trough! And there stood old Ned, looking at them as if to say, "How did you like your bath?" Grandpa came hurrying up to see if they were hurt. He told them that old Ned was only doing as he had been taught when he was a colt; and that they could not expect him to do otherwise, if they rode him like that. That evening, as twilight settled down, Grandpa and Grandma and the children sat on the porch and listened to the lonely call of a whippoorwill from the neighboring woods. "I see the Big Bear," said Don--"and the Little Bear, too." "What is the Milky Way, Grandma?" asked Joyce. "When men look through telescopes they find millions of stars--so close together and so far away that not one star can be seen by the naked eye. The Indians used to say it was the path which all Indians must travel after they died, to reach the Happy Hunting Grounds." "See how bright the stars are in the Dipper!" exclaimed Don. "When I was just a little girl," said Grandma, "I learned a rhyme about the Milky Way: "The Man in the Moon that sails through the sky Is known as a gay old skipper. But he made a mistake, When he tried to take A drink of milk from the dipper. "He dipped it into the Milky Way, And was just prepared to drink it, When the Big Bear growled, And the Little Bear growled, And it scared him so that he spilled it." The children liked the queer little rhyme, and said it over until they knew it by heart. At last Grandpa said, "I guess it's about time to turn in for tonight." "Oh, no," said Don--"not till Grandma tells us our story." "All right," said Grandma; "I shall tell you this time about a little bee called Bee Grateful. It has a very sharp sting, as you will see. "Far away, under sunny Italian skies, there is an old, old town by the name of Atri. It is built on the side of a steep hill. "A very long time ago, the king of Atri bought a great golden-toned bell and hung it in the tower at the market-place. Fastened to the bell, there was a long rope that reached almost to the ground. "'We shall call it the bell of justice,' said the king. "He proclaimed a great holiday in Atri, and invited everyone to come to the marketplace and see the bell. It shone like gold in the bright sunlight. When the king came riding down the street, the people whispered to one another, 'Perhaps he will ring the bell.' "But he did not. Instead, he stopped at the foot of the tower and raised his hand. All the whispering and talking stopped; for the people knew that the king was about to speak. "'My good people,' he said, 'this bell belongs to you. No one must ever pull the rope unless he is in trouble. But if any one of you--man, woman, or child--is ever treated unjustly, you may come to the marketplace and ring the bell. The judges will come together and listen to your story; and the one who has done wrong will be punished, whoever he may be. That is why this is called the bell of justice.' "Year after year passed by, and the great bell still hung in the tower. Many people who were in trouble had rung the bell; and in every case, the judges had been perfectly fair, and had punished the one who had done wrong. "The rope had hung there so long in the sun and rain, and had been pulled by so many hands, that it was almost worn out. Some of the strands were untwisted; and it had grown shorter and shorter, until only the tallest man or woman could reach it. "'We must have a new rope,' said the judges at last. 'If a little child should be wronged, he could not reach high enough to ring the bell. That would never do.' "At once the people of Atri set about to look for a new rope; but there was none to be found in all the town of Atri. They would have to send someone to a country across the mountains to get the rope. But that would take quite a while; and what should they do, while they were waiting? "One man thought of a plan. He ran to his vineyard and came back with a grapevine. Then he tied the vine to the rope. "'There!' he said, 'the smallest child will be able to reach it now, and ring the bell'; for the vine, with its leaves and little tendrils, trailed on the ground. "The judges were pleased. 'Yes,' they said, 'that will do very well, until we can get a new rope from the country beyond the mountains.' "Near the village of Atri, higher up on the hillside, there lived an old soldier. When he was a young man, he had traveled in far-distant countries, and had fought in many wars. And he was so brave that his king had made him a knight. "He had had one true and faithful friend all through those hard and dangerous years. It was his horse. Many a time the brave steed had saved his master's life. "But now that the knight was an old man, he no longer wished to do brave deeds. He cared now for only one thing: gold, _gold_, GOLD. He was a miser. "One day, as he passed his barn, he looked in and saw his faithful horse standing in his stall. The poor creature looked almost starved. "'Why should I keep that lazy beast any longer?' said the miser to himself. 'His food costs more money than he is worth. I know what I will do. I will turn him out on the hillside, and let him find his own food. If he starves to death--why, he will be out of the way!' "So the brave old horse was turned out to graze as best he could on the rocky hillside. He was sick and lame, and he grew thinner every day; for all he could find was a tiny patch of grass or a thistle now and then. The village dogs barked at him and bit at his heels; and naughty boys threw stones at him. "One hot afternoon, the old horse limped into the market-place of Atri. No one was about the streets; for the people were trying to keep as cool as they could in the shelter of their homes. As the horse went picking about trying to find a few blades of grass, suddenly he discovered the long grapevine trailing on the ground at the foot of the tower. The leaves were still green and tender, for it had been placed there only a short time before. "The horse did not know that the bell would ring if he pulled the vine. He only knew that here was a juicy bit of dinner for him, and he was hungry. "He nibbled at the end of the vine; and suddenly, far up in the belfry, the huge bell began to swing back and forth. From its great throat, golden music floated down over the town of Atri. It seemed to be saying: "'Some--one----has--done----me--wrong! Ding--dong----ding--dong!' "The judges put on their robes, and hurried out of their cool homes into the hot streets of the village. Who was in trouble, they wondered? "When they reached the market-place, no one was there; but they saw the starving old horse, nibbling at the tender grapevine. "'Ho, ho!' cried one, 'it is the miser's brave old steed. He rings the bell to plead for justice.' "'And justice he shall have!' cried another. "'See how thin he is,' said a lad with a kind heart. "By this time, many people had gathered in the market-place. When they saw the old horse, a murmur of astonishment swept through the crowd. "'The miser's steed!' cried one to another. 'He has waited long; but he shall have justice today.' "'I have seen the old horse wandering on the hillside day after day, in search of food,' said an old man. "'And while the noble steed has no shelter,' said his neighbor, 'his master sits at home, counting his gold.' "'Bring his master to us!' cried the judges sternly. "And so they brought him. In silence he waited to hear what the judges would say. "'This brave steed of yours,' they said, 'has served you faithfully for many a long year. He has saved your life in times of danger. He has helped you to hoard your bags of gold. Therefore, hear your sentence, O Miser! Half of your gold shall be taken from you, and used to buy food and shelter for your faithful horse.' "The miser hung his head. It made him sad to lose his gold; but the people laughed and shouted, as the old horse was led away to a comfortable stall and a dinner fit for the steed of a king." "Hooray!" cried Don. "Good for the brave old horse! Grandpa, I'm so glad you aren't a miser!" He was thinking of old Ned, with his sleek, shining black coat. "Bedtime!" announced Grandma, as she led the way into the house. "Good-night, children--and happy dreams to you!" Bee Loving [Illustration] When the children ran down to meet the mailman in the morning, he handed them another letter from Mother. She and Daddy were going home next Friday, she said; and they must be there Saturday, to start school on the following Monday. "Only three more nights to be here," said Joyce, taking the letter in to Grandma. "I want to go home and see Mother and Daddy, but I wish I could stay on the farm, too." "And only three more stories about bees," added Don. "We must remember them all, Joyce, so we can tell them to Mother." "What do you want to do today, children?" asked Grandma. "After our morning work is done," said Joyce, with her most grown-up air, "we must finish weeding the flower-bed." "Grandma," called Don a little later, "come and see how nice it looks where we pulled the weeds yesterday." Grandma stood a moment thoughtfully looking down at the half-weeded bed of flowers. "Children," she said suddenly, "If you wanted a flower this morning, where would you pick it--in the part of the bed that is full of weeds, or in that patch over there that you have weeded so nicely?" "I would pick my flower where there aren't any weeds," answered Don, wondering why she asked. "I would take that pretty big red one right over there." "And so would I!" declared Joyce, pulling up a stubborn weed. "But why wouldn't you take this one?" said Grandma, as she parted the weeds and showed another red beauty. "Well," answered Don, "I s'pose it's just as pretty, but some way the weeds make it look ugly." "That's just what I was thinking about," said Grandma. "I have seen children who were like this flower in the weeds. They had beautiful faces; but they let the weeds of disobedience, selfishness, deceit, and pride grow all about them until you could not see their beauty for the ugly weeds. "This garden makes me think of two cousins that I knew once. One was obedient, unselfish, and kind to everybody; and although she did not have a beautiful face, she was loved by all who knew her. The other girl had a beautiful face; but she had such an unlovely disposition that nobody cared for her, and so she was left very much to herself. Her beauty, like this lovely flower, was quite hidden by the ugly weeds growing up all around her. "These weeds in the flower-bed were very small in the beginning; but they grew and grew, until now they are taller than the flowers. And the weeds in God's child-gardens are small at first, too. To begin with, there springs up the weed of telling a story that is not quite true. If it is not pulled up at once, soon it grows up into a big ugly lie weed. Other weeds--disobedience, selfishness, and unkindness--spring up around it; and soon the beautiful flower is hidden by the tall weeds. And when the Master of the Garden wants a lovely flower-child to do a kind deed for Him, He never thinks of choosing one that is surrounded by weeds." "What a nice story!" exclaimed Joyce. "But it wasn't about a bee, Grandma." "Yes, it was," said Don--"Don't Bee Weedy." "But there haven't been any Don't Bee's in the stories before," said Joyce. "Besides, I wouldn't call that Don't Bee Weedy; I'd call it Bee Clean." "That's a good name for it," said Grandma. "I hope you'll always keep your lives clean from the weeds that children so often allow to grow up around them." Grandma went back to the house, while the children set to work weeding the rest of the flower-bed. They were very careful not to pull up any of the flowers with the weeds. When they had finished, the flower-bed looked beautiful, cleared as it was of all weeds and grasses. "I surely don't want any ugly weeds to grow in _my_ garden, so I shall always listen to Bee Clean," said Joyce softly, as she walked slowly toward the house. "Will you make us a kite, Grandpa?" asked Don after dinner. "Yes, do!" cried Joyce. "It will be such fun to fly it." "Well," said Grandpa, "you children hunt around and find some sticks. Then ask Grandma for some paper and paste and string; and bring them out to the woodshed, and I'll try my hand at making a kite." After it was made, they had to let it lie in the sun for a while, to dry. Then they took it out to the pasture. There was a soft breeze blowing, and Grandpa said the kite ought to fly. Don took the string and ran along with it for quite a distance. The wind lifted it a little; but after it had darted back and forth, it fell on the ground. This happened several times, and at last Grandpa said, "It's too bad, children, but my kite won't fly. But I'll see if I can make something else for you." Then Grandpa took some thin boards and whittled out darts. He took a short stick, and tied a string to it; and then he fitted the string in a notch which he had cut in one end of the dart. He threw the dart up in the air, ever so high. It came down just a few yards from Don. The sharp end stuck fast; and there it stood, upright in the ground. Don was as much pleased with this as he would have been with a kite that would fly. Soon he and Joyce were shooting darts into the air, to see whose would go the highest. They had so much fun that the afternoon flew by very fast. It was nearly suppertime when Don gathered up the darts and took them to the house with him. He carefully put them away in the little trunk, saying, "I'll show the boys how to throw darts when I get home." That evening, as they sat on the porch in the quiet twilight, they heard the faint tinkle of a cowbell in the distance. They talked a while, and then they sang some songs together. "It's story time, isn't it?" said Grandpa by and by. "And who is going to get stung tonight?" he asked, winking at Joyce. "I hope _I_ don't," she laughed, remembering the time the bee had stung her on the first day of her visit. "No one shall be stung tonight," said Grandma. "I have a very sweet little bee to tell you about. And because the little girl in my story listened to its buzz, it made honey for her all her life. Its name is Bee Loving; and it can do things that nothing else in the world can do. You know people can sometimes be _loved_ into doing things that they could not be persuaded to do in any other way. "Gene was a very little girl who had been left alone in the world. She had never seen her father; and her mother had died when she was only two and a half. Some kind people had taken care of the little girl when her mother was ill; and when she died, they tried to find her relatives, to ask what should be done with Gene. But they could not find any trace of them. "When Gene was three, these kind people wanted to go away for a couple of weeks, and they asked a lady to take care of the child while they were gone. The lady was very glad to do this, for she loved little children. And so Gene came to stay in the big mansion where the lady, her husband, and grown-up daughter lived. "The lady's husband did not like children very well, and it always annoyed him whenever little Gene came near him. She had a sunny disposition and a very sweet smile, and she tried to make friends with the man; but he would not pay any attention to her. "He always read his paper in the morning before he went to work, and in the evening after he came home. Little Gene would peep up at him under the paper, with her sweetest smile. He would lay the paper down, and walk away; but soon he would come back and pick it up and begin to read again. And in a moment, there little Gene would be, peeping up at him again with her lovely smile. "One day when Gene had been living in the home about a week, the man was reading his paper and she was peeping under it with her usual smile. Suddenly he laid the paper aside and took her in his arms. He kissed her on her forehead, saying tenderly, 'It doesn't matter how hard a man tries to keep from loving you; you just love your way right into his heart.' "Gene threw her small arms about his neck, and laid her curly head on his shoulder, saying in her pretty baby way, 'Gene woves oo, big man.' "That completely won his heart; and when the two weeks had passed and Gene's friends came after her, he did not want to give her up. So he decided to keep her and bring her up as if she had been his own little girl. This also pleased his wife and grown-up daughter very much, for they had loved little Gene from the beginning. "Gene is grown now, but she still has the same sunny disposition and the same sweet smile, which make her beloved by all who know her. Nothing but love could have won for her the beautiful home she has had all these years. And to this day, Bee Loving is still helping her to win her way through life. The greatest victories are always those that are won through love." "I know someone that I love," said little Don, throwing his arms round Grandma's neck. "So do I," said Joyce as she kissed Grandma good-night. Bee Content [Illustration] "Listen to the mocking bird!" exclaimed Joyce, early the next morning. "It sounds as if he would burst his throat. Sometimes his song is loud, and then again he whistles softly, like our canary." As they listened, the bird whistled shrilly, like the cardinal; then he trilled like the canary, and chirped like the sparrow. He gave a call like the hen quail's, and sang a song exactly like the song of the bluebird. Then he twittered like a number of smaller birds, sang the song of the robin, and came back to the whistle of the cardinal. "Did you ever hear such a wonderful song?" cried Joyce. "I could listen to him all day long." "I like to hear him sing in the daytime, too," laughed Grandma; "but during the night I don't enjoy it so much. Last spring the mocking birds built their nest in the same tree where that little fellow is singing now; and such music, all night long, during the time when they were nesting! It was beautiful, but it kept me awake many an hour when I should have been sleeping. Mocking birds usually build their nests near houses, to protect themselves from robbers." "Robbers! What kind?" exclaimed Don. "Sometimes larger birds; and sometimes cats, or snakes. You can always tell when a robber is about, by the fuss the old birds make. Last spring I heard a great commotion in that tree, and I went out to see what was the trouble. I looked about for quite a while before I discovered the nest; and all the time, the birds were darting here and there and giving their sharp little cries of distress. When at last I found the nest, I saw a big black snake crawling toward it. I got the garden rake and pulled him loose from the limb; and when he fell to the ground, I killed the cruel thief." Joyce stepped out into the yard, to get a better look at the little songster as he sat swinging at the top of the old apple tree. Just then he flew across the orchard and down to the creek, alighting among the willows along the bank. That afternoon the children went to the creek, to see if there were any water lilies in bloom. As they neared the clump of willows, Don said, "Let's be quiet, and see if we can find the mocking bird." So they walked softly, and talked in whispers; but they did not catch a glimpse of the lovely songster. Suddenly Don stopped and pointed to a big green frog sitting on a lily pad in the middle of the creek. "Oh-h-h!" exclaimed Joyce. Instantly there was a splash, and the frog was gone. There were splashes all around, as other frogs disappeared in the water. The children hid behind the willows, and waited quietly for some time. Soon they saw a big green fellow swim toward the lily pad and climb up on it. Others began to swim about in the water, and a number of them came out along the bank. Suddenly Joyce caught sight of something else, which made her forget the frogs. Just beyond the spot where the frog sat perched on a lily pad, there was a lovely water lily in bloom. "O Don," she whispered, "do you think we can get it?" "I'd rather have the frog than the lily," answered Don. "Yes, but you can't get him, you know," said Joyce. "Will you help me to get to the lily?" Don nodded, and came out from behind the willows where he had been crouching. Instantly there was another splash, and Mr. Froggie was gone. In a moment there was not a frog to be seen anywhere. To get the lily, the children had to cross the creek and then step out on an old log. The creek was so shallow that they knew there was no danger of drowning, even if they should fall into the water; so Joyce steadied the log with her hands, while Don stood on it and reached for the lily. It took him some time to get it, for it had a tough stem which was very hard to break. But Joyce was so pleased when he handed her the beautiful lily, that he felt repaid for all his trouble. About three o'clock the children found some empty spools and went to the corner of the orchard, and sat down in the cool shade of the lilac bush. Soon they were blowing many-colored bubbles and flying them in the air. Tabby, Grandma's pretty Maltese cat, lay curled up in the shade. One of Don's bubbles lit on her back, and then burst. By and by another lit on her nose, and burst immediately. The old cat jumped to her feet and began to sneeze. Then she sat down and washed her face with her paw, as if to say, "Thank you, I'd rather wash my face without any soap." That evening, as they sat on the porch, Joyce said a little sadly, "It will not be long now before we shall hear the noisy street cars again, instead of the katydids and whippoorwills. Only one more night after this, and we shall be home." "Yes," added Don--"only two more stories about the bees." He clambered up on to the arm of Grandma's rocking chair, while Joyce sat down at her feet. "We're ready for our story, Grandma," said Don. "All right," answered Grandma. "I shall tell you this time about a little bee called Bee Content. Its buzz is often heard among children at play, when things happen that no one can help. Some will not listen to it, and so they complain and make everyone about them miserable. "Willie was a poor boy who lived on a farm. Although he had to work hard, helping his father, he always went about whistling or singing. His clothes were old and patched; and he did not have things to play with, as other boys have. But he did not mind being poor, because he had parents who loved him dearly. "One day when Willie was working in the field, he looked up and saw a great cloud of dust. A team was running away. The horses were hitched to a buggy; and as they came rushing toward him, the thought flashed into Willie's mind that he must try his best to stop them. A short distance down the road, there was a bridge. If the horses should run into the railing,' he thought, 'they would tear the buggy to pieces, and perhaps hurt themselves.' "The boy leaped over the fence, and braced himself; and as the horses came near, he grabbed one by the bridle and held on tightly. This was a very brave thing to do; for if he had missed catching hold, he might have been thrown under the horses' hoofs and trampled to death. His weight swinging on the horse's bridle soon stopped the team. "Soon a man came running along the highway; and when he learned what Willie had done, he said, 'You are a brave boy. What do I owe you for your trouble?' "Willie smiled his friendly smile as he answered, 'I did not stop the horses for pay, sir. I thought of the railing on the bridge; and I was afraid the horses would break the buggy, and hurt themselves.' "Noticing that Willie's clothes were badly worn, the gentleman said, 'Will you not let me give you some money to buy clothes?' "'I have a better pair of shoes than these--and a better suit of clothes, for Sundays,' answered Willie. 'And these clothes are all right to work in.' "'But you will need some new books for school this fall,' said the gentleman. "'I have some books that were given to me,' replied the lad; 'and Mother glued in the loose leaves, so that I can use them very well, thank you.' "'Wouldn't you like to have a ball and bat?' "'I made a ball from some old wool that Mother gave me,' answered Willie; 'and I whittled out a bat which answers the purpose very well.' "The gentleman laid his hand on Willie's shoulder, saying kindly, 'My boy, I understand now why you have that smile; for you have learned a secret which few people know--the secret of contentment. I shall have to call you The Contented Boy.' And with that, he drove away. "A few days later, a large box came to the village, addressed to Willie. The express agent sent word out to the farm, and Willie's father drove in to the village to get it. "When Willie opened the box, he found a large card lying on top on which were written the words: _To the Contented Boy, From a Grateful Friend and Debtor_. He knew then that the box had come from the man whose team he had stopped a few days before. "It contained a new suit of clothes, some shirts, overalls, stockings, a warm cap and mittens, and a new baseball and bat. When he lifted out the overcoat he felt in the pockets and discovered a five-dollar bill. "How pleased Willie was! As he went back to his work in the field, he whistled more cheerily than before. "But that was not all. At Christmas time, a wonderful bicycle came from his new friend. You will believe me when I tell you that he was the happiest boy in the country." "That's the best story you have told us yet," said Don. "I think Willie was a brave boy." "And he deserved everything he got," added Grandma; "for he had learned the secret of being content with a very little." Bee Prayerful [Illustration: Bee Prayerful] Another morning came; the morning of the last day Joyce and Don were to spend on the farm. They followed Grandma about the house, eager to do something to help. After the usual work was done, and they had taken turns at the churning, Grandma said she would make cookies to pack in their lunch-basket the next day. So she gathered together eggs, sugar, flour, milk, butter, baking powder, and spices. Quickly she made the dough and rolled it out on the board. The children stood close to her watching as she cut out the dough in different shapes. She made quite an army of cookie men; and after they were baked, she covered them with icing. She made their eyes out of cinnamon drops; also the buttons down their vests. "Aren't they lovely?" cried Joyce. "Put plenty of them in our lunch-basket tomorrow, won't you, Grandma? Then we can take some home to Mother and Daddy." "Yes," said Grandma, "and there will be enough for your little friends, too." In the afternoon the children's trunk was brought out, and Grandma helped them to pack. There were so many things they wanted to take home with them, that this was quite a task. At the last moment, just as Grandma was ready to close the trunk, Don ran and got the kite that Grandpa had made. "Maybe Daddy will know how to make it fly," he said. But there was no room for it in the trunk, so he had to take it back to the woodshed. "I can put it away in a safe place," he said. "It will be waiting for us when we come back next summer." That evening the children did all they could to help Grandpa with the chores. They gathered the eggs, pumped water, filled the wood-box, and did many other things. "You are certainly fine little helpers," said Grandpa when they had finished. "When you get home," added Grandma with a smile, "you must tell Mother and Daddy that we need you to help us on the farm." "We will," promised the children with beaming faces. When they had gathered on the porch for their last evening together, Joyce stole up to Grandma's chair and said softly, "Tonight you must tell us the very best bee story that you know." "It couldn't be better than the one about Bee Content," said Don. "I shall tell you about the bee that is perhaps the most important of all," said Grandma thoughtfully. "It does wonderful things for those who listen to its buzz; but those who refuse to listen are sure to be sorry afterward. It is called Bee Prayerful." The children were eager to hear the story, so Grandma began at once: "William Sutherland was a boy who lived in the state of Maryland. When he was thirteen years old, he gave his heart to God and became a Christian. After that he would often steal away alone and spend a few minutes talking to God. "When he was fourteen, Willie began to work in the bank as an errand boy. The banker soon found that he was honest, and trusted him with large sums of money. One of his errands was to carry the payroll to a mill town several miles away. He made this trip every two weeks; and he always set out in the afternoon, and returned the following morning. "There were no automobiles in those days, and no good roads. William had to ride a pony, leaving the main highway and riding over a trail that had been blazed through the forest. "As he started out one afternoon, his mother said to him, 'Son, I'm afraid to have you carry so much money over that lonely trail.' "'Oh, there is no reason to worry, Mother,' replied the lad cheerfully, as he swung into the saddle. 'You know I have always made the trip safely before.' "'Yes,' replied the good woman, 'but I feel fearful today. I shall be praying for you while you are on your way.' "William waved to her, as he turned his pony about and started on his journey. He had placed the payroll in his saddle bags; and as he looked at them he said to himself, 'How glad I am that my master trusts me with so much money.' "He whistled and sang, as he rode along; but as he neared the lonely forest trail, a strange feeling of fear came over him. He reined in his pony and sat still for some time, wondering just what he ought to do. Then Bee Prayerful began to buzz about his ears. He had heard its little voice many times before, and he had learned always to listen and obey. He rode on to the spot where he must leave the highway and set out upon the forest trail; and then he slipped from the saddle and knelt down beside the bushes growing there. "'Dear God,' he said aloud, 'I don't know why, but I feel very much afraid. Take care of me, as I ride through this lonely place. I believe You will, because You have written in Your Book, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."' "And as William knelt there, alone with God, all feeling of fear melted away. He arose, mounted his pony, and rode on with a light heart. "The mill men knew he was coming, for they could hear his cheerful whistle before his pony came into view. He gave the payroll to the foreman, spent the night in the little town, and the next forenoon returned safely to his home. "His mother met him at the door. 'Son,' she said, 'something peculiar happened to me yesterday while you were away. I was very busy, but a little voice seemed to tell me that I ought to stop my work and pray for you. I felt that you were in danger, and that I should ask God to keep you safe. So I laid my work aside, went into my room and knelt down, and stayed there until I was sure that you were quite safe.' "Then William told her how he had felt just before he reached the lonely forest trail, and how he had knelt down among the bushes and asked God to protect him. After that, they often talked about this strange happening, and wondered what it could mean. "William worked in the bank for quite a long while, and then he went away to college. After he had graduated, he became a minister. Soon after this, God called away his good mother to her home in Heaven. "One day William received a letter stamped with the postmark of a town in a distant state. 'I am very ill,' said the writer, 'and the doctor says I shall never recover. I must see you, as I have something very important to tell you before I am called away to meet my God. Please come to me as quickly as possible.' There was no name written at the end of the letter. It was signed, 'A friend.' "William turned the letter over and over in his hand. He knew no one in that faraway place, and for a time he was very much puzzled. Then he did as he had been in the habit of doing for many years--he slipped away to spend a few moments alone with God. And a voice in his heart kept saying, 'Go; someone is in need, and your work is to minister to every soul who asks for help.' "'But whom shall I ask for, when I arrive?' asked William, still perplexed. And the voice answered, 'Only go; God will take care of the rest.' "Hastily packing a few things in his traveling bag, William boarded a train and started for the town in the far-distant state. Arriving at the end of his journey, he stepped out upon the station platform. He was astonished when a gentleman came up to him and said courteously, 'Is this Reverend Sutherland?' "'Yes,' replied the minister, 'I am he.' "'I have been sent to meet you, sir,' said the stranger. 'I have met every train during the past week. Will you come with me?' "A few minutes later, he led the minister into a darkened room where a sick man lay. As they tiptoed into the room, he looked up eagerly, and his breath came fast. Holding out his hand, he asked in a feeble voice, 'Is this Reverend Sutherland?' "'It is,' said the minister gently, clasping the thin white hand. 'Where have I met you before, my friend--and what can I do for you now?' "'You have never met me before,' said the sick man, and his voice sank to a whisper. 'I saw you only once and that was many years ago. But I have kept track of your whereabouts all these years. I have sent for you now, sir, because--I am dying.' "The sick man sank back upon his pillows and rested a moment; then, fixing his large eyes on the minister's face, he went on: "'Mr. Sutherland, one afternoon many years ago you were entrusted with a large sum of money to take to the foreman of a certain mill. In a wild and lonely spot, you slipped from your saddle and knelt down by some bushes and asked God to protect you. Do you remember it?' "'As if it had been yesterday,' said the minister. 'But, my good friend-what do you know about it?' "'Far more than you do,' said the sick man sadly. _I heard that prayer_. I was crouching among the bushes nearby, with my rifle pointed at your heart. I had planned to kill you, take the money, and ride away on your pony. But while you were praying something passed between us; I did not know what it was, but I believed that God had sent it to protect you. I sat in those bushes, too weak to pull the trigger, and watched you ride away--perfectly helpless to do any harm to you. But it has haunted me ever since--the thought of what I wanted to do, and what I should have done if God had not answered your prayer. I could not meet God without telling you all this. Can you forgive me?' "Again William grasped the hand of the dying man, saying in a husky voice, 'My friend, as God has forgiven my sins, I freely forgive you. Ask now for God's forgiveness, and be at peace.' "The minister stayed with the man for some time, talking and praying with him; until at last the light shone in his dark soul, and God forgave his sins. "He died soon after that, and William Sutherland was asked to preach his funeral sermon. He chose as his text those words from the book of Proverbs: 'Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.'" The children sat very still for some time, after Grandma had finished her story. "I think Bee Prayerful is the best of all," said Joyce at last. "I shall remember that story as long as I live." "I hope you will, dear," said Grandma. "No matter where you go--no matter how busy you are--always listen to the gentle buzz of Bee Prayerful." "We will, Grandma," said the children soberly. "And now," said Grandma, "it is bedtime for two little folks who will have to be up bright and early in the morning. You know the train leaves at eight o'clock." "Good-night, katydids and whippoorwills," murmured Don a little drowsily. "We shall come back to hear you sing again next summer." With that, two tired children crept upstairs and tumbled into bed; and very soon they were in the Land of Dreams. Home Again [Illustration: Home Again] The sunlight was streaming in at their bedroom windows, when Joyce and Don awoke the next morning. They dressed quickly, and ran down to watch Grandma pack their lunch for the trip home. At the breakfast table, they talked of all the nice times they had had during the past few weeks; and they promised to persuade Mother and Daddy to come with them to the farm next summer. When everything was ready, Grandpa lifted the little trunk to his shoulder and carried it out to the car; and soon they were on their way. When they reached the station Grandpa bought the tickets, checked the little trunk, and gave the children a story book to read on the train. Dear Grandpa and Grandma! They always knew just what to do to make the children happy. As the train whistled in the distance, Don caught Grandpa's hand and held it tight. Joyce threw her arms around Grandma and whispered, "Dear Grandma, I love you! And I've had such a happy time!" The train pulled up, and the conductor called, "All aboard!" After Grandpa had helped them on to the train, and had gone back to the station platform, the children waved and threw kisses through the window. As the train moved away, they pressed their faces to the window and watched Grandpa and Grandma as long as they could. But they soon were left behind, the train moved faster, and the little village passed out of sight. Happy vacation days on the farm had come to an end. For a few moments the children had to fight to keep back the tears. Then Joyce opened the book that Grandpa had given them, and soon their loneliness was forgotten. There was a story about a little lame dog that came to a man's house one cold winter night and whined about the door. He let it in, bound up its foot, and gave it some food and a comfortable place to sleep. The man liked the dog so well that he decided to keep it. One night, when everyone was asleep, the house caught fire; and the dog awakened the man in time to save the whole family from burning to death. There were stories about cows and horses; and a long, long one about the interesting animals to be seen at the zoo. One story was so funny that when Don read it, he burst out laughing; and the other passengers looked at him and smiled. It was about a mischievous monkey at the zoo. One day a gentleman who wore a wig came by, carrying his hat in his hand. The monkey reached through the bars and caught hold of the wig, pulling it off his head. When it was time for lunch, Joyce opened the basket that Grandma had packed for them. They spread out a napkin on the seat in front of them, and ate their lunch off this "table" in the most grown-up fashion. Grandma had tucked in several surprises; and how good the cookie-men tasted! In the middle of the afternoon they began to pass through the suburbs of the city, and soon familiar sights came into view. When the train backed into the station, there stood Mother and Daddy waiting for them. "O Mother," cried Joyce with a bear hug, "I've had a good time, but I'm so glad to see you again!" Don, big boy that he was, had jumped into Daddy's arms. Soon the little trunk had been placed in the car, and they were driving toward home. "What did you enjoy most of all, during your vacation?" asked Mother, as they were eating supper that evening. "Fishing," replied Don quickly. Joyce did not answer; she sat quite still, with a far-away look in her eyes. "And what did my little girl like best of all?" asked Mother at last. "O Mother," said Joyce, her eyes shining, "I was happy every minute-- even when the old turkey gobbler was chasing me around the tree. But what I liked best was to sit out on the porch in the evenings, and listen to the katydids and whippoorwills, and watch the stars come out one by one. And then it was so nice to sit close to Grandma's old rocking-chair 
44123	----	_LITTLE SUNBEAMS._ IV. JESSIE'S PARROT. =By the Author of this Volume.= I. LITTLE SUNBEAMS. By JOANNA H. MATHEWS, Author of the "Bessie Books." I. BELLE POWERS' LOCKET. 16mo $1.00 II. DORA'S MOTTO. 16mo 1.00 III. LILY NORRIS' ENEMY 1.00 IV. JESSIE'S PARROT 1.00 V. MAMIE'S WATCHWORD 1.00 II. THE FLOWERETS. A series of Stories on the Commandments. 6 vols. In a box $3.60 "It is not easy to say too good a word for this admirable series. Interesting, graphic, impressive, they teach with great distinctness the cardinal lessons which they would have the youthful reader learn."--_S. S. Times._ III. THE BESSIE BOOKS. 6 vols. In a box $7.50 "Bessie is a very charming specimen of little girlhood. It is a lovely story of home and nursery life among a family of bright, merry little children."--_Presbyterian._ ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, _New York_. [Illustration: Jessie's Parrot. FRONTISPIECE.] JESSIE'S PARROT. "A HAUGHTY SPIRIT GOETH BEFORE A FALL." "He that is down need fear no fall, He that is low no pride, He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide." BY JOANNA H. MATHEWS, AUTHOR OF THE "BESSIE BOOKS" AND THE "FLOWERETS." NEW YORK: ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, 530 BROADWAY. 1876. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. CAMBRIDGE: PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. THE NEW SCHOLAR 9 II. AN EXCURSION 31 III. JESSIE AND HER GRANDFATHER 52 IV. THE PARROT 69 V. GRANDMAMMA HOWARD 90 VI. JEALOUSY 110 VII. A MISFORTUNE 129 VIII. "THE SPIDER AND THE FLY" 148 IX. A GUILTY CONSCIENCE 168 X. A GAME OF CHARACTERS 189 XI. CONFESSION 205 XII. THE FAIR 223 [Illustration] JESSIE'S PARROT. I. _THE NEW SCHOLAR._ "Fanny Leroy is going away from our school," said Carrie Ransom one morning to Belle Powers and two or three more of her young schoolmates. "Oh, dear! I'm sorry," said Belle. "So am I," said Dora Johnson. "Why is she going?" "Has she finished her education, and is she never going to school any more?" asked Mabel Walton. "Why, no," said Belle; "she's nothing but a little girl; and you don't finish your education till you're quite grown up and have long dresses." "Why is she going away?" asked Lily. "I don't want her to go. I like Fanny." "So do I. She's real nice," said Carrie; "but she is going, for all, 'cause her father and mother and all her family are going to Europe and she is going with them." "I wish she wouldn't," said Belle; and one and another echoed their sorrow at the loss of their schoolmate. Fanny had always been well liked in the school; but now that they were about to lose her the little girls found that they were even more fond of her than they had supposed, and many regrets were expressed when, a moment later, she came in accompanied by Gracie Howard. Fanny herself was very melancholy and low, for this was to be the last day at school, as she informed the other children; the journey to Europe having been decided upon rather suddenly, and the departure was to take place within a few days. Nevertheless, although she was sorry to part with her teacher and classmates, and in mortal dread of the voyage, she felt herself rather of a heroine, and entitled to be made much of. "We'll have an empty place in our school then," said Belle. "No," said Fanny, "for my cousin Hattie is coming to take my place; it is all arranged, and Miss Ashton says she can come." "Is she nice?" asked Lily. "Well--yes," answered Fanny, half doubtfully. "You don't seem to think she's so _very_," said Belle. No, Fanny evidently had her own opinion on this subject; but as she was not a child who was ready to speak ill of the absent, she would not say more than she could help. But the interest and curiosity of her schoolmates were aroused, and they could not be satisfied without hearing more. "I know Hattie," said Gracie Howard, who was more intimate with Fanny and her family than any of the other children,--"I know Hattie, and I like her. She thinks I am very nice. She told me so." This was plainly the highest of recommendations in Gracie's eyes. Any one who admired her was sure of her favor; but this fact did not have quite as much weight with her companions as it did with herself, and they turned once more to Fanny. "But tell us, Fanny," said Lily Norris, "why don't you like her so very much?" Fanny looked, as she felt, uncomfortable at this close question. "Why," she answered reluctantly, "I do like her; she's my cousin, you know, so I have to; but then--but then--I think I'll let you wait till she comes to find out the kind of girl she is. Maybe you'll like her very much. Gracie does." Fanny had her own doubts whether Gracie or any of the others would always continue to like Hattie as well as they might do upon a first acquaintance; but she very properly and generously resolved not to tell tales and prejudice the minds of the other children against the new comer. Better to give Hattie all the chance she could and let it be her own fault if she were not popular with her classmates. I cannot say that Fanny reasoned this out in just such words; but the kind thought was in her mind, and she resolved to hold her peace and say nothing unkind about her cousin. Would Hattie have done as much for her or for any one else? You shall judge for yourself by and by. The parting with Fanny was rather a sad one, for the children were all fond of her, and she took it so very hardly herself, declaring that she never expected to see any one of them again. For Fanny, though a very good and amiable little girl, was one who was apt to "borrow trouble," as the saying is; that is, she was always worrying herself about misfortunes which would, could, or might happen to herself or her friends. Therefore she now expressed her expectation of never seeing any of her young friends again, and when Lily very naturally inquired if the family meant to stay "for ever an' ever an' ever," said, "No, but people were very often drowned when they went to Europe in a steamer, and very likely she would be." Nor was she to be persuaded to take a more cheerful view of the future, even when Dora Johnson suggested that many more people crossed the ocean and returned in safety than were lost upon it. She was determined to dwell upon the possibilities, and even probabilities of her being shipwrecked, and took leave of her schoolmates with a view to such a fate. "Fanny did not act as if she thought we'd like her cousin Hattie very much, did she?" questioned Nellie Ransom as she walked homeward with Gracie Howard, Dora Johnson, and Laura Middleton. "No, she did not," said Laura. "Fanny don't tell tales or say unkind things about people, but it was quite plain she does not think so very much of Hattie Leroy." "I know the reason why," said Gracie. "What is it?" asked Laura. "Fanny said something very hateful about me," answered Gracie, "and Hattie told me of it; and just for that Fanny was mad at Hattie." "Well, I should think Fanny might be mad," said Laura. "Hattie had no right to tell you if Fanny didn't mean her to, and I don't believe she did." "No," said Gracie, "I don't suppose Fanny did want me to know it; but then she had no business to say it." "Hattie had no business to repeat it," said Dora indignantly; "if she is that kind of a girl I don't wonder Fanny don't like her, and I wish she was not coming to our school." "What did Fanny say?" asked Laura, who had her full share of curiosity. "She said--she-er--she-er--I'm not going to tell you what she said," answered Gracie, who was really ashamed to confess what slight cause for offence Fanny had given, and that it was her own wounded self-love which made it appear so "hateful." But although Gracie would not tell her schoolmates, I shall tell you, for I know all about it. The mighty trouble was just this. Hattie Leroy had but lately come to live in the city, and just when her parents were looking around for a good school to send her to, Fanny's papa and mamma made up their minds to take her abroad. This left her place vacant in Miss Ashton's class, and, as you have heard, it was at once secured for her little cousin. Meanwhile Gracie and Hattie, who had met at Fanny's house, had struck up a violent _intimate friendship_ and were now much together. As may be supposed, Hattie was very curious respecting her future teacher and classmates, and asked both Fanny and Gracie many questions about them. But, although the accounts given by the two children agreed in most points, yet, in some way, the story told by Gracie left a very different impression from that of Fanny. The latter thought her teacher and classmates very nearly, if not quite, perfect, and bestowed her praise freely and without stint. Well, and if you had heard Gracie's report you might have said that she did the same; but whenever Gracie said one good word for another she said a dozen for herself. One girl was a very bright scholar, but she stood second to Gracie; another was always punctual and steady, but Gracie had still a higher number of marks for these two virtues--or at least if she did not _have_ them, she _deserved_ them, and it was the fault of some one else that they had not fallen to her share. Nellie Ransom wrote such fine compositions; but then, they were by no means to be compared to Gracie's own,--oh, dear, no! So it was with each and every one; whatever merit any child in the class possessed, Gracie's went beyond it. So at last Hattie quite naturally asked Fanny if Gracie were really the best child, the finest scholar, and the most admired and praised of all her classmates. "Why, no," answered Fanny; "Gracie is a very good scholar, and 'most always knows her lessons perfectly; but Nellie is even better than she is, and has kept the head of the spelling and history classes ever so long. And she generally writes the best compositions; but Gracie don't think so, and always says Miss Ashton is unjust if she gives Nellie the highest marks. But Gracie _is_ very smart, and can learn quicker than any of the rest of us; and she 'most always behaves well in school too." "Better than any one else?" asked Hattie. "No," said Fanny, rather indignantly; "there's lots of the children that are just as good as she is. She's not the best one in the school at all. She's good enough, but not so wonderful." "She thinks she is," said Hattie. "That's nothing," answered Fanny; "people's thinking they are a thing don't make them that thing, you know." "Then you think Gracie is conceited and thinks a great deal of herself, do you?" asked Hattie. "Why, yes," answered Fanny, though half reluctantly; "no one could help thinking that, you know." Fanny expressed herself in this manner more as a way of _excusing_ her own opinion of Gracie than as accusing her little playmate. "Who do you think _is_ the best child in all the school?" asked Hattie. "Well," answered Fanny, after a moment's reflection, "I b'lieve Belle Powers is. At least I think it is the best in her to be as good as she is, for she has to try pretty hard sometimes." "Why?" asked inquisitive Hattie again. "Because she has no mother, and she has always been a good deal spoiled by her papa and her old nurse. But I never saw any child who wanted to be good more than Belle, and she tries very much; and we are all very fond of her, and Miss Ashton excuses her things sometimes because she is sorry for her." "Don't that make you mad?" said Hattie. "No," answered Fanny with much energy; "we'd be real mean if we were mad when Belle has no mother. No, indeed; no one could bear to have Belle scolded; we all love her too much." Now this was seemingly a most innocent conversation; was it not? and one could hardly have supposed that it would have made trouble for poor Fanny as it did. Gracie and Fanny lived within a few doors of one another, the latter a little nearer to Miss Ashton's house than the former; and Gracie was in the habit of stopping for Fanny on her way to school that they might walk there together. But one morning a day or two after this, Fanny, standing by the window and watching for her young friend as usual, saw her go by with her maid without so much as turning her head or casting her eye up at the window where she must know Fanny awaited her. "It is the queerest thing I ever knew," said Fanny to her father as she walked along by his side a few moments later; "it 'most seems as if Gracie was offended with me to do so; but then she can't be, for I have not done a thing to her. I shall ask her right away, as soon as I am at school." But Fanny was only just in time to take off her hat and cloak and go to her seat before the bell rang, and so had no opportunity before school to inquire into the cause of Gracie's strange behavior. There was no need of words, however, to show that Gracie was indeed offended with her, for averted looks and scornful tossings of the head showed that plainly enough. Poor Fanny was hurt and uncomfortable, and vainly tried to imagine what she could have done that offended Gracie so much. She ran to her as soon as recess gave her liberty to speak. "Why, Gracie! what is the matter?" she asked. "Why did you not stop for me this morning?" "'Cause I did not choose to," answered Gracie shortly. "Are you mad with me?" asked Fanny, putting a very unnecessary question, for it was quite plain to all beholders that this was Gracie's state of mind. "Yes, I am; and I have a good right to be too," answered Gracie, her eyes flashing at Fanny. "What _have_ I done?" asked the innocent Fanny. "You need not pretend you don't know, Miss Hateful," replied Gracie, "nor pretend you haven't a guilty conscience. I've found you out! I'll never be friends with you again." "You ought to tell Fanny what it is, and let her make it up," said Belle. "She can't make it up. I've found her out before it was too late. She is a false, treacherous friend," said Gracie, waxing magnificent and severe in her reproaches, as she imagined. Poor Fanny, a tender-hearted, sensitive little thing, was overwhelmed by these upbraidings, which she was not conscious of deserving; but neither her entreaties nor those of the other children could draw more than this from Gracie, who turned away from them with an air of great offence, and holding her head very high with insulted dignity. "Augh!" said Lily Norris, who generally took up the cudgels in defence of any one whom she considered oppressed or injured, and who generally contrived to be quite as cutting and severe in her remarks as the offender had been; "you had better take care, Gracie; some day that nose of yours won't come down again, it is growing so used to sticking itself up at people. If when you're grown up people call you 'stuck-up-nose Miss Howard,' you won't feel very complimented; but you can just remember it is the consequence of your being such a proudy when you was young." Gracie made no reply, except by raising both nose and head higher still, which expressive motion Lily answered by saying,-- "Oh, _don't_ I feel like giving you a good slap!" with which she walked away, fearing perhaps that she might be too strongly tempted to put her desire into execution. Fanny was a good deal distressed, and the other children all felt much sympathy for her, for, as you will doubtless do, they thought Gracie's behavior not only unkind but also unjust. For, although such scenes as this were becoming quite too frequent in consequence of Gracie's ever increasing vanity and conceit, she generally was ready enough to proclaim the cause of offence; but now she was not only "hateful," as Lily called it, but "mysterious" also, and would give Fanny no opportunity of explaining the supposed grievance. Fanny went home both unhappy and vexed,--Gracie still carrying matters with a high hand and refusing even to walk on the same side of the street with her--and finding her cousin there, as was quite natural, she told her of the trouble with Gracie. Had Fanny not been too much disturbed to pay much attention to Hattie's manner, she might have seen that she looked uncomfortable when she told her story, fidgeting and coloring and having so little to say that Fanny thought her wanting in sympathy. But it was not until the next day that she discovered that Hattie was really the cause of the difficulty with Gracie. By that time she had heard that she was to sail for Europe in a few days, and this made her more unwilling than ever to be on bad terms with her young friend. Meeting Gracie in the street, the poor little grieved heart overflowed, and rushing up to her, Fanny exclaimed, "Oh, Gracie! don't be cross with me any more, for I'm going to Europe, and I expect I'll be drowned in the steamer, and then you'll be sorry you did not make up with me." This affecting prospect somewhat mollified Gracie's vexation; but still she answered in a tone of strong resentment,-- "Well, then; and why did you say hateful things about me to Hattie?" "I didn't," said Fanny, who had so little intention of making unkind remarks about Gracie that she had really forgotten her conversation with Hattie. "I didn't. I never said a thing about you." "Hattie said you did," answered Gracie; "she says you told her I thought myself very wonderful, but I was not; and that 'most all the girls were better scholars than me." "I didn't," said Fanny indignantly. "And she says," continued Gracie, "that you said 'cause I thought myself good did not make me good, and that Nellie wrote better compositions than I did. And she says"--this was plainly the first and worst count in Gracie's eyes--"she says you said no one could help knowing I was conceited and stuck up." This last speech suddenly recalled to Fanny's mind what she _had_ said, and she was dismayed; nor could she see how she was to explain it to Gracie. She was fond of Gracie, who, when her self-conceit did not come in her way, was really a pleasant and lovable child; and, oh! how she did wish she had never allowed Hattie to lead her into that conversation about her schoolmates. She colored violently and exclaimed,-- "Well, I did say that, but I did not say it in that way, Gracie. I don't quite know how it was, but it did not seem so bad as that when I said it. And Hattie asked me, so I couldn't help saying what I thought; but it wasn't of my own accord and--and--well, you know, Gracie, most all of us do think you think a good deal of yourself--but--oh, dear! it was too mean for Hattie to go and tell you; and somehow I suppose she's made you think it was worse than it was. 'Cause I didn't mean to say any thing hateful about you; but Hattie asked such a lot of questions, and I never thought she'd go and tell; and I'm going away, and I expect I'll never come back, and, oh, dear, it's too mean!" All this Fanny poured forth in a very distressed and excited manner, finishing by a burst of tears. Yes, it was indeed "too mean," and Gracie felt that Fanny had been shabbily treated. She had listened to Hattie's tell-tale report with a half-ashamed feeling, knowing that Fanny could never have thought that her words would be repeated; and, although anger and mortification had taken a strong hold upon her heart, she could not help seeing that Fanny had more cause of complaint than she had. So she put her arm about Fanny's neck, and, with what she considered magnanimous forgiveness, told her not to cry any more and she would "stop being mad." And when they talked the matter over and Fanny recalled what she _had_ said, both of Gracie and of the other children in the class, it could not but be seen that Hattie had exaggerated as well as "told tales," so making mischief and bringing discord between the two little friends. And had Fanny been revengeful, or too proud to overlook Gracie's unkindness and beg her to tell her what had come between them the trouble might have been lasting, and they have parted for a long time with bitterness and resentment rankling in their breasts. But now there was peace between them once more, though Gracie did still secretly feel some vexation at Fanny for even allowing that she could be wrong, and took great credit to herself for being so forgiving and generous. And now you will not wonder that Fanny did not feel disposed to think Hattie "so very nice," although she, far more generous and charitable than her cousin, would not tell tales and prejudice the minds of her future schoolmates against her. But Gracie hardly thought the less of Hattie for what she had learned of her; for she always liked any one who admired her, and this Hattie professed to do; perhaps she really did so, for, as I have said, Gracie was a pleasant child, and very clever in many things. [Illustration] [Illustration] II. _AN EXCURSION._ A large omnibus stood before the door of Miss Ashton's house, and had been waiting there some minutes. This was on a street where a line of omnibuses ran, and every now and then some would-be passenger made for the door of this one, when the driver would turn and say something which plainly disappointed him of his ride, at least in this particular stage. If such an individual chanced to glance up at the windows of Miss Ashton's house, he saw there a row of little faces in each of the parlor windows; and these same faces brimming over with smiles and dimples at the sight of his discomfiture, and the consciousness that this omnibus had been chartered for their especial pleasure and convenience, and that no mere passer-by had any right or title therein. Some people smiled in return to the happy little group, and nodded good-naturedly, as if to say,-- "Oh, yes! it is all right, and we are glad you are going to enjoy yourselves, and hope you will have a very pleasant time;" but one or two looked cross, frowning and shaking their heads or shoulders in a displeased manner, and as if they had no sympathy with any simple pleasure or frolic. Upon each and all of these did the little observers pass remarks, according to what they believed to be their deserts. "Look at that man," said Belle Powers, "how very displeased he looks. Just as cross as any thing, because the driver wouldn't let him go in our stage." "I don't believe he likes children," said Bessie Bradford. "No," said her sister Maggie, "I think he cannot be one of the happy kind the Bible speaks about, that have their 'quivers full of them,' for which he is to be pitied, and we need not be very severe with him." "But can't people like children and be glad they are going to have a nice time, even if they don't have any in their own homes?" asked Carrie Ransom. "Yes, of course," said Maggie, always ready to find excuses for others; "but then probably that gentleman never had nice times himself when he was a child, and so he does not know how to appreciate them." Maggie's long words and elegant sentences always settled any doubtful point, and the "cross gentleman," who still stood upon the sidewalk waiting for the next passing omnibus, was now regarded with eyes of sympathy and pity, which were quite lost upon him as he scolded and grumbled at the "fuss that was made nowadays about children's pleasures." "Chartered for a troop of youngsters," he growled forth to another gentleman, who coming up also opened the door of the omnibus, and would have jumped in. Upon which the new-comer drew back, looked up smilingly at the windows of the house, nodded and waved his hand, receiving in return blushes and smiles for himself, with an answering nod or two from some of the least shy of the group. "He's glad," said Lily; "he is a nice gentleman, and I expect he has lots of little children who love him dearly, and that he tries to give them a good time." "And so is made happy himself," said Maggie. "There comes Patrick with the shawls and wraps." And now came Miss Ashton and a couple of lady friends, who had volunteered to go with her and help take care of the little party, bound for an excursion and ramble in the Central Park; and the signal being given for the merry group to take their places in the stage, forth they all fluttered, like so many birds; and amid much laughing and chattering stowed themselves away in the roomy conveyance. They were all seated, and Patrick, Mrs. Bradford's man, who had been _lent_ for the occasion, was mounting to his seat beside the driver, when another gentleman, coming up with a quick step, pulled open the door of the omnibus, and popped in. He was plainly shortsighted, and did not see how matters stood until he was fairly inside and looking about for a seat. Perhaps, indeed, his hearing taught him first, for he might almost have thought himself in a nest of sparrows with all that chirping and fluttering. A smothered laugh or two also broke forth as he entered, and he speedily saw that he had no right to a place there. "Ah! private, I see. Beg your pardon, ladies," he said good-naturedly, and jumped out again, turning with a bow, and "I wish you a pleasant time." Then, as he caught sight of a roguish face and a pair of dancing eyes watching him with a look of recognition, he said,-- "Why, Lily, my dear! Glad to see you. Bound for a frolic? I hope you may enjoy yourself; and your schoolmates as well. A merry day to you, birdies." With which he banged the door and watched them off. "Who's that gentleman, Lily?" asked more than one voice. "He is Kitty Raymond's father. His name is Mr. Raymond," answered Lily. "He is a nice, pleasant gentleman, is he not?" asked Bessie. "Well, yes, he is very pleasant," said Lily, "but then he is an awful liar." "Oh-h-h! ah! ah!" broke from one and another of the children at Lily's very plain speaking; and Miss Ashton said reprovingly,-- "Lily, my child! what a very improper expression for you to use, and of one so much older than yourself, too." "I don't care," said Lily, "it is true, Miss Ashton. I know he tells the most dreadful untrue stories, and that does make him a liar, I know. If children say what is very untrue, people say it is a lie; and when grown-ups say what is not true to children I don't see why they are not liars all the same. And Mr. Raymond don't tell little stories what you would call _fibs_, either, but real big, true _lies_, what Tom calls whoppers. So, though he is pleasant and good-natured, I don't think he is so very nice; and I'm glad he is not my papa." Miss Ashton hardly knew what to say, for if Lily's accusations were true,--and the child was not apt to accuse any one wrongfully,--her reasoning was quite just, and it was plainly to be seen that in some way her sense of right and truth had been grievously offended. But still she did not wish to have her speak in such an improper way, and she was about to say so again, when Lily broke forth once more with,-- "Miss Ashton, I'll tell you, and you can just judge for yourself. The other day I was spending the afternoon with Kitty, and her little brother wanted to go down stairs with us, and his papa did not want him to go; so he told him that the big black man in the closet in the hall would catch him and put him up the chimney. And it _was a lie_! I say it was a real, true lie," persisted Lily, who was apt to be emphatic in her choice of words, "for Mr. Raymond knew there was no black man there, and he just made it up." "Was the little boy frightened?" asked Belle. "Yes, as frightened as any thing, and he really believes there is a black man in that closet; and Willie Raymond, who is six years old, will not go past that closet without some big person. And I did feel not very brave myself when I went past it," confessed Lily, "for all I knew there was no black man there--and if there was, he wouldn't hurt me, the poor, old fellow--and knew it was just a--well, if Miss Ashton says so, I'll call it a _fib_, but I shall _think_ it was a lie." Miss Ashton and the other ladies could hardly help smiling at Lily's tone; and the former felt that the child was so far right that she could scarcely reprove her again for her indignant attack upon this too common form of deceit. "And Mr. Raymond went and winked at me, just as if he thought _I_ thought it was funny," pursued Lily; "but I thought it was only horrid, and I didn't smile a bit, but looked back at him very solemn. No, I don't like him, and I'm not going to." "You don't like him because you can't respect him," said Bessie with solemn gravity. "No, I just don't," answered Lily; "and I'm not going to go and have a respect for a person who tells--who says what is not true, not if they are as big and as old as a mountain." Lily's resolution was received with general approval; but now, at her suggestion, the subject was changed. There was enough to talk about without taking any unpleasant thing; and how those little tongues did go! It was a mild, lovely day in the early spring, uncommonly warm for the season,--just the day for an excursion. Modest crocuses, lovely hyacinths and gay tulips were in bloom; the willows were just clothing themselves in their first tender green, and every stream and spring rippled and sparkled and sang as if it were rejoicing in its new life and liberty. The park was fairly alive with children, who, like our little party, seemed determined to enjoy this bright, spring day to the utmost; but perhaps none were so gleeful and merry as our young friends. The windows of the omnibus were open, and the little girls had all scrambled upon their knees that they might the better see what was without; and many a grave countenance was won to smiles by the sight of the bright, joyous faces as they rolled past, and the merry peals of laughter which every now and then broke forth from the cumbrous vehicle. And they scattered not only smiles and bright looks wherever they went, but other good things also. Mabel Walton, who considered it almost impossible to enjoy oneself without a quantity of candies and sugar-plums on hand, had been furnished by her over-indulgent mother with a large supply of these delicacies; nor were most of the others without their share; so that Miss Ashton looked with some dismay upon the treasures which were displayed by one and another, fearing that her little flock might surfeit themselves with too many sweets before the day was over. However, her mind was soon relieved, at least in a measure. For Mabel having doled out a handful of sugar-plums to each of her companions, Bessie Bradford called out as the carriage rolled slowly up a hilly part of the road,-- "Oh! see that little girl; what a nice face she has. But she looks so pale and sorry. I wish I had some pennies for her; but I will give her some of my sugar-plums. Perhaps she don't have many." Poor child! she looked as if she had not many loaves of bread, as she ran by the side of the omnibus, holding up her thin hand. A pale, sorrowful little face it was that looked up into those, so rosy and happy, above it; pinched, careworn, and old above its years, with that look so often seen in the faces of the children of the poor. Yet, in spite of her extreme poverty, she was not very ragged or very dirty; and as little Bessie had said, she had "a nice face," an open, straightforward look, a gentle expression, and a clear, honest eye. As she saw Bessie's hand outstretched, her face brightened, and as the little girl dropped two or three sugar-plums, she stooped hastily to pick them up; but when she raised her head again, the old weary look had come back, deepened now by disappointment. Just then the driver whipped up his horses and the omnibus rolled on faster, leaving the child looking sadly after it, and making no attempt to pick up the sugar-plums now thrown out freely by all the little girls. "Why! she looks as if she didn't like sugar-plums," said Belle. "Impossible!" said Maggie. "There never could be a person so wanting in sense as not to like sugar-plums." "Maybe that man who lived in a tub did not," said Lily. "Maggie, I was very much interested in that man when you wrote to me about him, and I meant to ask you a little more about him, but I did not think he could be a _wise_ man. What was his name?" "Mr. Diogenes," said Maggie; "and the reason they called the old cross-patch a wise man was because wise men were very scarce in those days. They only had seven in all that country; but when you are as far as I am in Parley's History you will learn all about them." "I wonder what did make that little girl look so sorry," said Bessie, unable to forget the look of disappointment so plainly visible on the child's face. "I think, darling," said Miss Ashton, "that she expected pennies when she saw you were about to throw something out, and so was not satisfied with the candies. There was something interesting and sweet in her face." "Here are some more poor children," said Bessie; "let's drop some sugar-plums to them and see if they care about them." There could be no doubt as to the approbation of these new recipients of the bounty of our little friends. At first it was difficult to tell whether the pleasure was most enjoyed by those within the omnibus who scattered with liberal hand, or by the outsiders who gathered the harvest; but as the enthusiasm of these last drew new claimants, and all waxed more and more clamorous, it soon became an annoyance, and Miss Ashton was obliged to put a stop to the shower, which had already received a check, as some of the younger children were becoming frightened. But Patrick and the driver were forced to threaten the obstreperous crowd, and even to call for the aid of a policeman before they could be scattered, so that this diversion did not end so agreeably. There was one thing gained, however, in Miss Ashton's opinion; and this was that the greater part of the sugar-plums had been disposed of, without hurt to her young charge. Not that she objected to sugar-plums altogether. Do not think, my little readers, that she was, as Maggie would have said, so "wanting in sense," as that; but she had been rather appalled by the sight of the numerous tempting looking parcels that were produced, to say nothing of Mabel's over-abundant supply. Our gay party made the round of the park, stopping for a while at any place of interest, and now and then alighting if they were so inclined. They hung for some time about the paddock where the deer are kept, putting their little hands through the palings and trying to tempt the pretty, gentle creatures to come nearer. But the deer were not to be persuaded and although they watched the children with their mild, soft eyes in a very amiable manner, they held aloof and would not condescend to a closer acquaintance. The swans were less timid, and, as the children flocked down to the border of the lake with their hands full of crackers and bread, came swimming up, arching their graceful necks, and looking eagerly for the bits with which they were speedily treated. It was enchanting to see them so friendly, and to have them feed from one's very hand. The old gray arsenal, with its collection of wild animals, was not to be visited until after they had taken their lunch. As they passed the Casino on their way up through the park, Patrick had been left there to make all ready for them; and now they drove back and alighted. Pleasant and mild though the day was, the ground was still too cold and the air too fresh to permit of lunching out of doors; and, although the children entreated that they might be permitted to do so, Miss Ashton was too wise to yield. The lunch was not quite ready when they reached the Casino, and the children were permitted to wander around and amuse themselves as they pleased for a few moments, provided they did not lose sight of the house, or go beyond call. Bessie, Lily, and Belle had strolled a short distance away together, and had disappeared from the view of Maggie, Nellie, and Dora, who stood at the head of a short flight of stone steps leading up to the Casino. They had but gone around the other side of the hedge, however, and could not be far off. Suddenly Lily and Belle came flying back with frightened faces, and rushed breathless and panting to where the other children stood. Then Belle turned, and exclaimed,-- "Where's Bessie? Didn't Bessie come?" No Bessie was to be seen, certainly; and Maggie, noticing the startled faces of the other children, took alarm at once for her little sister, and started forward, crying,-- "Where is she? What has happened? Where's my Bessie?" Before Belle or Lily could speak, Hattie darted from behind the hedge, laughing and mischievous; and, pointing her finger at the crimson faces of the two little ones, cried triumphantly,-- "Oh! didn't I take you in? Didn't I give you a fright, though?" "What is it? Where's Bessie?" said Maggie again. Hattie sat down upon the lower step, and doubling herself over and rocking back and forth, said between paroxysms of laughter,-- "Oh, dear! Bessie is round there talking to the old fellow. She's all right. Didn't I play you two geese a nice trick, though? How you did run! I didn't think you could be so taken in. Oh, what fun!" "What!" exclaimed Lily, indignation taking the place of her alarm, "were you tricking us? Didn't he try to take your hair? Hattie, Hattie! you mean, mean girl! And you told us a real wicked story, too. How dare you do it?" And Lily stamped her foot at Hattie, in a real passion at the trick which had been played upon her. The effect was different upon Belle. She was a sensitive little thing, easily overcome by any undue excitement; and, throwing herself upon Maggie, she burst into a violent fit of sobbing and crying. Miss Ashton and her friends heard and came to inquire into the trouble; and Hattie was now rather frightened herself as she saw the effect of her foolish deceit. Lily indignantly told the story, which amounted to this. It was a well-known fact, and had unfortunately come to the ears of our little girls, that some man had lately attacked several children, and suddenly severed the hair from their heads, making off as fast as possible after he had done so. He did this for the sake of the hair, which he probably sold; but he was, of course, a bad man and a thief, and the children all felt much dread of him. So when Hattie had come flying up to Bessie, Belle, and Lily, without any hat, and seemingly in a state of the wildest excitement, and had told them, with every appearance of truth and of being herself excessively frightened, that "that old man there" had snatched off her hat and tried to cut her hair, they had readily believed her--as an old man was really there--and had turned about and run away in great alarm. They had been terrified half out of their senses; and now here was Hattie confessing--yes, glorying, till Miss Ashton came--that she had "tricked" them, that she was "only in fun," it was all "a joke." But her triumph was speedily brought to an end, when Miss Ashton saw Belle's state, and heard how it had been brought about. She sternly reprimanded Hattie, and bade her go into the house, and remain there. But where was Bessie? The other children declared that "an old man was really there;" and, in spite of Hattie's confession that she had only been joking, Maggie's mind was filled with visions of her little sister's sunny curls in the hands of a ruffian; and away she flew in search of her, quite regardless of any supposed risk to her own wealth of dark, waving ringlets. [Illustration] [Illustration] III. _JESSIE AND HER GRANDFATHER._ Where was Bessie? When Lily and Belle turned to run from the figure which Hattie pointed out as that of the man who attacked her, she started with them, quite as much alarmed as the other two; and, if they thought about it at all, they imagined she was close behind them. But she had gone only a few steps when she heard a voice, a weak voice, calling after herself and her companions, and saying,-- "Don't be afraid, little girls; don't run away, little ladies. Couldn't ye stop a minute to help an old man?" Something in the tones touched the tender little heart of Bessie; and she checked her steps, ready to start again, however, on the shortest notice, and looked back at the old man. A very old man he seemed, and a very feeble old man, scarcely able, if he had the will, to run after active little girls, or to do them any harm. His hair was very white, and his face pinched and thin; but he looked kind and gentle, as Bessie saw, even from the distance at which she stood; and her fears died away as she looked at him. The old man sat upon a bank; and Bessie stood hesitating and watching him, trying to make up her mind to go and ask if he was in trouble. She saw that he had dropped his stick, which had rolled away, and lay on the ground just beyond his reach. "Would you do an old man a kindness, and give him his stick, little Miss?" he called to her, pointing at the same time to the cane. "Why did ye all run that way? I wouldn't hurt a hair of your heads, more than I would of my own Jessie's." This reference to the "hair on their heads" was rather unfortunate, for it startled Bessie again, and brought back the cause for alarm. Was the old man really in trouble, and unable to reach his stick? she thought, or was this only a trap to catch her, and deprive her of her curls? So she stood still, hesitating; and the old man, as if in despair of receiving any help from her, tried to raise himself a little, and stretched out his trembling hand towards the stick. But it was useless; it lay too far; he could not rise without its aid, and he sank back again, looking more helpless and feeble than before. This was too much for Bessie. She could not bear to see suffering and not try to relieve it; and it seemed to her that it would be cruel and wicked not to lend a helping hand to this poor old creature. "Please, dear Father in heaven, not to let him hurt me," she whispered softly to herself; and then walked slowly towards the old man, her little heart beating painfully, it must be confessed, in spite of her petition, and the trust that it would be heard. Keeping at as great a distance as it would allow, she stooped for the stick, and held it out at arm's length to the owner. "Now may He that blesses the cup of cold water given in His name reward you," said the old man, as he took it from the timid little hand; "but why are you frightened at me, dear, and why did the other little ones run as if they were scared half out of their lives? When you passed all in the big stage, laughing and so gay, it put a warmth into my heart that hasn't been there for many a day, and I b'lieve it was your own loving, little face that smiled back at me as I waved my hat to you for a blessing on your joy. Why, I wouldn't hurt a living thing; least of all, little girls that always mind me of my Jessie. Though it's different enough that you are from her, my poor lamb," he added in a lower tone, which Bessie could not have heard had she not now drawn nearer to him. For with the first words of the old man's speech, all fear had vanished from her mind. He had called down a blessing on her in a name which she knew and loved, and she could not be afraid of him longer. Besides, now that she looked at him more closely and with unprejudiced eyes, she recognized him, and remembered how, as he said, when the stage had passed him with its merry load, he had taken off his hat and feebly cheered and waved to them as they went by. "Don't you try to cut off little girls' hair?" she could not help asking, in spite of her new confidence. "I?" answered the old man surprised; "and why would I do that? Ah! I see. Did you take me for _that_ fellow? My little lady, they have him fast in jail, as he deserves; but how did you ever think I would do a thing like that?" "A little girl said you tried to cut hers," answered the child. "Then that little girl slandered an old man who had never harmed her," he said gravely. "I understand; she's frightened you for her own fun, or whatever it may be. Well, I'm up now,"--he had slowly and painfully raised himself by the help of his cane,--"and I'd better be moving away, or the sight of me after that may spoil your pleasure. It was hard in her to turn you against one who would never have harmed you; but you're a sensible little lady, and a kind, and you'll never be the worse for doing a good turn to an old man." "Don't go away," said Bessie, "the other children won't be afraid of you when I tell them Hattie--was--was--mistaken." Bessie feared that Hattie's tale was more than a mistake, but she would not accuse her until she was sure. "They won't want you to go away, poor, lame man." "Jessie stays so long," he answered, looking about him helplessly. "She sat me here to rest a while, and I think she can't know how long she's been gone." Before Bessie could speak again, around the hedge came Maggie, who stopped short in amazement at seeing her sister standing talking sociably to the dreaded old man. And with her curls all safe! Maggie could hardly believe her own eyes. She went forward more slowly, till Bessie called to her,-- "O Maggie, dear! this old man wouldn't hurt us, or cut our hair for any thing. He likes little girls, and it made him feel badly because we ran away from him, and he is going away now 'cause he thinks we don't like him. Come and tell him not to." Timid Maggie, feeling very doubtful, but determined to share her sister's risk, whatever that might be--she had almost forgotten that Hattie had confessed she only wanted to trick them all--drew still nearer, and taking Bessie's hand, gazed up at the old man with eyes in which pity and sympathy began to struggle with her former fear. He looked so poor and feeble and helpless, so little like doing harm to any one. And now came Dora and Gracie, who had followed Maggie in search of Bessie; and as the little group gathered about the old man, Bessie said,-- "Where is your Jessie? Can we call her to you?" "I can't tell, little Miss," he answered. "I've been sitting here more than an hour, I take it. Jessie was so eager about her parrot that she has maybe forgotten how long she's been away. Ah! there she comes now." As he spoke, a child came running towards them, but seeing the group about her grandfather, paused in amazement at a short distance. It was the very same little girl to whom they had thrown sugar-plums but an hour since, and who had looked so disappointed. The children recognized her immediately. "Why! that's the little girl who was not pleased with our sugar-plums," said Bessie. "Is that your Jessie?" The old man beckoned to her, and she came forward. "This is my Jessie, Miss," he answered, "and a good girl she is too. I don't know what her old grandfather would do without her. She's given up the dearest thing she had for me, bless her!" Jessie was now standing beside her grandfather, blushing and hanging her head at the notice thus drawn upon her. "What was that?" asked Dora. "Her parrot, Miss. A splendid parrot that her father, who's now dead and gone, brought her from beyond the seas. You'd think he was a human creature 'most, to hear him talk, and she loved him next to her old grandfather; but she parted with him for my sake." "Didn't you like him?" asked Bessie. "Yes, indeed, Miss. I was 'most as fond of the bird as she was herself; but it wasn't to be helped. You see I was sick so long, and the doctor bid me take a medicine that cost a deal of money, to drive the pain out of my bones; and how were we to get it when we'd not enough to buy bread from day to day, or to pay the rent that was due? So she sold her bird, for I can't do a hand's turn of work just yet." "That was good of her," said Gracie; "did she get all the money she wanted for him?" "More than we expected, Miss, for the man that keeps the house here," pointing to the Casino, "gave her ten dollars for him. And he lets her see him every day, and says when the summer is over she may have him back for eight dollars if she can raise it. For Poll draws people to the refreshment place, you see, with his funny ways, and his wonderful talk, and the keeper thinks he'll get two dollars worth out of him before the summer is over. But, Jessie 'll never raise all that money, though I have put by my pride, and let her ask charity here of the folks in the Park." "And I don't feel that I ought to take it for that, either," said Jessie, as soon as the talkative old man paused for breath, and let her have a chance to speak, "'cause grandfather needs so many things, and the rent will be falling due before long again, so I must save up for straws and ribbon." "For what?" asked Bessie, while at the same moment Dora said,-- "Why don't you find some work and earn money that way?" "For straws and ribbon, Miss," said Jessie, answering Bessie's question first; then turning to Dora, she added,-- "I would work, Miss, and I do, when I have the things. I make little baskets and catchalls, and allumette holders of ribbon and straw and beads, and I sell them wherever I can; but the stock was all gone long ago, and I've no more to begin on." "But," said Dora, "if people give you money, why don't you take that to buy your materials?" Jessie shook her head sadly. "It has taken every cent that's been given to me to buy just bread enough for me and grandfather to eat, Miss," she said; "there was nothing to spare for any thing else, and any way it is an uncertain thing, the selling of the baskets, till the weather is pleasant and warm, and people like to stop. Now, you see, is the time for me to be making them ready; but there's no use in thinking about it, and as for Poll,"-- Jessie's sigh and filling eyes told of the despair with which she thought of the recovery of her pet. "I have some money in my charity-box at home," said Maggie eagerly; "I'll give you some to buy straws and ribbon. I have no money with me, but Miss Ashton will lend me some for such a good purpose, I know, and I'll pay her as soon as we go home. I'll run and ask her." But there was no need, for there was Miss Ashton come in search of her stray lambs, and in two minutes she had heard the story. Heard it, but scarcely understood it, for that was difficult with one and another putting in a word, patching it out in various bits; to say nothing of the circumstance that our little girls themselves scarcely understood what they were talking about. Jessie and her grandfather--who had nothing to say now that the lady had come, and who stood close to one another, the old man holding his hat in his hand and leaning on his stick--were somewhat confused themselves by the chatter and flutter of the eager little talkers; and when Miss Ashton turned to the latter and began to inquire into his story, his usual flow of words seemed to have failed him. Miss Ashton spoke to Jessie. "Grandfather was just telling the little ladies about my Polly, ma'am," she said modestly. "If they'd like to see him he's in the house there. And if you'd like to have him show off he'll talk better for me than for any one else, and I'll go and coax him." "Oh! can we go and see him?" said Bessie; and Jessie once more saying, yes, and that she would go with them, the little girls ran off, while Miss Ashton remained to hear the old man's story. It was a sad, but by no means an uncommon one. Jessie's mother had died when she was a baby. Her father, who was mate on a sailing-vessel, had been drowned at sea about two years ago. Until his death, his wages, together with what the old man made at stone-cutting, had supported them all in comfort. And even after that, the grandfather and the child had continued to keep along on what the former earned. Jessie, who was twelve years old, had been to school pretty steadily till a year ago, could "read and write and do up sums," and had also learned to sew. But about that time the grandfather had taken a heavy cold, from being thoroughly wet with rain while at his work; and, neglecting to change his clothes, it had settled in all his joints, and a long and painful rheumatic illness followed. All the last summer he had lain bound hand and foot, the pretty trifles which Jessie had learned to make the sole support of the two. But with the winter the sale of her little wares had fallen off, poverty and suffering had increased upon them, and they had gone from bad to worse, till, as he had told the little girls, Jessie had been forced to sell her beloved parrot to keep a roof above their heads, and to buy the medicine so much needed for her grandfather. They had some help from the church at which they attended, but that was little. And now that it was warmer weather, and Jessie could begin to sell her wares, she had no money to buy materials, and he had consented that she should ask charity of passers-by, and so gain a few shillings to begin her trade. They lived over there in a sad, tumble-down place, the old man said, "and he never thought to bring his Jessie to that; but the Lord had His own ways, and when He saw fit, He could take them out of this trouble." The story was told with a straightforward simplicity, and a natural pathos which went far to convince Miss Ashton that it must be true; but she took down the name and address of the clergyman of whom the old man spoke. This gentleman lived in one of the streets bordering on the Park, and Miss Ashton resolved to see him and hear his report before she left for home. If these poor people were really in such need, and deserving of help, she could not let them suffer longer than was necessary. She told old Malcolm--for that he said was his name--that he did not do well to rest upon the bank. The ground, she said, was not yet warm enough for his aching bones. But he answered that it was far better than the damp, cold shanty where he and Jessie had lived for the last two months, for here on a bright day he had the sunshine, and the fresh, clear air, and little of either of these ever found their way into the miserable cabin. Malcolm's language and manner, as well as those of his grand-daughter, showed that he had indeed been used to "better days;" and he seemed so patient and uncomplaining that Miss Ashton felt much interested in him, and anxious to do something for his relief. She bade him come farther on, and find a seat upon a pleasant, sunny bench, where she would furnish him and Jessie with some food; but when she said this, he told her some of the little ones of her party were afraid of him, and he did not wish to trouble them. He looked troubled himself when he said this; and Miss Ashton had to tell him that one of her young scholars had been so foolish and wrong as to tell a falsehood--she could call it nothing less--to frighten the others; but that they all knew the truth now, and would be afraid of him no longer. [Illustration] [Illustration] IV. _THE PARROT._ Meanwhile the children were amusing themselves with the parrot. The whole flock had followed Jessie to make his acquaintance, Maggie having called the others to join them; and even the still sobbing Belle forgot her troubles in this new object of interest. The bird proved to be in a most amiable and sociable humor; and, to the great delight of his former little mistress, exhibited himself in a most gratifying manner. His cage was placed before a little stand just outside of a window opening upon the verandah; and when the children first saw him he was swinging head downwards from one of the bars, hanging by one claw, and appearing to take no notice of any thing until Jessie called to him. Then he put out the other claw, and swung himself upright; immediately commencing a kind of dance upon his perch, as if in an ecstacy, and calling out,-- "Jessie! Jessie! pretty Jessie, good Jessie." "Good Polly," said Jessie, while the children gathered around in great delight. "How are you, Polly?" "Polly pretty well; Polly all right," answered the bird. The little girls were astonished, as indeed were the ladies who had accompanied them. Not one among the group but had often seen parrots who would repeat certain set phrases, but this bird actually answered questions, and as if he understood them too. "What does Polly want?" asked Jessie, delighted at the sensation her pet was producing. "Polly want a bit of sugar," answered the bird. Jessie put her hand into her pocket, and produced one of the sugar-plums the children had thrown to her, and held it up before the parrot's greedy eyes. "Dance a jig then, and sing a song, Polly," she said. Polly forthwith commenced a kind of seesaw on his perch, swaying his body back and forth, balancing himself first on one foot, then on the other, in a measured sort of way which he probably supposed to be dancing. At any rate, his audience were contented to accept it as such, and he met with continued applause, until suddenly bringing his gyrations to a close he screamed in a loud, discordant voice,-- "Sugar!" "Sing then," said Jessie. In a sharp, cracked, but very distinct voice, and with some resemblance to a tune, the parrot began,-- "Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that"-- Here he came to an abrupt close, eying the sugar-plum wistfully. "Sing it," said Jessie; and he began again. "Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Mary went, The lamb--sugar--sugar--sugar," screamed the creature, amid peals of laughter from the children, who now begged that he might have the coveted reward, which Jessie accordingly gave him. "He knows it all," she said; "but I can hardly ever make him sing it through." Poll took the sugar-plum gingerly in one claw, and sat nibbling at it till it was all gone, while the children crowded around him, admiring his gay, bright-colored feathers, and expressing their wonder at his accomplishments and sense. "Now you must show off some more," said Jessie, when the bird had disposed of his feast. "Polly, where is the naughty child?" To the intense delight of the children, Poll began to scream and cry exactly like a passionate child, after which he laughed and chuckled with satisfaction at his own performances, then crowed like a rooster, baa-ed like a nanny-goat, barked like a dog, and mewed like a cat. After all this he took up intelligent conversation again. "Polly's a pr-r-r-etty bird; Polly's a good bird; Polly's a wise bird," he screamed, in all of which his little hearers entirely agreed. "Who do you love, Polly?" asked Jessie. "Polly love Jessie; Jessie a good girl," was the answer. "Where's your master, Polly?" "Bob Malcolm gone to sea. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye," screamed the parrot. "Sing a song of"--began Jessie, and the parrot took up the strain. "Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye"-- Here he came to a stop, nor could he be coaxed to finish the couplet, though Jessie assured the audience that he could, if he chose, sing the first four lines of the old song all through. However, he condescended to repeat some of his former performances. But it would take too long to tell all the feats of this remarkable bird; and you must not think that these I have related are quite impossible, for I have seen a parrot who could do all that is here described, and more too. The children were so interested and amused that they could scarcely be persuaded to leave him when Patrick announced that their lunch was ready; and Jessie, who was bidden by Miss Ashton to join her grandfather and share the meal provided for him, was begged to keep within call, so that they might return to the entertainment when they had finished their lunch. While this was going on, Miss Ashton told the story she had heard from old Malcolm, and said that she was so much interested in him and his grandchild, that she would go after lunch and see the clergyman, while the little girls amused themselves for a while under the care of the other ladies. She carried out this purpose, and went on her kind errand, followed by many a hope that she would find the story all correct. But when the children went back to the parrot they were disappointed, for he proved cross or tired or in a less sociable mood than he had been before, and he very rudely turned his back upon them, and would utter no words save,-- "Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue!" every time any one spoke to him. So, finding this neither polite nor amusing, the company left him and scattered themselves in search of other entertainment. "How sober you look, Maggie; what are you thinking about?" asked Hattie Leroy, coming up to where Maggie Bradford stood leaning upon a stone railing. Maggie looked thoughtful, it may be, but hardly sober, for her thoughts seemed pleasant ones, to judge by the light in her eye, and the half smile upon her lip. "I have an idea," said Maggie, "and I think it's a nice one, at least if we are allowed to do it." "What is it?" asked Hattie. "Well," said Maggie, "I don't care to have it talked about very much till we know if we can do it; but I was thinking it would be so nice if we could have a little fair, just ourselves, you know, the school-children and Bessie and me. I know some children who had a fair in their own house, and they made money enough to pay for a bed in St. Luke's Hospital for a poor, lame child; and I thought perhaps we could make enough to buy back Jessie's parrot for her; and to make a more comfortable home for them. We could make things for the fair, and ask our friends to help us. Mamma would make some for us, I know, and so will Aunt Annie, and, I think, Aunt Bessie and Aunt May." "Where could we have it?" asked Hattie, who seemed much interested. "In one of our own houses," said Maggie, "or,--that was another thought I had,--perhaps Miss Ashton would be so very good as to let us have it at her house. The piazza would be lovely for it; and she generally lets us have some party-ish kind of a thing when school breaks up. Last year we had a giving of prizes; and at Christmas we had a Christmas festival, and a queen both times." "Yes," said Hattie, "and Gracie said it was shameful that you were queen both times. She thinks it was very selfish in you." Maggie colored violently. "The queen was chosen," she said, "and the girls chose me. I did not make myself queen." "Well, Gracie did not like it one bit," said Hattie, "and she thinks you had no right to be queen when you did not go to the school the last time." Maggie was silent, but the gladness was gone from her face. "Wouldn't it be too cold to have the fair on the piazza?" asked Hattie. "Not by the time we are ready," said Maggie. "You know it will take a good while to make enough things, and Miss Ashton does not close the school till the first of June. I heard her tell mamma so the other day. And by that time it will be quite warm and pleasant, and there will be plenty of flowers. I was thinking we could dress the piazza with wreaths and festoons and flags; and we could make some kind of a throne and canopy at one end. And there we could have the flower-table and the queen behind it, with some maids of honor to sell flowers." If Maggie imagined that Hattie would express any admiration or approval of her plan, she was mistaken. Hattie seemed interested, and asked a great many questions, as to how Maggie would arrange such and such matters, but she did not act as if she thought the "idea" very fine after all, and this was rather different from the way in which Maggie was accustomed to have her plans received. But she did not care for that; she was not a vain child, constantly seeking for admiration, and she was too full of her subject to pay much heed to Hattie's cool way of hearing this one. "I'm not going to say much about it till I see if mamma approves," she said. "Then I'll ask Miss Ashton and tell all the children about it. There are Bessie and Lily beckoning to me; let us go and see what they want." And away she ran, intending to tell her sister and Belle and Lily of her plan on the first convenient opportunity; but not willing, as she had said, to make it public till she learned if it could be carried out. She did not yet feel as if she knew Hattie very well, and she was rather astonished at herself for having talked so freely to her; but the truth was, that Hattie had come upon her rather unawares, and asked her what she was thinking of, at the moment when she was turning her "idea" over in her mind, and she had told her almost without reflection. Still she did not exactly regret having done so, and, after what she had said, never supposed that Hattie would mention what she had told her. Upright, honorable Maggie judged others by herself, and was entirely unsuspicious of evil. It would take too much space in this little book, and you would not care to have a particular description of all the various points of interest visited by our party throughout the day,--the Arsenal with its collection of wild beasts and monkeys; the great reservoir with its blue water, looking like a lake within walls, as indeed it is; the lovely Ramble through which they wandered for a long time, and many another pleasant spot. They are all familiar to many of you, and those to whom they are not, may make acquaintance with them some day. You may be sure that Miss Ashton did not leave old Malcolm and his grand-daughter without some remembrance of this day, for she was not only very sorry for them and felt that they were really in need of assistance, but she also knew that Jessie and her wonderful bird had added much to the entertainment of her little flock. She gave Jessie money enough to furnish herself with materials to begin her little trade again, and, leaving her address with her, bade her bring some of her pretty toys to her house when they should be made. They were all in the omnibus once more, and had started on their homeward way, all rather tired and quiet with the day's ramble, when what was Maggie's astonishment to hear Hattie say,-- "Miss Ashton, Maggie and I have such a very nice plan. We thought we might have a fair, just us children, and ask our friends to help us; and then we could sell the things we made, or that were given to us, and so earn a good deal of money to help Jessie and her grandfather, and to buy back the parrot for her. And we might have it when the weather is warm and pleasant, just before school closes, so that we could have it out of doors; and perhaps, Miss Ashton, you would not mind letting us hold it on your piazza and in the garden. And Jessie might make some of her pretty baskets and things for it, and we could sell them for her. We thought we could raise a good deal of money that way, for almost all our friends would be glad to come." It would be hard to tell whether indignation or surprise was uppermost in Maggie's mind, as she sat utterly speechless and confounded, while Hattie ran on thus, disclosing in this public manner the plans which she had said were to be kept secret until her own mamma and Miss Ashton had heard and approved of them. Yes, here was Hattie not only doing this, but speaking as if she had been the inventor of the cherished "idea," and as if Maggie had only fallen in with it, perhaps helped it out a little. Maggie was too shy to speak out as many children would have done, and to say,-- "That was my plan, Miss Ashton. I was the first one to think of that;" and she sat with her color changing, and her eyes fixed wonderingly and reproachfully on Hattie as she spoke, feeling somehow as if she had been wronged, and yet not exactly seeing the way to right herself. "Oh! that would be delightful," said Gracie. "Miss Ashton, do you think you could let us do it?" "Well, I might," said Miss Ashton. "That is not a bad idea, Hattie. I will talk to my mother about it and see what she thinks, and you may all tell your friends at home, and learn if they approve." "If we could have the fair on your piazza," continued Hattie eagerly, "we could dress it up very prettily with wreaths and flowers, and we could make a kind of a bower at one end, and choose one of the girls for a queen, and let it be her throne-room, and there we could have the flower-table. Some of the children told me you always let them have a festival before vacation, Miss Ashton; and we might put it off till a little later, so that it would be warm and pleasant, and we should have plenty of flowers." There was not one of the children who did not raise her voice in favor of the new plan except Nellie Ransom, who sat opposite to Maggie, and who watched her changing face, and looked from her to Hattie with inquiring and rather suspicious looks. Lily clapped her hands, and almost sprang from her seat. "I'll begin to work for the fair this very evening!" she said. "No more of your putting off for me. I'll bring down mamma's ribbon-box and worsted-box, if she'll let me, and ask her what I can have, and to-morrow I'll ask her to let me make something." "And we'll ask mamma and Aunt Annie, won't we, Maggie?" said Bessie; "and Belle, we'll ask them for some things for you too." Bessie received no answer from Maggie, who, feeling as if the whole matter had been taken out of her hands, poor child, and as if she had been robbed of her property, dared not speak, lest she should burst into tears. "I have a whole lot of money saved up," said Lily, "and I'll take some of it to buy what I want to make pretty things, and keep the rest to spend at the fair." "Haven't you to pay your missionary money to our box yet?" asked Bessie. "Well, I haven't paid it yet," said Lily, "but I don't know if I will give a dollar this year. I've supported the heathen for two years now, and I think I'd like a little change of charity. Wouldn't you, Maggie?" Maggie only nodded assent, scarce knowing what question she was replying to. "Maggie," said Belle, "you don't seem very interested; why don't you talk about the fair and give us new ideas, as you 'most always do?" "Does something provoke you or trouble you, Maggie, dear?" asked Bessie, looking into her sister's perplexed face. "Hattie," said Nellie suddenly, fixing her eyes searchingly on the little girl she addressed, "what put that idea of the fair into your head?" "Oh!" answered Hattie in some confusion, "I--that is, we, Maggie and I, just thought it would be nice, and so we talked about it a little, and made up our minds to ask Miss Ashton about it." Quick-witted Lily caught Nellie's suspicion, and so did Bessie; and the former, who had worn an air of displeasure with Hattie ever since the affair of the morning, asked promptly,-- "Who was the _first_ to make up that idea,--the fair and the queen in the flower bower, and dressing the piazza and all? Who was it, I say?" "Well," answered Hattie reluctantly, "Maggie was the first to think about it, and we talked it over together and arranged it all." "I knew it!" cried Lily triumphantly; "I just knew it was Maggie. It sounds just like her making up. Hattie," she added reproachfully, "you tried to make us think it was yours." "I didn't," said Hattie. "I never said so." "You didn't just _say_ so," said Bessie solemnly, "but you tried to give that _depression_." "I didn't," pouted Hattie again; "and we did talk about it together, didn't we, Maggie?" Maggie only gave a faint smile by way of answer, for she felt that she could not honestly allow that Hattie had suggested one single idea; and still she was too generous to wish to blame her more than she could avoid. And for the second time that day was Hattie made to feel that her want of strict truthfulness had lowered her in the eyes of her young companions. "Umph!" said Lily severely; "appears to me, Miss Hattie"-- But she was not allowed to finish the intended reproach, for Miss Ashton, seeing symptoms of a quarrel, hastened to avert it, and gently bade Lily be quiet. Lily obeyed; but her eye still rested sternly upon Hattie, and the latter was forced to bear more than one disapproving gaze during the remainder of the drive home. "I am afraid," said Miss Ashton to her mother that evening, "that Hattie Leroy is by no means a truthful child;" and she told of the occurrences of the day, adding that it was not the first time she had noticed a want of openness and uprightness, little acted deceits, a keeping back of the whole truth, and even, now and then a deliberate falsehood; and more than all, a manner of repeating a thing which gave it a very different meaning from what the speaker intended, so often making mischief and discomfort. "That is bad, very bad," said Mrs. Ashton; "it may affect the other children." "I would rather hope that they may have a good influence on her," answered her daughter. "The standard of truth is so high in our school, thanks, I believe, to dear little Bessie Bradford, Maggie, Belle, and one or two others, that any departure from it is considered a very serious offence. Lily, with all her thoughtlessness and love of mischief, is strictly truthful; so are Dora and Nellie. Gracie is the only one for whom I fear, for, although I think she would be shocked at the idea of telling a deliberate untruth, her conceit and wish to be first are so great that they often lead her to exaggerate and give a false coloring to what she says of herself as compared with others." [Illustration] [Illustration] V. _GRANDMAMMA HOWARD._ The proposal for the fair met with a pretty general approval from the parents and friends of the little girls, and they received many promises of help. "Aunt Annie" undertook to show Maggie, Bessie, and Belle how to make any pretty articles they might wish to undertake. Lily's mamma did the same for her, and none of the children were left entirely without assistance. When Jessie came to Miss Ashton with her pretty little wares, she was told what was proposed, and bidden to have as large a supply as possible, so that they might be offered for sale with the other articles; and the lady and some of her friends kindly bought so many of those already on hand that Jessie was furnished with the means of procuring her materials at once. The older class in Mrs. Ashton's room also entered with spirit into the affair, promising all the assistance that they could give, so that there was good prospect it would be a success. The time fixed was the first day of June, if the weather should be pleasant; if not, the first fair day after that. One morning Gracie Howard came to school in a state of great excitement. "My grandmamma," she said to the other children, "takes the greatest interest in our fair, and she is going to give us ever so many things for it. She told me to invite you all to come to her house this afternoon, and she has a whole lot of pieces of silk and ribbons, and worsteds and beads, and ever so many lovely things to divide among us. And what is better still, she says she would like each child to make some article expressly for her, and she will buy it." "Oh, delightful!" "How kind! how nice!" "What a great help!" came from one and another of her little hearers. "And," continued Gracie, warming with her subject, "she wants some particular things. Two toilet sets of lace and muslin, one lined and trimmed with blue, the other with pink; and two mats for flower vases, to be exactly alike. I am going to do one of the mats, and grandmamma says she thinks the other one and both the toilet sets had better be made by some of us older children, because she thinks the little ones can scarcely do them. And she will give ten dollars for the mat that is worked the most nicely and evenly, and nine for the other; eight for the best toilet set, and seven for the second; and she will give us all the materials. Just think of that! Why, whoever has the best mat will earn more than the price of Jessie's parrot! I wanted grandmamma to say that one might have the buying of the parrot for her own part; but she said that would not be just to the rest who had a share in the fair; and that she had no right to say so, either. I don't see why, and I think she might have let me." "Why, you don't know that you will have the nicest mat," said Lily. "See if I don't then," said Gracie. "I can work much better than any of you, I know." "If I didn't live in such a very glass house myself, I'd say _petticoat_ to you," said Lily, who had lately shown a fancy for the use of proverbs, after the manner of Maggie Bradford. Gracie tossed her head, and put on the expression which children call, "turning up their noses." She knew very well what Lily meant, how not long since she had boasted of herself, and been so very sure that she would outdo all others, and how she had miserably failed in the end. But, in spite of this consciousness, she was not at all taken down by Lily's reminder, for she felt herself a person of more than usual consideration and importance that morning; not without more than ordinary reason, was thought by most of her companions, for it was really a fine thing to have such a munificent grandmamma, who was ready to do so much for the grand object at present in the minds of each and every one. It was true also, and well known in the school that Gracie did worsted work remarkably well and evenly for a little girl, and that there was more reason than common for her belief that she should outshine all the others. Still her constant boasting was never agreeable, and Lily always would set herself to combat it with all her might. "Are not Maggie and Bessie to try with us too?" she asked. "Of course," answered Gracie; "they are just as much in the fair as we are; and Maggie works so nicely." "Should think she did," said Lily; "better than _a-ny--child--in--the--whole--world_." The extreme deliberation with which this was said, made it very forcible, and gave the remark all the point which was intended. Woe to the person who, in Lily's hearing, ventured to deny that her particular friends, Maggie and Bessie Bradford, were not all that was wisest, best, and prettiest. "Besides," said Belle, "Bessie was the first to find out Jessie and her grandfather, so it seems as if it was very much her charity and Maggie's. Good-morning, dear Miss Ashton;" and little Belle flew to meet her teacher, whom she dearly loved, and began to tell her of this new and delightful arrangement. But she had hardly commenced when she checked herself, and saying,-- "But it is Gracie's to tell about, and I expect she would like to," turned to her schoolmate, and allowed her, nothing loath, to take up the tale. Miss Ashton approved, and readily consented to what was proposed; but she was sorry to see that, as usual, Gracie took the chief credit, and claimed the first place for herself in the new plan; seeming, as before, not to have the slightest doubt that her work would be the best, and bring the highest premium. However, she would say nothing now to damp the general pleasure and enthusiasm, but called her young flock to the business of the day without reproof or remonstrance. On the way home from school, Gracie called to invite Maggie and Bessie to her grandmamma's house that afternoon; and at the appointed hour the whole "committee," as Maggie called it, were assembled in the drawing-room of the kind old lady. "Now," said Mrs. Howard, "we will settle first who among you are to take these pieces of work. Gracie seemed to think that all who were able to work nicely would prefer worsted work, so I have here two pairs of mats, as well as the toilet sets; and you may decide for yourselves which you will take. As for the younger ones, I will leave it to them to choose the things they will make for me, as each one knows what she is best able to do." Gracie looked dismayed and displeased at the first part of her grandmother's speech; and, not daring to object aloud, she whispered to Hattie, who stood next her,-- "It's too bad! There grandmamma goes and gives three chances against me." "Never mind, you'll have the first," answered Hattie; "you know you work better than any of the others." "How many of you," continued the old lady, "are able to do worsted work nicely?" "I can, grandmamma, _very_ nicely," said Gracie promptly, while the others, more modest and shy, looked from one to another. "Maggie Bradford works very nicely, ma'am," said Nellie Ransom. "And so do you too, my dear, if I'm not mistaken," said Mrs. Howard. "Would you like to do one of the mats?" "If you please, ma'am," said Nellie, and stepping up, Mrs. Howard gave her her choice among the mats. "Ah! you have made the same choice as Gracie," said the old lady. "Well, we shall see who will do the best. Gracie, take the mat, my dear. Now for the other pair. Maggie, will you have one?" But Maggie held back a little; and at length, with many blushes said, that she would prefer to take one of the toilet sets, because Bessie was anxious to help her, and she could do some of the easy sewing on the ruffles, but she could not do worsted work evenly enough to go with her own. Dora took one of the second pair of mats; and Hattie, who was next in age, and who knew very little about embroidering, chose the other toilet set, as she believed she could do that better than the mat. Maggie looked wishfully at this, and Mrs. Howard saw the look. "Would you like to take this also, Maggie, dear?" she said. "You deserve some reward for being so unselfish, and if it is not too much for you to undertake, you are quite welcome to try it." "Oh no, ma'am!" said Maggie with brightening eyes; "we have nearly seven weeks, you know, and with Bessie's help, and Aunt Annie to arrange all the work for me, I think I could do both. But I don't care for a reward, Mrs. Howard, for you know if Jessie and her grandfather have the money, it does not make much difference who does the most." "No, truly," said Mrs. Howard; "and it is not that you may strive to outdo one another that I make these offers, but only that you may all try your best to have the work well done. I am an old-fashioned woman, my dears, and I like to see every little girl brought up to use her needle properly, and to keep her things in order; so I say that it is not so much the beauty of the work, as the care and neatness with which it is done that I shall look at. Keep it from spot or stain, or from being frayed or rubbed; this you can all do with proper care." Then Mrs. Howard repeated how much she would give for each article, promising also once more to buy some pretty trifle from each of the younger children; and they all felt as if a large sum was already secure for Jessie and her grandfather. After this, the treasures of lace, muslin, ribbons, flowers, beads, and worsteds of all colors were displayed to their delighted eyes, and divided with as much fairness as was possible. Not a child but carried home with her a most precious package, already in the eyes of the little ones transformed into many an article of use and beauty for the benefit of old Malcolm and his grandchild. The fair was now the all-absorbing subject of thought and conversation among Miss Ashton's young scholars and their little friends, Maggie and Bessie Bradford; and a fit of uncommon industry had seized upon each and every one. But, one morning, only two days after the meeting of the young people at her house, Mrs. Howard was surprised to hear that Maggie Bradford wanted to see her; and ordering her to be shown in, the little girl entered, followed by her sister and nurse. [Illustration] Maggie looked flushed and uncomfortable, and held a small parcel in her hand; but, after she had said good-morning to Mrs. Howard a fit of shyness came over her, and she could not tell her errand. So Bessie spoke for her. "Mrs. Howard," said the little girl, who was herself rather confused, but who felt bound to help Maggie out of her trouble, "Maggie has come to bring you back the mat. She thinks it is rather better for her not to do it." "Did you find you had undertaken too much, Maggie, my dear?" asked the old lady encouragingly. "N-n-no, ma'am," whispered Maggie, plucking up a few crumbs of courage as she heard the kind tone, "no, it was not that; but we thought I'd better bring it back to you." "But you must have some reason," said Mrs. Howard. "Can you not tell me what it is? Has Gracie been saying any thing unkind to you?" "Gracie has not said any thing to me about it, ma'am," said Maggie rather evasively. "Please don't ask us, Mrs. Howard," said Bessie gravely. "Maggie and I overturned our minds about it, and thought we'd better bring back the mat; but we do not want to tell tales." "Then I shall not ask," said Mrs. Howard; but from the very fact that Bessie had innocently begged that they might not be pressed to "tell tales," she felt that her suspicions were tolerably correct. Gracie's desire to be _first_, and the fear that others should excel, or even equal her, were becoming so great that they often blinded her to what was just and kind. "There are plenty of pretty things that we can make, Mrs. Howard," said Maggie, "and I would rather not do any thing that any one might think was not my share." "Very well, dear, as you please," answered the old lady; "but since you do not choose to make this I shall not give it to any one else." When Maggie and Bessie had gone, the old lady put on her bonnet and went around to her son's house, where she found her little grand-daughter at home. "Gracie," she said, after a little talk, "Maggie Bradford came to see me just now, bringing back the mat which she was to have worked for the fair. Do you know any reason why she should have done so?" "Why, no, grandmamma!" answered Gracie, turning her eyes upon her grandmother in unfeigned and unmistakable surprise, which left no doubt of the perfect truth of her answer. "Think," said the old lady, believing that she might have forgotten. "You know you were not pleased that I should give Maggie the two things to make for me; have you said any thing that could hurt her feelings, and show her that you were displeased?" "I never said one word to Maggie about the mat, grandmamma," said Gracie, "and I can't see how"--she paused, as if struck by some sudden thought, and coloring, added uneasily--"I did talk to Hattie about it, and I was rather provoked, because I did not see why Maggie should have a better chance than the rest to make so much for the fair. And--and--perhaps Hattie went and told Maggie; but it was real mean of her if she did; and besides there was nothing for Maggie to be so mad at, and make such a fuss about." "Maggie was not 'mad,' as you call it, Gracie; so far from it that she would say nothing to throw blame upon you or any one else," said her grandmother; "but it was plain that she had been vexed and hurt." "Gracie," said her mother who sat by, "it would be a sad thing if _you_ should show yourself so wanting in feeling and gratitude as to say unkind things of Maggie, or to injure her in any way, especially in such a matter as this." "Well, mamma, and I'm sure I wouldn't," said Gracie, with a little pout. "I am very fond of Maggie, and I wouldn't do a thing to her; but I did feel rather provoked about the mat, only I did not mean her to know it. I'm just going to ask Hattie if she told her what I said." Gracie was really uncomfortable. She remembered that she had in a moment of pettishness, made one or two remarks to Hattie which she would not have cared to make in Maggie's hearing; but she would not willingly have offended the latter. She knew very well to what her mother referred when she spoke of Maggie. How a year ago when a prize had been offered for composition by Miss Ashton's uncle, she and Maggie had been believed to stand far ahead of the rest; how her own composition, all ready for presentation, had been lost, and that through her own inordinate vanity; how Maggie and Bessie had found it, and like the honorable little girls they were, had brought it at once to her, although they believed that by so doing Maggie was deprived of all chance of the much wished-for prize. It was true that neither she nor Maggie had gained it, for it had fallen to Nellie Ransom; but that did not lessen, or should not have lessened, Gracie's gratitude to her little friend; and as her mother said, it ill became her to nurse any feeling of jealousy towards Maggie. "Gracie," said her mother, "can you remember exactly what you said about Maggie?" "No, mamma," answered the child, looking thoughtful and a little troubled; "but it was not much, I think." "I am afraid," said Mrs. Howard, "that a very little sometimes becomes much in Hattie's keeping. I do not know that she really wishes to make mischief, but her love of talking and her want of strict truthfulness lead her to exaggerate, and also, I fear, to repeat many a thing with a very different meaning from that which the speaker intended. The more I see of her, the plainer does this become to me; and I fear, Gracie, that she is not a safe friend for you." "Mamma," said Gracie, in a tone of some offence, "you'd never think that Hattie could make _me_ learn to tell stories, do you? Why, I never told a falsehood in my life, and I'm sure I'd never think of doing such a thing." "I am sure I hope not, my child," said her mother, "but I fear temptation for you, Gracie; and I think Hattie encourages you in your great fault, your self-conceit and desire for admiration. And, although I do not think that you ever mean to be untruthful, my daughter, your idea of your own merits often leads you into exaggeration of these, and makes you unwilling to see them in others." Gracie pouted, and put on the expression she always wore if she were found fault with. "Mamma," she said, "I think that is a very horrid character to give any one; and I am sure you need not think I ever could tell a falsehood or do any thing mean to any one." "I do not say you would, Gracie. I only want you to beware of temptation." "I shan't fall into temptation, no fear of that," said Gracie almost scornfully; not scorn of her mother, but of the idea that she was not quite able to take care of herself, and that she could be led into wrong-doing. "And I shall be obliged to say," continued Mrs. Howard, "that I do not think it best for you to be so much with Hattie. She is doing you no good. I cannot keep you apart altogether, but you must not ask me to let you have her here so often, nor can I allow you to go to her house as much as you have done. When I see you have a more gentle and humble spirit, Gracie, and learning to stand by another strength than your own, I may not so much fear evil companionship for you; but this very belief that you cannot fall makes you all the more ready to do so." Gracie flounced out of the room in high displeasure, muttering to herself as she went upstairs that her mother always thought "every one better than me," and "it was very unjust," and "just as if I could fall into the temptation of telling a story." Mrs. Howard sighed, and looked troubled, as she well might; and so did grandmamma, as they talked together on this subject, and considered what was best to be done with Gracie. Her overwhelming desire for admiration; her wish to be first in every thing; her self-conceit and impatience of reproof were day by day growing stronger and stronger, and overrunning all that was fair and lovely in her character. It was, as the mother had said, difficult to break off all intercourse between her and Hattie, although it was certain that the latter was exercising no good influence on Gracie; for the two families were intimate, and it was impossible, without giving offence, to keep the two children entirely apart. Moreover, they were schoolmates, and had grown really fond of one another, although Gracie was losing confidence in Hattie, as she could not but perceive that she had by no means a strict regard for truth. But little did Gracie dream that Hattie's influence or example could ever lead her astray in this way. [Illustration] [Illustration] VI. _JEALOUSY._ Days went by, and all was progressing famously for the fair; at least so thought the little workers. New offers of help came in; new articles were promised, and some even sent, early as it was, and these were committed to Miss Ashton's keeping until the appointed day--the first of June--should arrive. Mrs. Bradford promised all the ice-cream that should be needed for the refreshment table; Mrs. Howard the strawberries; another mamma offered jelly; two or three cake; Mr. Powers promised a quantity of French bonbons; and from all sides came offers of flowers. Mr. Stanton, the little Bradfords' "Uncle Ruthven," said he would furnish flags and banners enough to deck the piazza; and mammas, grandmammas, aunts, and cousins were coaxed and wheedled out of so many bright ribbons for the same purpose, that it might have been supposed that they were expected to go in grave colors for the remainder of their days. And if you had seen the doll that Miss Annie Stanton and her sister-in-law were dressing as a baby! If you had but seen that doll! With a face so sweet, and so like a "real live baby" that it almost startled one to come upon it unawares in some place where the real live baby could not have been found! such hands and feet! and oh, such a fitting out! Day by day the progress of that doll's wardrobe was watched with eager, delighted eyes by Maggie, Bessie, Belle, and Lily, who had more opportunities for this than the rest of the children. These last were, however, invited in every now and then, to see the wonder as it grew; and that doll became the great object of interest, in comparison with which the remainder of the fair arrangements were as nothing. Every thing that was dainty and pretty and cunning was furnished for the baby doll; not only clothes without number, but also a tasteful cradle lined and trimmed with blue silk, white muslin, and lace; and a baby basket, furnished completely with all that the most exacting infant could require. In short, this was plainly to be the grand attraction of the fair, at least in the eyes of the younger portion of its patrons, for the fame of the doll spread far and wide, and great was the curiosity of those who had never had the opportunity of witnessing its beauties. And the question arose and was eagerly discussed, who was to be the munificent purchaser? who, oh! who, the fortunate possessor? Papas and mammas were besieged with petitions and coaxings, but wisely declined making positive promises till the price of the wonderful prize should be fixed, and the doll herself put up for sale. Money-jugs were broken, and "savings banks" emptied, that the contents might be counted over and over to ascertain if there was any possibility that they might reach the sum which would probably be required; allowances were saved up in the same hope. The only trouble about it was, that as Maggie Bradford said, "only one could have the doll, and so all the rest were doomed to disappointment, which made it a case in which it would be well if one man's meat were every other man's poison." Jessie and her grandfather were cared for in the meanwhile. Miss Ashton had interested several of her friends in them; the children had done the same with their parents; and Mr. Bradford, Mr. Norris, and one or two other gentlemen had been to see old Malcolm, and finding that there was little or no probability of his cure while he remained in the cold, damp shanty, where he had been living for the last few months, had furnished him with more comfortable lodging. Jessie's wares were also finding a good market, and every week she came down into the city with a number. Some of these she sold to such purchasers as came in her way, and whatever were left over she carried to Miss Ashton, and put in her hands for the fair. She was also making some particularly choice articles which she kept back for exhibition and sale on that occasion; and among them were half a dozen boxes of straw and bright-colored ribbons, with an initial letter woven in beads upon the top of each. There had been but four of them at first, bearing respectively an M, a B, a G, and a D, standing for Maggie, Bessie, Gracie, and Dora; for Jessie looked upon these as her first friends, because they had first become interested in her story. But Bessie having mentioned that Belle and Lily were "just like ourselves, and my sister and I would be pleased to buy boxes for them at the fair," Jessie completed two more with an L for Lily, and a B for Belle. There was a delightful amount of mystery respecting these boxes, for each one of the six knew what had been done for the other five; Jessie telling her in confidence, and leaving her with the suspicion that the same pleasure was in store for her. Not on any account would any one of them have spoken of this suspicion; oh dear, no! but was quite prepared to be very much surprised if a box bearing her initial should turn up at the fair. Maggie and Bessie owned a pretty little pony, the gift of their Uncle Ruthven; at least Fred said it was "Uncle Ruthven's present," but Mr. Stanton said it was Fred's. For, having offered Fred the choice of a present for himself as a reward for the pains he had taken to break himself of some troublesome faults, the generous brother asked for a pony for his little sisters. He and his brother Harry each owned one, and he wished Maggie and Bessie to enjoy the same pleasure. So Uncle Ruthven had bought the pony and equipped him, but he declared it was Fred's gift to the little girls, and I think he was about right. However that was, the pony had given no small amount of pleasure, and this was still farther increased when Belle's papa gave her one. It was a pretty sight to see two of the little girls on these ponies, escorted by Harry and Fred, and the whole party under the care of one of the papas, or Uncle Ruthven, or sometimes of old James, the coachman. Belle and Bessie rode as yet with a leading string to the pony's rein, but Maggie had grown to be a fearless little rider, and had no idea of being led. Lily would have been welcome to a ride now and then if she had chosen, but "the one thing in the world" which Lily feared was a horse, and she declined the most pressing offers of this nature. Now that the days were becoming so mild and pleasant, these rides took place quite frequently, and they were hardly looked forward to more eagerly by the children than they were by old Malcolm and Jessie, who delighted to see the little girls on horseback, and were always on the watch to meet them and receive a kind word. "I know who I think will have the best piece of work," said Lily, one day after school, when the little girls were discussing the arrangements for the fair as they prepared to go home. "Who?" asked Gracie quickly. "Maggie, I s'pose. You always think Maggie and Bessie do every thing better than anybody else." "Well, and so they do," answered Lily, unwilling to allow that her favorite playmates could be outdone in any thing by another,--"so they do; but it's not Maggie this time." "Who then?" asked Dora. "Nellie Ransom," said Lily. "Have you seen her mat?" No: none of the others had seen Nellie's mat; but now curiosity was all on tiptoe, and a general desire to see her work took possession of the class. "Bring all your works to-morrow, and let's see which is the best," said Lily. "Gracie's is, I know," said Hattie. "If you have not seen the others you _don't_ know," said Lily. Hattie whispered something to Gracie and laughed; but Gracie still wore the displeased look she had put on when Lily declared Nellie's work must be the best. For, during the whole of the last year, Gracie had been nourishing an intense and bitter jealousy of Nellie Ransom. As has been said before, Nellie was by no means as quick and brilliant a child as Gracie, but she was more persevering and industrious, and so made up for the lack of natural talent. She was the only child in the school who could keep up with Gracie in several studies, such as composition and arithmetic; and in all they learned these two generally stood in advance of the rest. And to outstrip Nellie, to be always the _first_, the _very first_ was Gracie's great ambition. She believed herself to be by far the wiser and cleverer of the two, but she was anxious that every one else should acknowledge it also. A year ago, when Miss Ashton's uncle had offered a prize for the best composition,--the occasion to which Mrs. Howard had referred when warning her little daughter against jealousy of Maggie Bradford,--the chances had seemed to lie between Maggie and herself; but to the astonishment of every one, Nellie's composition had proved the most deserving, and taken the much-coveted prize. Since that time Gracie's wish to excel Nellie in all things had known no bounds, and it is really to be feared that she was rejoiced at heart when her painstaking and industrious little schoolmate missed in her lessons, or failed in any work she undertook. So now the fear that Nellie's mat should prove to be more neatly worked than her own took complete possession of her, for it was not only the desire to be first, but the desire to outstrip Nellie especially, that filled her heart and made her envious and jealous. It was agreed that Nellie, Gracie, and Dora should each bring her mat to school the next morning, so as to compare their work and see which was likely to bring the highest price. Accordingly this was done, and the children all gathered early, anxious to decide on the respective merits of the three pieces of embroidery. All were well done, neatly and evenly worked; but there could be no doubt of it, even to Gracie's unwilling eyes,--Nellie Ransom's was somewhat the best. It was really astonishing for a child of her age. She was naturally handy with her needle, and had taken so much pains with this mat that it would have done credit to a much older person. The simple pattern was straight and even, and the stitches of the filling in lay in neat, regular rows, the worsted smooth and unfrayed, and not a speck or spot of any description to be seen upon the whole piece. Gracie's was very nearly a match for it; indeed, had the two pieces been looked at separately it might have seemed that there was nothing to choose between them; but laid side by side and closely compared, Nellie's would certainly bear off the palm. "Why, Nellie," said Dora, whose own work was by no means despicable, "how beautifully you have done it. I don't believe a grown-up lady could have worked it better. I know Mrs. Howard will say it's the best." Quiet Nellie colored and dimpled with pleasure. Praise was pleasant to her, as it is to all; but, although she would have been glad to have her work pronounced the best, it was with no overwhelming desire to outdo her companions. Nellie did her very best, but when another did better, she could be content with the feeling that it was not her own fault that she was excelled, and was ready to sympathize with her more fortunate classmate. "That will be priced ten dollars for certain and positive," said Lily, holding up the mat and regarding it with admiration. "It is lovely, Nellie. They are all very nice, 'specially Gracie's, but yours is the best." "It's not a bit better than Gracie's," said Hattie. "Don't you encourage Gracie more than she deserves," said Lily admonishingly. "She's pretty nice, but don't you puff her up too much." "I know something about you," said Hattie teasingly. "Well, know away," answered Lily scornfully. "You're always knowing something about somebody; and you want me to ask you what you know about me; but I don't want to know, and I'm not going to have you say some of the girls said hateful things of me. Besides--oh! I forgot; I b'lieve I was rather _anti-politing_;" and Lily, who was about to say that Hattie always made things seem worse than they were, put a check upon her saucy little tongue and turned once more to Nellie. One might have thought that Lily had worked the mat herself to see her pride and satisfaction in it. "Dora has done more on hers than Nellie and Gracie," said Belle. "Their two are pretty nearly the same. Let's see; Gracie has only two more rows done than Nellie; no, Nellie has two more done than Gracie--oh!--why--this is Gracie's, isn't it? I can hardly tell them apart, they are both so very nice." For, handing the mats about from one to another, the same mistake occurred more than once, Gracie's being taken for Nellie's or Nellie's for Gracie's, and they had to be held side by side before they could be distinguished. The children laughed and thought this rather funny; and it gave Gracie some hope that hers might be judged to be the best, after all. She would take more pains than ever. The thought of the mats and of outdoing Nellie was so busy with her that she did not give her usual attention to her lessons that morning; and, as the consequence, lost her place in the spelling-class, and was in a peevish humor for the rest of the day. Fresh cause of displeasure befell her at the close of school, when Miss Ashton said she thought it as well that the May Queen should be chosen soon. "Oh! we want Maggie, of course," said Lily. "Maggie again?" said Miss Ashton, smiling. "Yes'm," said Belle. "Maggie is used to it, and she makes the prettiest queen, so we'd rather have her; wouldn't we, girls?" There was a general murmur of assent, save from two voices. "Why don't we make some one else May Queen this year?" asked Hattie. "We might have Gracie." "Hattie," said Lily, endeavoring to make her voice of reproof one of extreme mildness, "as you have not been so very long in the school, it would be better if you let the old inhabitants be the judges." "Well, anyhow, I don't see why Maggie always has to be May Queen, and when she don't go to the school either," said Gracie pouting, and leaning back against her desk with a discontented air, till, catching Miss Ashton's eye fixed sadly and reproachfully upon her, she hung her head and looked ashamed. "Be-cause," said Lily with emphasis, "she's the prettiest child of our acquaintance. Not all the prettiness of all the rest of us make up one-half Maggie's prettiness, and she's not one bit vain or stuck-up about it either; and if she and Bessie don't just belong to the school, they belong to us, and so it's just the same. Whoever wants Maggie, hold up their hand." Up went every hand at once, save those of Gracie and Hattie, and presently Gracie's followed the example of the others, though half unwillingly. "Now," said Lily triumphantly, "that's voted, and for ever after let him hold his peace." The last allusion was perhaps not exactly clear either to Lily or her hearers; but it was thought extremely fine, and as having clinched the matter without farther argument. Miss Ashton laughed, and asked if Lily and Belle would undertake to let Maggie know that she was elected May Queen, which they readily promised to do. But the next morning these two little friends returned to school, and told their astonished and disappointed classmates that Maggie positively refused to be May Queen. Why they could not say, but all their persuasions had proved of no avail. Maggie was not to be "coaxed," and would give no reason for her refusal, though she had "seemed to feel awfully about it," Lily said, and had "cried about it" before they left. Bessie had been as much mystified as they were, and even Maggie's mamma, when appealed to, said that she knew of no reason why Maggie should decline the offered honor. Maggie, however, had said she would "tell mamma and Bessie," but she could tell no one else. Miss Ashton, when informed of Maggie's refusal, said that she would call on her and see what could be done, and until then the matter might rest. "Hattie," said Gracie, drawing her "intimate friend" into a corner during recess, "did you tell Maggie Bradford what I said about her being Queen twice?" "Well--no," said Hattie, hesitating at first, but then uttering her denial boldly as she saw the frown gathering upon Gracie's brow. Gracie looked at her as if she only half believed her, for she was learning to doubt Hattie's word, and although she was greedy of her flattery, she could not help feeling that her chosen friend was not sincere. "You know you've told a good many things I did not mean you to," said Gracie, "and I wouldn't like not to be friends with Maggie, or to let her think I'm hateful." And Hattie declared over and over again that she had never said one word to Maggie on the subject. "I do feel badly about it," said Gracie remorsefully. "I wish I had never said I thought Maggie ought not to be May Queen. Maggie's been my friend this ever so long, since I was quite little; and I believe I had rather the girls chose her. I've a good mind to write her a note, and tell her I wish she would be Queen." All the other children had left the school-room to go down and play on the piazza, and Gracie and Hattie were alone together. "I wouldn't," said Hattie; "you are the one who ought to be May Queen, 'cause you are the smartest child in the school." Gracie believed this, and thought Hattie gave her no more than her due; still, although she liked to hear Hattie say it, the compliment did not turn her from her purpose. [Illustration] [Illustration] VII. _A MISFORTUNE._ As the two children talked, Gracie had been putting a few stitches in her mat. "I b'lieve I'll do it," she said. "I'll tell Maggie we _all_ want her to be May Queen." "Then she'll know you've said something about it," said Hattie anxiously, feeling that this proceeding was likely to bring her into trouble. "No, she needn't," said Gracie; "perhaps she does think I don't want her to be, 'cause at Christmas she knew I was mad about it." "Are you going to beg her pardon?" asked Hattie. "No," said Gracie, with one of her scornful tosses of her head. "I think I see myself doing such a thing! But I can write her a little note, and tell her we are all sorry because she won't be May Queen, and beg her to change her mind. I might do as much as that for Maggie," she added to herself. Hattie tried to dissuade her no longer, and Gracie laid the mat down upon her desk, opened the lid, and took out a slip of paper and a pen. She dipped the pen in the ink, wrote, "My dear Maggie," at the top of the sheet, and then paused, biting the top of her pen. "I can't think what to say, or how to begin it," she said. "My dear Maggie, I am very sorry--no. I had better say _we_--we are very sorry that you--that you--oh, pshaw! I've a great mind not to do it"--here she dipped her pen in the ink again, and so carelessly that it came forth quite too full. "Oh, bother!" she exclaimed with increasing ill-humor; "look at this hateful pen;" and, forgetting the precious piece of work which lay so near at hand, she gave a careless fillip to the pen which spattered forth the ink. Gracie gave another impatient exclamation, and pushed away the paper, saying,-- "I shan't do it; if Maggie likes to be so foolish about nothing, she just can;" but she did not see the extent of the mischief she had done till Hattie said in a tone of great dismay,-- "O Gracie! just see what you've done!" And there upon her beautiful mat was a great spot of ink. Gracie gave a horrified little cry, and, snatching up the mat, thoughtlessly sopped up the spot with her handkerchief, thereby spreading and smearing it till it grew to the size of a two-cent piece, and left an ugly blotch on the bright blue worsted. "What shall I do? oh! what shall I do? It's spoiled; it's quite spoiled!" she said despairingly. "I don't believe it is; maybe it can be taken out," said Hattie, though she was almost as much startled as her little companion. "I'll bring some water, and we'll try to take it out." "No, no," said Gracie; "I wish I had not touched it at all. We'll only make it worse; and I'll ask mamma to try as soon as I go home. Oh, dear, dear, dear! what shall I do? Grandmamma will surely say Nellie's is the best now. That hateful girl!" "It's a great shame if she does," said Hattie. "Nellie is always trying to get ahead of you; and she don't deserve it, and I don't think your grandmamma is fair to you. She ought to think her own grandchild's work is the best." "I suppose Nellie will just be glad when she sees what has happened to me," said Gracie, whose jealous eyes could now see nothing that was good or fair in Nellie's conduct. Innocent, kind-hearted Nellie, who would not willingly harbor an unkind or unjust thought of another! "I shan't let her see it," she continued, hastily rolling up the mat and putting it into her desk, as she heard the other children coming. "Don't say a word about it, Hattie, not to any one." Hattie promised, really grieving herself for Gracie's misfortune, for she truly loved her, and was anxious that she should be the first. This was to be a black day for Gracie; but all through her own jealousy and pride. Her mind was so taken up with the remembrance of the defaced mat that she could not keep her thoughts upon her lessons; and, although she had known her history very well, her attention wandered so much that she answered incorrectly more than once. Seeing, however, that something had disturbed her, Miss Ashton made allowances, and gave her one or two opportunities to correct herself and bring her thoughts back to the task before her. But it was all in vain; Gracie had already lost her place in the spelling-class, and gone down below Dora Johnson and Laura Middleton; and now the fear of a fresh mortification, and of giving Nellie her place at the head of the history class added to her confusion, and she floundered more and more hopelessly. Nellie begged too that she might have still another chance, when at last Miss Ashton passed the question to her; but again Gracie failed and was obliged to yield her place. Angry, mortified, and jealous, Gracie showed such determined ill-temper towards her generous little classmate, that Miss Ashton was obliged to reprove her, but without effect. Again she called Gracie to order, and this time more severely. The angry and wilful child hesitated for one moment, then pride and passion burst all bounds, and she answered Miss Ashton with such insolence, such ungoverned and unjustifiable impertinence that the whole class stood aghast. There was a moment's perfect stillness. Miss Ashton turned very pale, and laying her book down upon the table, covered her face with her hand, while the children looked from her to Gracie and back again, in utter dismay and astonishment. Then the stillness was broken by a piteous, "Oh, dear!" from poor little Belle, who finished with a burst of tears, and her example was followed by more than one of the others. Miss Ashton raised her head. "Go into the cloak-room, Grace," she said quietly. Gracie was herself frightened at what she had done; but her pride and temper were still farther roused by the shocked and disapproving looks of her schoolmates, and she stood for an instant with determined stubbornness, while the words, "I won't," formed themselves upon her lips. But they were not uttered, for there was something in Miss Ashton's face which checked her; something which not one of the little flock had ever seen before; and when the lady repeated her words in the same calm tone,-- "Go into the cloak-room," Gracie turned away and obeyed. It was with head held high, and scornful look, however, that she passed out, although bitter shame and regret were burning in the poor, foolish little heart. But she called up all her pride and jealousy to stifle the better feeling which urged her to run to her teacher, and, in the face of the whole school, confess her fault, and beg Miss Ashton's pardon for the insulting words she had spoken. "What will she do, I wonder," she said to herself; "will she tell mamma? What will mamma say, and papa too?" and, as the recollection of her parents' oft-repeated warnings against the pride and vanity which were her besetting sins came back to her mind, she could not but feel that this was the consequence of allowing them to gain such a hold upon her. She _felt_ it, for conscience would make itself heard; but she would not acknowledge it even to herself, and drowned the reproving whisper with such thoughts as,-- "Well, then, why is Miss Ashton so unjust? She is always trying to make me miss and lose my place. She is always glad when any one goes above me. She never praises me as much as I deserve;" and such unjust and untrue accusations. It might be that Miss Ashton did not always bestow upon Gracie all the praise she would have given to another for a perfect lesson or good composition, for she did not think much praise good for her, as it only seemed to minister to Gracie's over-weening vanity. But only eyes that were wilfully blind and suspicious could find the slightest injustice or unkindness in her treatment of any one of her little scholars, and her gentleness and patience might have won gratitude from the most stubborn young heart. But Gracie would not listen to the promptings of her better spirit; and the recollection of the dismayed and averted looks of her schoolmates added fuel to the flame of her angry pride. Even the ever admiring Hattie had looked shocked at her outburst. "I don't care," she said again to herself. "It's only 'cause they know I am so much cleverer than any of them, and they are jealous of me. That hateful Nellie! She was so proud to go above me." Wretched and unhappy, she spent the time in her solitude till the close of school, when the other children came into the cloak-room for their hats. No one said a word to her, for they had been forbidden to do so; and if they had occasion to speak to one another they did so in whispers, as if something terrible had happened, and a great awe had fallen upon them. She sat in a corner, sullen and defiant, trying to put on an appearance of the utmost indifference, but succeeding very poorly. She even tried to hum a tune, but something rose in her throat and choked her. She scarcely knew what to do; whether or no to rise, and take her hat, and go down as usual to find the nurse, who was probably waiting for her below; and while she sat hesitating, one and another of her young companions passed out, as if glad to hurry from her presence, and she was left once more alone. She had just taken down her hat, when Miss Ashton came in, and, handing her a note, said gravely,-- "Give this to your mother, Gracie," and left her again. Ashamed and alarmed at the thought of what might follow when she should reach home, but with her pride and anger not one whit abated, Gracie went slowly on, giving short and snappish answers to the inquiries of her nurse, who plainly saw that something was wrong. But she dared not face her mother when she should hear of her misconduct; and when they entered the house, she thrust the note into the hand of the maid, bidding her give it to Mrs. Howard, and ran quickly up to her own little room. There she stayed, wondering and waiting. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, half an hour passed away, and still her mamma did not come. Was it possible? could she really hope that the note had not been one of complaint of her conduct? No, that could never be; there was the bell for the children's early dinner. Well, she would go down and act as if nothing had happened. But could she with this uncertainty of how much or how little mamma knew? But there was mamma's step, and now Mrs. Howard entered the room. One half glance at her face and Gracie's eyes fell. It was enough to show her that her mother knew all. "Mean old thing!" she said to herself, meaning Miss Ashton. "She's gone and told, and now I s'pose I'll be punished." "Gracie," said her mother, "I suppose you scarcely need to be told what is in this note which Miss Ashton has sent me." Gracie stood with head erect, pouting lip, and defiant eyes, idly tossing back and forth the tassel of the window curtain with as much indifference as she could assume. "Has it come to this, my child," continued Mrs. Howard sorrowfully, "that you have allowed conceit and self-will to gain such a hold upon you, that you could wilfully and deliberately insult your teacher? I have been sure that you would fall into trouble, Gracie, for I knew that such foolish pride must sooner or later have a fall, but I could not have believed that you would be guilty of this. What did you say to Miss Ashton?" "I don't care," said Gracie passionately, without directly answering her mother's question. "It was all true, every word of it. She's as hateful as she can be, and unjust and mean;" and Gracie went on, pouring forth a torrent of invective and reproach against Miss Ashton and Nellie Ransom, without paying the slightest heed to her mother's commands to be silent. It was the long pent-up feeling of jealousy and ill-will and pride, that she had been nourishing for months past, and which now burst all bounds and swept every thing before it. Respect, and even obedience towards her mother, reason, justice, and truth itself were totally lost sight of, as she poured forth accusation after accusation against the offenders, and upheld her own conduct in all she had done and said. "And you have said all this to Miss Ashton, perhaps?" said her mother sternly, when the angry child at last came to a pause. "It is true enough if I did," muttered Gracie again, though her passion was by this time beginning to cool down in a measure. "I'm sure I wish I never went to her hateful old school." "It is more than probable that Miss Ashton wishes so now; but I shall leave you to think over what you have said to me and to Miss Ashton, and to find out how much of it is true. One thing Miss Ashton desires,--that you do not return to her school till you are ready to acknowledge your fault, and to apologize for your impertinence. And until this is the case, you must remain in your room. Your meals will be sent to you, and I shall not allow your brothers and sisters to have any intercourse with you till you are ready to make such amends as you can. You may send for me when you have any thing to say to me. Oh, Gracie, Gracie!" With which words, spoken in a sad, despondent tone, Mrs. Howard went away, closing the door upon her stubborn, rebellious little daughter. Gracie stood where her mother had left her, not one whit softened or humbled; for now her angry pride began to accuse her mother also of injustice and partiality and unkindness. "Everybody in the world takes part against me," she said to herself; "but I don't care. Indeed, I won't beg Miss Ashton's pardon, not if I stay here a year. Mamma makes such a fuss about her being so kind and patient and all that. She's paid for teaching me, so it's nothing so wonderfully good. I hope I never will go back to the school where that hateful Nellie is." Soon the door opened, and the nurse appeared, bearing a tray on which was Gracie's dinner. She set it upon a table, placed a chair, and went away without a word to her. "I don't care," said Gracie once more, "no one need talk to me if they don't want to. I'm just as good as they are, and I'd just as lief stay here by myself." She sat down before the dinner-tray, trying to believe that she would "just as lief eat her dinner alone;" but she found it was not so agreeable after all. She wondered what they were doing downstairs; if the children were chattering as merrily as usual, or if her absence made any difference in the family enjoyment. She had little appetite, as may be supposed, and left the nicely served meal scarcely touched. But it must not be thought that she had any idea of yielding or acknowledging herself in the wrong. By and by she heard her brothers and sisters coming upstairs, then their voices in the nursery as they prattled to one another; and she knew that they were being made ready for their afternoon airing. Then tiny feet pattered along the hall, and little May's voice sounded through her closed door,-- "Am oo dood now, Dacie? We'm doin out, Dacie; am oo most dood? Pease don't be naughty dirl, Dacie," and the soft little hand tapped upon the panel as the baby voice pleaded. "Come away, darling. Gracie may come out when she is good and says she is sorry," said mamma's voice; and Gracie knew that her mother had led the little pet away. But all this only seemed to harden her. May was such a darling, the sweetest and dearest of all her brothers and sisters, Gracie thought; and, although the sweet, coaxing voice had touched her, she only found in her mother's interference fresh cause of offence. "Mamma tries to set even May against me, and I s'pose she's been telling all the children what I did," she thought; "but I don't care. I believe they'll grow tired of having me away before I am tired of staying here. There's plenty for me to do. I can read, and I'll work on my mat." But here it suddenly flashed upon her that she had not brought her mat home with her. Being sent away in disgrace and not returning to the school-room before leaving, she had quite forgotten it, and it still lay there in her desk. And that stain upon it, too, which she had intended to ask her mother to take out if possible. Mamma would not feel like doing it for her now, and she could ask no favors from her. Not unless she repented and--and--apologized to Miss Ashton. And this last she would not do; no, never, never. She heard the children going downstairs, stood at the window and watched them get into the carriage and drive away with mamma, and began to wish that she were there too. And such a lovely afternoon, it was too bad to be shut up here. But still she never blamed herself for her imprisonment; no, mamma, Miss Ashton, Nellie, any one was in the wrong, but not her own wilful, stubborn little self. What was to be the end of this she did not know, but Gracie had no thought of yielding. She whiled away the afternoon as she best could; but every thing seemed to have lost its zest. Her prettiest story-books had no interest; her dolls were "stupid" and poor company; even her stock of pretty materials for articles for the fair seemed less attractive than usual as she turned them over, and her work "would not go." This was the first time in her life that Gracie had ever been punished in such a manner; and apart from the disgrace, which she was determined not to feel, she was a child who was fond of society and did not know how to bear being deprived of it. [Illustration] [Illustration] VIII. "_THE SPIDER AND THE FLY._" If Mrs. Howard had perhaps hoped that little May's pleading would have any softening effect on Gracie, she was mistaken. The message she had expected to receive on reaching home did not come to her. Nor did she hear a word from Gracie through the evening until the little girl's bed-time came. Then she sent word that the hour had come, still hoping and believing that the stubborn heart must relent, and that Gracie would feel that she could not go to rest unforgiven and without her mother's good-night kiss. But she was mistaken. Gracie received the message in sullen silence, but obeyed and went to bed without one word of sorrow or repentance. It was the same in the morning. Gracie rose and was dressed; her breakfast was brought and eaten in solitude, as her dinner and supper had been yesterday; and still the nurse who waited upon her passed in and out, as it was necessary, and brought no word to comfort the sorrowing heart of her mother. School-time came, and Gracie knew that the children in her class would believe that her absence was caused by her misconduct of the previous day, as was indeed too true; but this only made her feel more and more proud and obstinate. The long, weary morning wore away, the solitary dinner was once more over, and again the house seemed so still and lonely, for mamma and the children had gone out again, and the servants were all downstairs. By and by Gracie heard a light, quick foot running up the stairs and coming towards her own door. The latch was turned and the door softly opened,--Mrs. Howard had not locked her in, for she believed that she could trust Gracie and that she would not disobey so far as to leave the room she had been bidden to keep,--and Hattie's face peeped in. Gracie started, partly in astonishment, partly in dismay; for what must she do now? Mamma would not have allowed her to see Hattie, she knew, if she had been at home; and must she send her away? She was so glad to see some one, to be able to speak to some one. Hattie came in, closed the door behind her, and, running to Gracie, put her arm about her neck and kissed her, saying with much energy,-- "It's too mean, Gracie! it's the meanest thing I ever knew! It's a great shame!" There could be no doubt of her sympathy, of her belief that Gracie was in the right, or at least that she was not so very much to blame, and was undeservedly punished. For Hattie was really and truly very fond of Gracie, admired her and considered her very clever; and, although even she had been dismayed by Gracie's outburst yesterday, she was now disposed to treat it lightly, and to say that Gracie had been provoked. There was another reason, too, which induced Hattie to take part against Nellie Ransom, and to wish to put her in the wrong. "O Hattie!" said Gracie, "how did you come up here? Mamma wouldn't allow it, I know." Hattie laughed triumphantly. "I knew that," she said, "for I came to the door a little while ago and the servant said you were up in your room, but he thought you could not see any one to-day, and he said every one else was out. But I said I had a message from school for you, and that you must have it this afternoon. So of course he thought it was from Miss Ashton, as I meant he should, and he let me come up." "Mamma will be displeased," said Gracie; "you ought not, Hattie. I'm very glad to see you, but I must not let you stay." "I'll only stay a few minutes," said Hattie, taking the seat which Gracie had not ventured to offer her. "I've something perfectly splendid to tell you." "Was everybody saying ugly things about me to-day, and talking as if I was as wicked as a murderer?" asked Gracie, more interested in the opinion others might hold of her than in Hattie's promised news. There had really been very little said on the matter; the offence was too serious and too shocking to Gracie's young companions to make it an agreeable subject of conversation; and, although there had been some wondering as to whether Gracie would ever be allowed to return to the school, but few unkind remarks had been made, and these were more in sorrow than in censure. And Hattie was too full of her errand and of the fear of being found on forbidden ground to make as good a story of that little as she might have chosen to do at another time. "Well, no, not much," she answered. "I suppose that old Nellie, hateful thing, was glad enough." "Did she say so?" questioned Gracie. "No," said Hattie; "she did not speak about it. Gracie, did Miss Ashton send word to your mother and ask her to punish you?" "She wrote to her about it, and I suppose mamma punished me of her own accord," answered Gracie. "How long is she going to keep you up here?" asked Hattie. "Till--till--I beg Miss Ashton's pardon," said Gracie, her angry pride rising again at the thought; "and I _never_ will do it, no, _never_, not if I stay here a year!" "But the fair," said Hattie; "you know the fair is in two weeks, and if you don't come out before that you'll miss all the fun." Now, apart from the interest which all the little girls took in the fair, Gracie had a strong desire, as usual, to play some very prominent part therein. As we know, she had wished to be Queen, and had been vexed because Maggie Bradford had been chosen again; but, although she could not have this coveted honor, she still hoped and intended to make herself very conspicuous there. It was true that the thought of the fair and all that concerned it had been much in her mind, even during her imprisonment; but it had not occurred to her that her resolution of never, never apologizing to Miss Ashton, "even if she stayed shut up for a whole year," would scarcely agree with her appearance at the festival. She sat as if confounded at Hattie's words. "I'd do it if I were you," continued the latter, seeing the effect she had produced. "It's a great shame that you have to, but then you _will_ have to, you know; and I'd do it and have it over. If you're going to fret and fuss here about it, you'll feel a great deal worse at last when you come to do it." Hattie's advice on this subject was certainly good in itself, though she did not put it before Gracie in a right light. "Miss Ashton is so unjust and so awfully partial to Nellie," pouted Gracie, although her resolution was beginning to waver a little for the first time. "I know it," said Hattie; "but she can't make other people think Nellie is the smartest child. Every one knows you are, Gracie, even if they won't say so." "I can learn three lessons while Nellie learns one; but Miss Ashton is always praising her and never praises me," was Gracie's answer. "I know it," said Hattie again. "Nellie--oh, I can't bear that girl!--sets up to be so wonderfully good, and Miss Ashton always believes whatever she says, and makes such a fuss about her; but you can just _say_ you beg Miss Ashton's pardon, and have it over. The rest of the class will have every thing their own way if you don't come out pretty soon and have your word about the fair; and there's your mat, too, you know, Gracie." "I forgot my mat yesterday when I came away," said Gracie. "I wish you had known it and then you could have brought it to me." Again Hattie gave a triumphant little laugh, and putting her hand into her pocket drew out the mat,--that is, _a_ mat. Gracie seized it eagerly, gave Hattie a kiss, saying, "Oh, you dear thing! I'm so glad." Then she looked for the stain, but there was no stain to be seen. "Where's that ink-spot? Oh, Hattie, did you take it out? There's not a sign of it." "No," said Hattie, "I did not take it out." "Why!" exclaimed Gracie, turning the mat over. "Why, it is--it is--it's not mine. It's Nellie's mat!" "I'm going to tell you," said Hattie. "This morning Miss Ashton handed me your history, which I believe you left in the cloak-room yesterday, and told me to put it in your desk. So when I opened the desk, the first thing I saw was the mat, and I knew you must have forgotten it. Nellie, the mean thing, she had brought her mat to school to-day again, and said she was going to work on it in recess; but when recess came the other children coaxed her to go out in the garden 'cause it was so pleasant, and she went. So while they were all down there, I saw the way to play Miss Nellie a good trick and to help you, dear; and I ran up to the school-room, changed Nellie's mat for yours, put hers back just as she had left it, and she'll never know the difference and think that somehow that ink-spot has come on her mat. And do you know, Gracie, it was the most fortunate thing that Nellie had just worked those two rows more that made her work even with yours; so she never can know. You remember yesterday we could scarcely tell them apart, and now they look almost exactly alike." "But what then?" said Gracie, almost frightened at the thought of Hattie's probable meaning. "Why, don't you see?" said Hattie, who told her story as if she thought she had done something very clever and praiseworthy; "you can just finish this mat as if it was your own, and need not bother yourself about the ink-stain." "But--but--Hattie--this one is Nellie's," said Gracie in a shocked voice. "What of that? we'll keep the secret, and no one will ever know but us two," said Hattie. "Nellie has the other one, and that's good enough for her. She has no right to expect the most money from your grandmamma. Take a great deal of pains with this, Gracie, and make the work look just like Nellie's." "But, I can't, I can't," said Gracie. "It seems to me almost like--stealing." "Stealing!" repeated Hattie. "I'd like to know who has been stealing! I only changed the mats, and you have the best right to the nicest one. I was not going to have Nellie get every thing away from you. She just thinks she's going to make herself the head of the school and beat you in every thing." Now as I have said, and as you will readily believe, there was more at the bottom of Hattie's desire to thwart Nellie than her wish to see Gracie stand first, although she was really very fond of the latter, and it was this. It had so happened that Nellie's rather blunt truthfulness and clear-sighted honesty had more than once detected Hattie's want of straightforwardness, and even defeated some object she had in view, and for this Hattie bore her a grudge. She was particularly displeased with her at the present time because of a reprimand from Miss Ashton which she chose to consider she owed to Nellie. Coming to school rather early one morning, a day or two since, Nellie found Belle Powers and Hattie there before her. Belle sat upon the lower step of the upper flight of stairs, in a state of utter woe, with the saddest of little faces, and wiping the tears from her eyes. Hattie, grasping the banister with one hand, was swinging herself back and forth, saying, "I wouldn't care if I were you. 'Tis nothing to cry about;" but she looked ashamed and rather caught when she saw Nellie coming up the stairs. "What is the matter, Belle?" asked Nellie, sitting down beside the school pet and darling, and putting her arm around her neck. "Fanny Leroy said things about me," sobbed Belle. "What things?" questioned Nellie with a searching look at Hattie. "She said I was so bad and spoiled I could hardly ever be good, even when I wanted to," answered Belle piteously; "and she said Miss Ashton had to be excusing me all the time for the naughty things I did in school. And I loved Fanny, and I wouldn't have said such bad things about her; and, oh, dear! I thought she loved me too. She came to Aunt Margaret's when I was there the day before she went away, to say good-bye to Maggie and Bessie and me; and she gave us each a nutmeg to remember her by and to keep for ever an' ever an' ever for a keepsake, and she kissed me ever so many times. And all the time she had been saying bad things about me, and so I'm going to throw away the nutmeg, 'cause I don't want a keepsake of a girl who made b'lieve she liked me when she didn't." "I don't believe it," said Nellie with far more energy than was usual with her, and still regarding Hattie with searching looks. "But Hattie says she did," repeated Belle. Hattie's _saying_ a thing made it by no means sure in Nellie's eyes, and although she was not apt to interfere or meddle where she had no right to do so, she would not let this pass without further questioning. She was fond of the absent Fanny and loved Belle dearly; and believing that both were now wronged, she set herself to right them if possible. "I don't believe it," she said again. "Well, you just can believe it," said Hattie resentfully. "Don't I know what Fanny said to me? It's nothing to make such a fuss about, anyhow." "Belle has very easily hurt feelings," said Nellie; "and besides, it _is_ something to make a fuss about. And Fanny hardly ever would say unkind things of other people; the girls used to think she was 'most too particular about it. And, Hattie Leroy, I don't believe she ever said such things about Belle; anyhow, not in that way." "She did, too, I tell you," persisted Hattie, secure in Fanny's absence, and determined not to acknowledge that she had misrepresented her innocent words, from the mere love of talking and exaggeration, too; for she had not intended to hurt Belle so much, and was now really sorry to see her so grieved. "She did, too, I tell you. How do you know what Fanny said to me?" "I don't know what she did say, but I am sure she never said that," repeated Nellie. Both little girls had raised their voices as they contradicted one another, and as the tones of neither were very amicable by this time, they drew the attention of Miss Ashton. "What is this, my little girls; what is the trouble?" she asked, coming up the stairs to them; then, seeing Belle's still distressed and tear-stained face she inquired, "Belle, darling, what is wrong?" Nellie and Hattie were both rather abashed, especially the latter, who knew herself to be in the wrong; but Belle answered, "Hattie thinks Fanny Leroy said something, and Nellie thinks she didn't. I don't know," she added with a mournful shake of her head, "but somehow somebody must be rather 'deceitful and _despicably_ wicked.'" Desperately, Belle meant, and she quoted her words in no spirit of irreverence, but because she thought them suited to the, to her, solemnity of the occasion. Miss Ashton, too, feared that there was some deceitfulness, or at least exaggeration; and seeing that little Belle was in real trouble she questioned further, and Nellie told her what Hattie had said. This was not the first time, by any means, that Miss Ashton had known mischief to arise from Hattie's thoughtless way, to call it by no worse name, of repeating things; and she reproved her pretty sharply, telling her that such speeches were not at all like her gentle, amiable cousin Fanny, and she could not believe her guilty of them; and even had she said them she, Hattie, had no right to repeat them and make needless sorrow and trouble for Belle. Then she soothed Belle and encouraged her to think that Fanny had not so wronged her; and after school she kept Hattie for a few moments, and spoke to her very seriously but kindly on her idle, foolish habit of telling tales with exaggeration and untruthfulness. But Hattie, in repeating this, had said that "Miss Ashton kept her in and gave her an awful scolding just because she had said something that cry-baby Belle did not like, and Nellie went and told her and so put her in a scrape;" nor did she see that it had been her own blame in the first instance. And ever since she had been vexed with Nellie, and this added strength to her wish to have Gracie outstrip Nellie. It was not altogether this, let us do her justice, for she really loved Gracie better than any other child in the school, and was anxious to have her win for her own sake. But we must go back to these two little girls as they sat together in Gracie's room. "Yes, so she does," echoed Gracie; "and I suppose now Miss Ashton will take away my conduct marks, and being away to-day, I'll lose my place in all the classes too. Not that I could not get ahead of her again easily enough," she added contemptuously. "But she can't have the best mat now," said Hattie. "I don't see how I _could_ do that," said Gracie. "It is her's, you know, Hattie, and I can't, really I can't." "But you'll have to now," said Hattie. "You know Nellie has found the ink-spot on the other mat by this time, and there's no way to give her this one back." Yes, there was one way, but that did not enter Hattie's thoughts. "I couldn't," said Gracie again, shrinking at the idea of doing what she knew to be so dishonest and deceitful. "I must have my own mat, Hattie; but I do wish this was mine and the other Nellie's." "But we can't put it back now, and I took it for you," said Hattie complainingly. "Gracie, you must keep it now. I shall get into an awful scrape if you don't; and it's real mean of you." It would take too long to tell you of all the arguments and persuasions Hattie used. How she pleaded and reproached; how she insisted that there was no way of undoing what she had done; how she excited and increased Gracie's jealous pride and desire to outdo Nellie; and this last she found by far the most effectual argument. And--Gracie yielded. Persuading herself that she had the best right to receive the highest premium because her own grandmamma had offered it; putting from her the thought of the only way in which justice could now be done to Nellie, on the plea that Hattie would be disgraced, and she would be "too mean" to bring this upon her; rousing up all her own naughty and envious feelings against innocent Nellie, she gave way at last and fell before temptation. Fell into the very sin, or even worse, from which she felt herself so very secure,--deceit and theft, for it was no less. "Now I'll go, dear," said Hattie, jumping up as soon as Gracie had yielded, perhaps afraid that she might repent and insist that she could not keep the mat, "and no one but us two will ever know the secret. And, Gracie, make up your mind to ask Miss Ashton's pardon, so you won't lose all the fun." [Illustration] [Illustration] IX. _A GUILTY CONSCIENCE._ If Gracie had been an unhappy and miserable child before, what was she now with all this load upon her conscience? For even pride and self-conceit could not attempt to justify such a deed. Jealousy had a good deal to say; and she tried to listen to that, and to believe also that she was not really to blame: she had been forced into it; she could not betray Hattie, who had done this from love to her. But she was more wretched than it would be easy to tell; and she was beginning to feel such a contempt for her chosen friend that this also was a sore spot in her heart. Day by day she was learning that there was nothing true or honorable or upright about Hattie. She hardly even seemed to think it much harm to tell a falsehood, or appeared ashamed when she was found out; and for some days she had had a growing feeling that it was not pleasant to have a friend with the character of a "story-teller," which Hattie now bore among her school-fellows. And Gracie; was she not just as bad, perhaps even worse? For Gracie had been taught all the value and beauty of truth, and had never till now wilfully fallen away from it; but she knew that the worth of that jewel was not much considered in Hattie's home, and so it had lost its preciousness in her eyes. Miss Ashton, too, knew this; and so she was less severe with Hattie than she might have been with another child who had a better example and more encouragement to do right in this particular. Lily, in her plain speaking, would probably have called Mr. and Mrs. Leroy by the same uncomplimentary name she had given to Mr. Raymond; for the same foolish system of management was carried on in their family. Probably they would have been much shocked to hear it said that they taught the lesson of deceit; but was it to be expected that Hattie could have much regard for the truth when she heard herself and her brothers and sisters threatened with punishments, which were not, perhaps could not be carried out; when promises were made to them which were not kept; when they were frightened by tales of bears, wolves, and old black men, and such things which had no existence? "Willie, your mamma said she would send you to bed if you went there," was said to little Willie Leroy one day. "Oh, I'm not afraid," answered Willie, contemptuously. "Mamma never does what she says;" and off he ran to the forbidden spot, his words proving quite true, although his mamma heard that he had disobeyed her so deliberately. "Is your mother going to make you something for the fair?" Hattie was asked by one of her schoolmates. "She says so; but I don't know if she will," was the answer. Hattie's was not the simple faith of "Mamma says so," so sweet in little children. Mamma might or might not do as she had said she would, according to the convenience of the moment. So it was no marvel that Hattie thought it no great harm to escape punishment or gain some fancied good by stretching the truth, or even telling a deliberate falsehood; or that, having a great love of talking, a story should outgrow its true dimensions in her hands; or that she did not see what was honest and upright as well as some children. But with Gracie Howard it was very different. Truth, and truth before all things, was the motto in her home, the lesson which from her babyhood had been taught to her by precept and by example; and the conscience which, in Hattie, was so easily put to sleep, would not let her rest. In vain did jealousy and ambition try to reconcile her to the act of dishonesty and meanness into which she had allowed herself to be drawn; in vain did she argue with herself that "it was all Hattie's fault;" she could not betray Hattie when she had done this just for her; or "there was no way of putting the mat back now; she could not help herself." Gracie sinned with her eyes open, and her conscience all alive to the wickedness of which she was guilty. But her stubborn pride was beginning to give way in one point; for she had no mind to "lose the fun of the fair," as Hattie said,--though even the fair had lost some of its attraction with this weight upon her conscience,--and she resolved to send for her mother, and tell her she would ask Miss Ashton's pardon. So when the long, weary afternoon had worn away, and Mrs. Howard came home, Gracie rang the bell, and sent a message begging her mother to come to her. Mamma came thankfully; but one look at her little daughter's face was enough to convince her that she was in no softened mood, in no gentle and humbled spirit. It was with a sullen and still half-defiant manner that Gracie offered to do what was required of her; and her mother saw that it was fear of farther punishment, and not real sorrow and repentance, which moved her. "I suppose I ought not to have spoken so, mamma," she answered, when her mother asked her if she did not see how very naughty she had been; "but Miss Ashton is so unjust, and Nellie provokes me so." "How is Miss Ashton unjust?" asked Mrs. Howard. Gracie fidgeted and pouted, knowing that her mother would not be willing to accept the charges she was ready to bring. "She's always praising Nellie for every thing she does, mamma; and in these days she never gives me one word of praise, even when every one has to see that I do the best. And--and--I b'lieve she tries to make me miss, so Nellie can go above me in the classes." "Gracie," said her mother, "you know that that last accusation is untrue. As for the first, if Miss Ashton is sparing of her praise, my daughter, it is because she knows it is hurtful to you. Nellie is a timid child, trying to do her best, but with little confidence in her own powers; and praise, while it encourages and helps her to persevere, does not make her vain or conceited. But Miss Ashton sees that that which is needful for Nellie is hurtful to you; for it only increases your foolish vanity and self-esteem, and it is for your own good that she gives you a smaller share. You have, unhappily, so good an opinion of yourself, Gracie, that praise not only makes you disagreeable, but disposes you to take less trouble to improve yourself. Let me hear no more of Miss Ashton's injustice. When you deserve it, or it does not hurt you, Miss Ashton is as ready to give praise to you as she is to another. You say you are willing to ask her pardon for your impertinence; but I fear that you do not really see your fault." "Are you not going to let me come out, then, mamma?" "Yes, since you promise to do as I say; but I fear you are in no proper spirit, Gracie, and that you will fall into further trouble unless you become more submissive and modest." "Hattie was here this afternoon, mamma," said Gracie, as she followed her mother from the room. "So I understood," said Mrs. Howard, who had been waiting for the confession, having been informed of the circumstance by the servant. "I left my mat in school yesterday," said Gracie, "and she thought I would want it, and came to bring it back." She spoke in a low tone and with downcast eyes; for Gracie was so unused to deceit that she could not carry it out boldly, as a more practised child might have done. Something in her manner struck her mother, who turned and looked at her. "Did Hattie bring you any message from Miss Ashton?" she asked. "No, mamma: she only came about the mat; and she begged me to ask Miss Ashton's pardon," answered Gracie with the same hesitation. But her mother only thought that the averted face and drooping look were due to the shame which she felt at meeting the rest of the family after her late punishment and disgrace. "I told Hattie you would not wish her to stay with me, mamma; but she would not go right away, but I would not let her stay very long." "I am glad you were so honest, dear," said Mrs Howard. Honest! Gracie knew how little she deserved such a character, and her mother's praise made her feel more guilty than ever. She was received with open arms by the other children; for Gracie was the eldest of the flock, and, in spite of her self-conceit, she was a kind little sister, and the younger ones quite shared her own opinion, thinking no child so good and wise as their Gracie. And they had missed her very much; so now they all treated her as if she had been ill or absent, and made much of her. But for once Gracie could not enjoy this, and it only seemed to make her feel more ashamed and guilty. What would mamma say, what would all say if they only knew? Mrs. Howard had told Gracie that she might either go to school early in the morning and make her apology to Miss Ashton before the other scholars came, or she might write to her this evening, and send the note to her teacher. Gracie had chosen to do the last; but when the younger children had gone to bed, and she tried to write the note, she found she could not bring her mind to it. Her conscience was so troubled, and her thoughts so full of her guilty secret, that the words she needed would not come to her; and as her mother saw her sitting with her elbows upon the table, biting the end of her pencil or scrawling idly over her blotter and seeming to make no progress at all, she believed, and with reason, that Gracie was not truly repentant for what she had done, and had only promised to beg Miss Ashton's pardon in order that she might be released from the imprisonment of which she had tired. Gracie was not usually at a loss for ideas or words where she had any thing to write. "I can't do it," she said pettishly at last, pushing paper and pencil from her. "I s'pose I'll have to go to Miss Ashton in the morning, and I b'lieve I'll go to bed now. Good-night, mamma." And Gracie went to her room, wishing to escape from her own thoughts, and bring this miserable day to a close as soon as possible. But the next morning it was no better; and now it seemed harder to go to Miss Ashton and speak than it would be to write. But it was too late now: she had no time to compose a note, "make it up" as she would have said, and to copy it before school, and she must abide by her choice of the previous night. She started early for school, according to her mother's desire, with many charges from her to remember how grievously she had offended Miss Ashton, and to put away pride and self-conceit and make her apology in a proper spirit. Had there not been that guilty secret fretting at Gracie's heart, she might have been induced to be more submissive; but, as it was, she felt so unhappy that it only increased her reluctance to make amends to Miss Ashton and acknowledge how wrong she had been. She asked for her teacher at once when she reached the house, anxious to "have it over;" and, when the young lady appeared, blurted out, "I beg your pardon, Miss Ashton." Miss Ashton sat down, and, taking Gracie's half-reluctant hand, drew her kindly towards her. "It is freely granted, my dear," she said. "And are you truly sorry, Gracie?" Gracie fidgeted and wriggled uneasily; but we who know what she had done can readily believe that it was more pride than a strict love of the truth which led her to say to herself that she was "not sorry," and "she could not tell a story by saying so." "I beg your pardon, ma'am, and I won't do so again," she repeated, seeing that Miss Ashton waited for her answer. Miss Ashton did not wish to force her to say that which she did not feel, and she saw that it was of no use to argue with her in her present stubborn mood; but she talked quietly and kindly to her, setting before her the folly and the wrong of the self-love and vanity which were ruling her conduct, and day by day spoiling all that was good and fair in her character. "See what trouble they have brought you into now, Gracie," she said; "and unless you check them in time, my child, they will lead you deeper into sin. I scarcely know you for the same little girl who first came to me, so much have these faults grown upon you; and they are fast destroying all the affection and confidence of your school-fellows. Why, Gracie, I have heard one little girl say that 'Gracie thought so much of herself that it sometimes made her forget to be very true.'" Gracie started. Was this the character her self-love was earning for her? she who desired to stand so high in all points with the world. Ah! but it was for the praise of man, and not for the honor and glory of God that Gracie strove to outshine all others; and she walked by her own strength, and the poor, weak prop must fail her and would lay her low. "Forget to be very true!" How far she had done this, even Miss Ashton did not dream; but it seemed to Gracie that she had chosen her words to give her the deepest thrust, and she bowed her head in shame and fear. But Miss Ashton, knowing nothing of what was passing in that guilty young heart, was glad to see this, and believed that her words were at last making some impression on Gracie, and that she was taking her counsel and reproof in a different spirit from that in which she generally received them. Strange to say, in all the miserable and remorseful thoughts which had made her wretched since yesterday afternoon, it had not once entered her mind how she was to face Nellie when the poor child should make known the misfortune which had befallen her. One by one the children came in, and how awkward Gracie felt in meeting them may readily be imagined by any one who has suffered from some similar and well-merited disgrace. Still she tried, as she whispered to Hattie she should do, to "behave as if nothing had happened;" and when little Belle, after looking at her wistfully for a moment as if undecided how to act, came up and kissed her, saying, "I'm glad to see you, Gracie," she answered rather ungraciously, "I'm sure it's not so very long since you saw me," and sent the dear little girl away feeling very much rebuffed. And yet she really felt Belle's innocent friendliness, and her sweet attempt to make her welcome and at her ease; but pride would not let her show it. Nellie was one of the last to arrive, and her troubled and woe-begone face startled Gracie and smote her to the heart. "Such a dreadful thing has happened to me," said Nellie, when she was questioned by the other children; and the tears started to her eyes afresh as she spoke. "What is it? What is it?" asked a number of eager voices. "I don't know how it can have happened," said Nellie, hardly able to speak for the sobs she vainly tried to keep back. "I have been so, so careful; but there is an ugly spot like ink or something on my mat. I can't think how it ever came there, for I put it in my desk very carefully when school began yesterday, and did not take it out till I got home, and I did not know there was any ink near it. But when I unrolled it last evening the stain was there, and mamma thinks it is ink, and she cannot get it out. And I've taken such pains to keep the mat clean and nice." And here poor Nellie's voice broke down entirely, while Gracie, feeling as if her self-command, too, must give way, opened her desk and put her head therein, with a horrible choking feeling in her throat. "We'll all tell Mrs. Howard it came somehow through not any fault of yours," said Lily. "Never mind, Nellie, yours is the best mat, anyhow: we all know it;" and Lily cast a defiant and provoking glance at Gracie, which was quite lost upon the latter. Lily had suggested on the day before, that when Gracie came back to school they should "all behave just as if nothing had happened," just what Gracie intended to do; but generous Lily had said it in quite a different spirit from that in which Gracie proposed it to herself. But Gracie's rebuff to Belle, and the seeming indifference with which she treated Nellie's misfortune, roused Lily's indignation once more; for she thought, as did many of the other children, that Gracie did not feel sorry for Nellie's trouble, since it gave her the greater chance of having her own work pronounced the best. [Illustration] "Yes, we will tell Mrs. Howard," said Dora Johnson: "yours was really the best mat of all, though Gracie's was almost as nice; and we will tell her something happened to it that you could not help, and perhaps she will not mind it." "Perhaps a vase standing on it would cover the spot," said Laura Middleton. Nellie shook her head. "No," she said, "that would not make it any better. Mrs. Howard said that the best and neatest mat must take the highest premium, and mine is not the neatest now. I wouldn't feel comfortable to do any thing that was not quite fair, even if you all said I might." "That was not quite fair!" More and more ashamed, and feeling how far behind Nellie left her in honesty and fairness, Gracie still sat fumbling in her desk, looking for nothing. "Well," said Dora, "we'll speak to Mrs. Howard about it, and see what she says: won't we, Gracie?" Gracie muttered something which might mean either yes or no. "Augh!" said Lily, "what do you talk to that proudy about it for? She don't care a bit. I b'lieve she's just glad and wouldn't help Nellie if she could." Gracie made no answer: she was too miserable for words or to think of answering Lily's taunts, and she would have given up all thought of having any thing to do with the fair to have had Nellie's mat safely in her possession once more. Oh, if she had never yielded to temptation or to Hattie's persuasions! "How you do act!" whispered Hattie to Gracie. "If you don't take care they will suspect something." "I can't help it," returned Gracie in the same tone: "it is such an awful story that we have told." "It is not a story," said Hattie; "we've neither of us said one word about the mat." This was a new view of the matter; but it brought no comfort to Gracie's conscience She knew that the acted deceit was as bad as the spoken one, perhaps in this case even worse. She felt as if she could not bear this any longer, as if she must tell, must confess what she had done; and yet--how? How could she lower herself so in the eyes of her schoolmates? she who had always held herself so high, been so scornful over the least meanness, equivocation, or approach to falsehood! A more wretched little girl than Gracie was that morning it would have been hard to find; but her teacher and schoolmates thought her want of spirit arose from the recollection of her late naughtiness and the feeling of shame, and took as little notice of it as possible. And Lily, repenting of her resentment when she saw how dull and miserable Gracie seemed, threw her arms about her neck as they were leaving school, and said, "Please forgive me my provokingness this morning, Gracie. I ought to be ashamed, and I am." But Gracie could not return, scarcely suffer, the caress, and dared not trust herself to speak, as she thought how furious Lily's indignation would be if she but knew the truth. [Illustration] [Illustration] X. _A GAME OF CHARACTERS._ At home or at school, studying, working or playing--for the latter she had little heart now--Gracie could not shake off the weight that was upon her mind and spirits. Even her work for the fair had lost its interest; and as for the mat, Nellie's mat, she could not bear the sight of it. She went to sleep at night thinking of it, and trying to contrive some way out of her difficulty, though she would not listen to the voice of her conscience which whispered that there was but one way; and she woke in the morning with the feeling that something dreadful had happened. Appetite and spirits failed; she grew fretful and irritable, and her mother imagined that she must be ill, though Gracie resolutely persisted that there was nothing the matter with her, and that she felt quite well. "Gracie," said Mrs. Howard one morning after three or four days had passed, "it appears to me that you are not doing much on your mat. How is that?" "I don't care," answered Gracie, fretfully. "I don't believe I'll finish it. I'm tired of the old thing." "That will not do, my child," said her mother. "You have undertaken to do this for your grandmamma and for the fair, and I cannot have you stop it now without some good reason. Bring the mat to me." Gracie went for the mat very unwillingly, though she dared not refuse nor even show her reluctance. "It really does you credit," said Mrs. Howard, taking it from her hands: "it is so smooth and even, and you have kept it so neat. But you must be more industrious, dear, if you are to have it finished in time. And see, Gracie," she continued, looking at it more closely, "these last few lines look not _quite_ as nicely as the rest. There is a difference in the work, and you will have to take more pains than you have done here. It looks almost as if another person had worked it. You have not let any one help you with it, have you?" "No, mamma," replied Gracie in a low tone and with a frightened feeling. Was there really such a difference between her work and Nellie's that it was so easily detected? It had not occurred either to her or to Hattie, perhaps they did not know, that the work of two different hands seldom or never matches well upon embroidery in worsted, and that it is almost sure to be perceived. She was dismayed at the thought that her mother had noticed this, and now every stitch that she took seemed to make the difference more plain, take what pains she might. She began to feel angry and indignant at Hattie for leading her into this sin, shutting her eyes to the fact that, if she had not allowed proud and jealous thoughts to creep into her heart, temptation would not have had so much influence over her. She no longer took any pleasure in the society of her little friend, and shrank from her in a way that Hattie perceived, and by which she was hurt; for she was disposed in her own mind to throw all the blame upon Hattie, forgetting that she was really the most to blame, since she had been better taught, and saw more clearly the difference between right and wrong. As for Nellie, poor, innocent, injured Nellie, Gracie felt as if she could not bear the sight of her; and when she saw in what a gentle, patient spirit she took her great misfortune,--for so all the children considered it,--she grew more and more ashamed and lowered in her own sight. Pride and self-esteem could not now blind her to the fact that Nellie was better, far better, than herself. Meanwhile the change in Gracie was exciting the wonder of all, the pity of some, of her young friends and schoolmates. Only Hattie held the clew to it; and she was surprised that such "a trifle," as she considered it, should have such an effect upon Gracie and make her so unhappy. But Gracie was not a really bad or deceitful child, although she had suffered herself to be led so far astray. She was not naturally more unkind or selfish than most of us who have not the love and fear of God before us; indeed she was what children call "generous" in giving or sharing what she had, and she was always glad to do a helpful or obliging act for another. But she had always trusted to her own strength, and believed she could not fall, and now she was learning that her high thoughts of herself, and her carelessness of what she considered little faults, had made her an easy prey to temptation and the indulgence of a foolish pride and jealousy had led her into this great sin into which she had not imagined she could fall. But although she saw this now, she was not truly repentant; for she would not take the only right and true way to make amends; and spent her time wishing vain wishes, and trying to contrive some way out of her difficulty without bringing disgrace upon herself or losing her character for honor and truthfulness among her young companions. It troubled Gracie far less to think how she already stood in the eyes of God, than it did to imagine how she might appear in the sight of her earthly friends if this thing were known. There was a small children's party at Mrs. Bradford's. Gracie did not care to go; indeed she would much rather not have done so: but her mother had accepted for her, and she had no good excuse for staying away. She was more restless and miserable than usual that afternoon: she set up her opinion against that of all the rest, found fault with her playmates in every game that was begun, was more than usually sure that she knew every thing and could do better than any one else, and, not having her wits and thoughts about her, miserably failed in all the plays in which she meant to shine. "What shall we play now?" asked Bessie at length, when they had all tired of some romping game. "Let's take a little rest, and play 'Characters,'" said Gracie, who was very good in this, having no match among her present playmates save Maggie. "Well," said Maggie, willing to please her if possible, although she saw some objections to the game just now; "we'll play it; but it is rather hard for the younger ones, so we must take easy characters. Who'll go out?" "I will," said Lily; "but mind you do take an easy one. Somebody we know very well, not any history or jography character. I don't want to bother my head about lesson people when I'm playing." "Very well," said Maggie; and Lily went out, singing loudly in the hall that she might "be sure and not hear." "Let's take Cromwell," said Gracie, always anxious, no matter what her frame of mind, to display her knowledge. "No," said Maggie, "that's too hard for Lily; and she wants us to take some one we know." "I should think any goose might know about Cromwell," said Gracie. "We did not know about him till a few weeks ago," said Dora Johnson. "We've only just had him in our history, and I don't b'lieve Lily knows much about him." "Then take Lafayette," said Gracie. "Lily means some of the people we have in our own lives," said Bessie. "Make haste: she'll be tired." This was seconded by Lily's voice calling from without, "Why don't you make haste? I should think you were choosing a hundred people." "Let's take Flossey," said Belle, looking at the dog, who had jumped upon a chair beside Maggie, where he sat with a wise and sedate air as if he were listening to all that passed, and ready to take his share in the game. This was agreed upon by all but Gracie, who declared that it was "ridiculous to choose a dog," and she had "a great mind not to play the game in such an absurd way." Lily was called in and proceeded to ask her questions. "Male or female?" was the first, beginning at Dora. "Male," answered Dora. "Black or white?" asked Lily. "Neither," said Belle, who was next in turn, "least he's not black at all; but he's some white." Lily looked rather puzzled at this. "And what color besides is he?" "Brown," answered Bessie. "A brown and white man," said Lily. "Oh! I know. It's old black Peter." "No, no, no," echoed around the circle. "Not one scrap of Peter is white," said Mamie Stone. "He's the blackest old man I ever saw." "Part of his eyes are white and his teeth too," said Lily, who was generally pretty sure of her ground when she stated a fact. "Where does he live?" "In this country," said Nellie. "In this city?" "Yes," answered Maggie. "Is he good or bad?" "Good, most generally," answered Mabel; "only sometimes pretty mischievous." "Oh," said Lily, light beginning to break upon her. "Can he talk?" "He tan't talt, but he tan bart pretty well," said Frankie, to whom the question fell. "Oh! oh! that's too plain," cried one and another laughing; and Maggie, thinking Frankie did not understand the game well enough to be allowed to go out, gave a hint to Lily, but not wishing to hurt her little brother's feelings took refuge in the French language, and said:-- "Ne _guessez_ pas a lui." Frankie, however, was too sharp for her; there was not much that escaped him, and he exclaimed in a very aggrieved tone that it was "not fair," and that Lily should guess at him. So Lily said "Flossey" was the character; and, amid much laughter, the young gentleman betook himself to the hall with a pompous air, telling the little girls to make haste. "Let's take himself," said Bessie, which being agreed upon, Frankie was called back almost before he was well out of the room. "Is he blat or white?" he asked, following Lily's example, and beginning as she had done at Dora. "He's white," said Dora laughing; and, in obedience to a suggestion from Maggie to help him out, she added,--"white, with brown eyes and red cheeks and brown hair." "Flossey," cried Frankie triumphantly. "No, no; not Flossey again," said the children. "Does he have four feets?" asked the little boy. "No, only two," said Belle. "Does he live in the stable?" asked Frankie. "No, he lives in this house," said Bessie. "Blackie," said Frankie, who was unable to give up the idea that since it was not Flossey it must be the little pony owned by his sisters. "Does he eat hay?" was his next question. "No," answered Nellie, "he eats fruit and meat and bread and milk, and, oh! how he does love sugar and candy!" "Me," cried Frankie, feeling that this description exactly suited himself. The character having been guessed at Nellie she now went out, and Maggie, willing to put Gracie in a good humor if possible, asked her who they should take this time. "Mary, Queen of Scots," answered Gracie promptly. It was not altogether probable that the younger children knew much of this unfortunate lady, but Gracie's choice was acceded to and Nellie called. "Male or female?" was of course the first question. "Female," answered Dora. "Old or young?" "Um--m--m, pretty old," said Belle; "at least she was grown up." "Is she alive now?" "No," answered Bessie. "Where did she live?" "Well," said Lily, "she lived in a good many places. But not in this country. Generally in France or Scotland." "Oh," said Nellie to whom this answer gave an inkling of the truth; but she passed on to the next. "Was she good or bad, Maggie?" "Some think her quite celestial and some think her quite infernal," answered Maggie with grand emphasis; "but on the whole I think she was not either, only rather middling like the most of us." Nellie felt more confident than ever; but not caring to risk one of her three guesses as yet, she passed on. The questions she put to Mabel and Frankie were simple and very easily answered; then came Gracie's turn. "What was she celebrated for?" "For cruelty and persecuting people," answered Gracie confidently; and Nellie's idea was at once put to flight by the reply. "That's a mistake," said Dora. "You are thinking of another character, Gracie." "I'm not, either," said Gracie. "Don't I know history better than any of you?" "You don't know _that_, anyway," said Maggie. "Gracie, you _are_ wrong. _She_ was not the character you are thinking of, and was not celebrated for that." "But she _was_," persisted Gracie. "Nellie," said Maggie, "you need not guess by what Gracie has told you, for she is not right." "I'll put my question another way," said Nellie. "Can I ask Gracie once again?" All agreed and Nellie asked,-- "Was she celebrated for her beauty and her misfortunes?" "I shan't tell you," said Gracie snappishly. "If I do, I shan't be believed, but they'll all go and contradict me. I suppose I know what I know; and any of you might be proud if you knew as much history as I do and had kept the head of the class so long." Gracie had for a moment forgotten how disgracefully she had lost her place at the head of the history class, but the silence that followed her ill-tempered speech brought it back to her and increased her vexation. "You all think you know so much," she said, throwing herself back sullenly in her chair. Bessie had begged Lily to bear with Gracie and not to aggravate her as she seemed so miserable and out of spirits, and Lily had been very forbearing; at least, so she thought. But now her small stock of patience was quite exhausted and she exclaimed vehemently:-- "Gracie, we try to stand you; we do try with all our might and main; but you use up every bit of standing there is in me!" This did not mend matters in Gracie's present state of mind, but led to a pretty severe quarrel between her and Lily which the others vainly tried to heal, Lily being rather provoking, and Gracie obstinately sullen and ill-tempered. It ended in a violent burst of tears from the latter, and a declaration that she would go home at once. But this was impossible, since it was now evening; and the children's supper-time being near at hand, Mrs. Bradford could not just then spare a servant to go home with Gracie. No soothing or coaxing proved of any avail, nor did Lily's repentance; for she was sorry now that she had been provoking, and would readily have kissed and made up if Gracie could have been persuaded to do so. Gracie said that she would not stay where Lily was, and went sulkily upstairs to the room where Maggie and Bessie slept. [Illustration] [Illustration] XI. _CONFESSION._ Gracie expected and wished to be left to herself till it was time to go home; at least she thought she did, and she had quite made up her mind that if any one came and begged her to go down to supper she would steadily refuse. She stood there with all manner of unhappy and wretched feelings, wishing vain and fruitless wishes, as she had so often done since she had fallen into this sin,--that she had never allowed Hattie to tempt her into doing what she knew to be wrong; that grandmamma had never made this plan or offered to put a price on the different pieces of work; that she had never gone to the school, or that Nellie had never belonged to it; but still she did not think of wishing that she had not thought so much of herself or been so very anxious above all things to be first. Poor Gracie! Only those can tell how unhappy she was who have themselves so fallen and so suffered. There was no way out of her trouble but by confessing all the truth, and she could not bring herself to that. She had not closed the door when she came in, and presently she heard a gentle foot-fall, then Bessie's soft voice, saying, "Are you in here, Gracie?" There was no light in the room save the faint glimmer of moonlight which came through the window, and as Gracie stood in the shade, Bessie did not at first see her. "Yes, I'm here, but I don't want any supper, and I'm not coming down till I go home," answered Gracie, not as ungraciously as she had intended to speak, for somehow she could not be disagreeable to dear Bessie. "Supper is not quite ready yet, and you shall have some up here if you had very much rather not come down," said Bessie with a coaxing tone in her voice; "but you'd better come down, Gracie. They're all very sorry for you and don't think you meant to be cross, 'cause Nellie said she was sure something troubled you for a good many days, or you did not feel well, and that often made people impatient, so we ought not to be mad at you." Gracie made no answer, but presently Bessie heard a low sob. "Gracie, dear," she said, coming closer to her little friend and putting her arms about her neck, "something does trouble you, doesn't it? Couldn't you tell me what it is, and let me see if I could comfort you? Sometimes it makes people feel better to tell their troubles and have some one feel sorry for them." The caressing touch, the tender manner, the earnest, pleading voice were too much for Gracie, and, throwing herself down on a chair, she buried her face in her arms and sobbed bitterly. Bessie let her cry for a moment, for the wise little woman knew that tears often do one good for a while, and contented herself with giving soft touches to Gracie's hair and neck to let her know she was still beside her and ready to give her her sympathy. At last Gracie raised her head and said brokenly, "Oh, Bessie, I am so bad! I am so wicked!" "I don't think being rather--rather--well, rather cross, is so very _wicked_," said Bessie, hesitating to give a hard name to Gracie's ill-temper, "and if you are sorry now and will come downstairs, we'll all be very glad to see you." "Oh, it isn't that," sobbed Gracie. "Bessie, if you knew what I've done, you'd hate me. I know you would." "No, I wouldn't," said Bessie. "I'd never hate you, Gracie. I'd only be sorry for you and try to help you." "You can't help me. No one can help me," said Gracie, in a fresh paroxysm of distress. "Can't your mamma? Mammas generally can," said Bessie. "No, not even mamma," answered Gracie. "Oh, Bessie, I do feel as if it would be a kind of relief to tell you; but you'd hate me, you couldn't help it; and so would every one else." "Every one else need not know it because you tell me," said Bessie. "Tell Jesus, and ask Him to help you, Gracie." "Even He can't," said Gracie; "at least--at least--not unless I tell other people who ought to know it." "Do you mean He would want you to tell it?" "Yes, I s'pose so," almost whispered Gracie. Bessie considered a moment. That Gracie was full of a vain, foolish pride and self-conceit, she knew; also that she was not the Gracie of a year or two since; but that she would wrong any one she never dreamed, and she could not imagine any cause for this great distress. "Gracie," she said, "I think by what you say that you must have done something to me. I can't think what it can be; but I promise not to be angry. I will be friends with you all the same." "It was not you; no, it was not you; but, Bessie, it was such a dreadful thing and so mean that you never can bear me after you know it. You are so very true yourself." "Have you told a story?" asked Bessie in a troubled voice. "Not told a story, but I acted one," sobbed Gracie. "O Bessie! sit down here and let me tell you. I can't keep it in any longer. Maybe you'll tell me what to do; but I know what you'll say, and I can't do that." Bessie did as she was requested, and, in as few whispered words as possible, Gracie poured her wretched story into her ears. Bessie sprang to her feet, and her arms which she had clasped about Gracie's neck fell away from it. It was as the latter had feared; this was so much worse than any thing Bessie had expected, she was herself so truthful and upright, that her whole soul was filled with horror and dismay. No wonder that Gracie was distressed. This was indeed dreadful. "I knew it, I knew it," said Gracie, burying her face again. "I knew you never could bear me again. It seemed as if I couldn't help telling you, Bessie; but you never, never will speak to me again. I wish--I wish--oh, I almost wish I was an orphan and had no one to care for me, so I could wish I was dead, only I'm too bad to go to God." Sympathy and pity were regaining their place in Bessie's heart in spite of her horror and indignation at what Gracie had done, and once more she sat down beside her and tried to soothe and comfort. She succeeded in part at least. Gracie's sobs grew less violent, and she let Bessie persuade her to raise her head. Then they sat side by side, Bessie holding her hand. "What would you do, Bessie?" asked Gracie. "I know I ought to tell, but I don't see how I can. It will be such a disgrace, and all the girls will have to know, and I've made such a fuss about myself, and always thought I never could do any thing that was very bad. And now this." And now this! Yes, after all her boasting, after all her self-confidence, her belief that she could not and would not fall into greater sin through her own conceit and vanity. Bessie knew all this; knew how confident Gracie had been in her own strength; knew what a bitter shame and mortification it must be to have this known; knew that it must be long before she could regain the trust and respect of her schoolmates after this thing should once be told. During the last few months Gracie had lost much of the liking and affection of her little friends; but not one among them would have believed her capable of deliberate deceit or of that which was not strictly honest. Ah! it was a great and terrible fall. Bessie felt this as well as Gracie. But she knew also that there was but one thing for Gracie to do; but one way in which she could have any peace or comfort once more. Bessie was not the child for Gracie to put confidence in, if she expected advice that was not plain and straightforward. "What _shall_ I do, Bessie?" she repeated. "I think you'll have to tell, dear," said the pitying little voice beside her. Gracie actually shrank in a kind of terror at the thought; and yet she had known that this was what Bessie would say. "Oh! I can't, I can't; I never can," she moaned. "But, Gracie, dear," said the little monitress, "I don't think you will ever feel happy and comfortable again till you do; and Jesus is displeased with you all the time till you do it. If you told about it and tried to make it up to Nellie, then He would be pleased with you again. And then you could have comfort in that even if people were rather cross to you about it. And, Gracie, Maggie and I will not be offended with you. I know Maggie will not; and we'll coax the other girls not to tease you or be unkind to you about it." "Don't you think it was so very wicked in me then?" asked Gracie. "O Bessie! you are such a good child, I don't believe you ever have wicked thoughts. You don't know how hard it is sometimes not to do wrong when you want to do it very much,--when a very, very great temptation comes, like this." "Yes," said Bessie, "I think I do, Gracie. And you are very much mistaken when you say I never have naughty thoughts. I have them very often, and the only way I can make them go is, to ask Jesus to help me, and to keep asking Him till they do go, and the temptation too. Perhaps, when you had the temptation to do this you did not remember to ask." "No, I did not," said Gracie. "But, Bessie, it never seemed to me that I _could_ do a thing that was not quite true and honest. And I suppose it has come because I thought too much of myself and wanted too much to have my work the best. It was not that I cared about the money, for you know that was for Jessie and her grandfather; but I wanted every one to say mine was the best; and it made me so mad that any one should say Nellie's was better than mine. If I had not cared so very much, Hattie would not have persuaded me, for I _did_ know it was horribly mean. You never had a temptation like this, Bessie." "I don't know," said Bessie slowly. "I think I once had one something like it. Don't you remember, Gracie, that time you lost your prize composition and we found it in the drawer of the hall-table?" "Yes," answered Gracie, "and how cross I was about it, and how hateful to you and Maggie." "Well," said Bessie, "I had a very hard temptation that time. I found the composition first, and I wanted to leave it there and not tell any one, 'cause I wanted Maggie to have the prize so much; and at first it did not seem so very wrong to me, and I tried to think I _ought_ not to tell, because then my own Maggie could have the prize; but I did not feel sure about it, so I asked Jesus to let me see what I ought to do, and then I saw it quite plain, and knew I must take the composition to you. But it was a dreadful temptation, Gracie." "Yes," said Gracie with a sigh, feeling deeply the difference between herself and her dear little playmate who had so bravely resisted temptation. For she knew how very anxious Bessie had been that Maggie should gain the prize. "But you did not _do_ the thing you were tempted to do," she said. "What would you do if you had, Bessie?" "I should go right away and tell my mamma; and perhaps she could find some way to help me out of it," said Bessie. "Anyway, she ought to know, and she will tell you what you ought to do." "Oh, it will make mamma feel dreadfully," said Gracie. "She was always telling me I would fall into trouble some day because I thought too much of myself; but, oh, dear! she never could have believed I would do this. Wouldn't you feel awfully, Bessie, if you had done it?" Yes, indeed. Bessie felt that she should; it almost seemed to her that she should die if she had such a weight on her mind and conscience, and she felt for Gracie most deeply. But still she knew that Gracie would never feel right again till she had made confession, and she once more urged it upon her; confession to God and man; and at last Gracie promised. Promised with many tears and sobs; but that promise once given, she became in haste to have it over and to go home to her mamma at once. "Ask your mamma to let me go home as soon as she can, Bessie," she pleaded. "Tell her I do not feel well, for I do not really. My head aches and I feel all shaky, as if I could not hold still; and I don't want to see any one down stairs again or to have any supper." Bessie was about to leave her to do as she was asked, when Mrs. Bradford came in. "Gracie and Bessie," she said, "are you here? You were so long in coming that I feared something was wrong. Will you not come down and have some supper, Gracie?" Gracie did not speak, but held fast to Bessie's hand. "Mamma," said the little girl, "Gracie does not feel well, and she would like to go home as soon as you could send her. She's quite trembling, mamma. I feel her." Mrs. Bradford took Gracie's hand in hers and found that it was indeed cold and trembling, while her temples were hot and throbbing; for over-excitement and worry had made her really ill, and the lady saw that she was more fit for bed than for the supper-room. She told Gracie she should go home immediately, and putting on her hat led her down stairs, and calling Mr. Bradford, begged him to take the poor little girl home and explain matters to her mamma. Gracie clung to Bessie for a good-night kiss, whispering, "I will do it, Bessie; no matter what comes after, I will do it." Mr. Bradford took her home,--it was not far from his house,--talking cheerfully by the way and trying to keep her amused; but, though Gracie felt he was kind, she hardly knew what he was saying, her mind was so taken up with the thought of the dreadful secret she had to confess. Mrs. Howard was startled, as was only natural, to see her little girl coming home so much before she had expected her; and Mr. Bradford's assurance that he did not think there was much wrong with Gracie, and that she would be well after a good night's sleep, did not quiet her fears, especially when she looked in Gracie's face. She quickly undressed her and put her to bed; but, longing as Gracie was to have her confession over, she could not tell it while the nurse was in the room; and it was not until she was safely in bed, and the woman sent to prepare some medicine, that she gave vent to the tears she had managed to keep back before her. "There, there, my darling," said her mother soothingly. "You will be better soon. Do not be frightened; this is only a little nervousness." "O mamma, mamma!" cried poor Gracie; "you ought not to be so kind to me. You don't know how bad, how very bad I am." "Is there any thing especially wrong just now, Gracie?" asked her mother gently. "Yes, mamma; oh, yes. I have--I have--put your head closer, mamma, and let me whisper;" and then, with her face hidden against her mother's shoulder, came the confession, made with many bitter tears and sobs. Mrs. Howard was greatly shocked; she could hardly speak when she heard all. "Shall you ever be able to forgive me, mamma?" sobbed Gracie. "I know, I know you think me perfectly dreadful, but if you could try me just this once, and see if I ever do such a thing again. Indeed, I don't think I could. I know I am not too good to do it, as I thought I was before; but I have felt so dreadfully ever since I did it, I don't think I could ever punish myself so again." "I can believe that you have been very unhappy, my child," said her mother; "indeed I have seen it, though I did not know the cause. But you have need to ask a higher forgiveness than mine." "I will, mamma," said Gracie; "but--but--I suppose Nellie and the other children must be told?" "I fear so, Gracie," said her mother. "Nellie must be righted and have her own mat again, and I do not see how we are to avoid having the rest of the children hear this terrible thing also. I must see Miss Ashton in the morning and talk it over with her, and we will arrange what is best to be done. But now you must try to be quiet and go to sleep. You are over-excited and will be really ill, so I can allow you to talk no more. But before you sleep, my child, make your peace with your Father in heaven, and ask Him to help you to bear the punishment you have brought upon yourself by your naughty pride and ambition." Gracie obeyed her mother as well as she was able; and, truly repentant, we may hope, at last fell into a troubled sleep. [Illustration] [Illustration] XII. _THE FAIR._ The next day was Saturday, when there was no school, so that Mrs. Howard was able to see Miss Ashton and tell her the sad story, quite early in the morning. Miss Ashton was much grieved and surprised; for, as she told Mrs. Howard, although she had known that Gracie's high thoughts of herself and belief that she was wiser and better than any of her companions often led her into exaggeration, yet she could not have believed her capable of any thing that was really mean and dishonorable. She was distressed, too, at the thought of the exposure and mortification which must follow; for it seemed necessary, for Nellie's sake, that not only Grandmamma Howard, but the whole school should know the truth. She and Mrs. Howard talked it all over for some time, but neither of the two ladies saw any way to avoid this disgrace for Gracie. They would willingly have spared her the punishment, if possible, for she had already suffered severely, and she seemed so truly humble and repentant that her mother did not believe there was much fear she would again fall into this sin. Mrs. Howard had thought last night that perhaps she ought to deprive Gracie of any share in the fair; but that must make her disgrace very well known, and now she hoped that there was no need of further punishment to make her see and feel her great fault. And now Grandmamma Howard must be seen and told the sad story. Mrs. Howard knew that she would be much distressed that her kind plan should turn out so badly. Neither Gracie's mamma nor Miss Ashton had quite approved of that plan; especially on Gracie's account, but they could not well say so and cross the good old lady. It was as they had feared. Grandmamma was very much grieved and disturbed to know that what she had intended to be a help and a kindness, had only proved a source of trouble, and an encouragement to Gracie's besetting sin. There yet remained to Mrs. Howard the still more painful task of telling Nellie how she had been wronged. She would have thought it right to make Gracie do this herself, had it not been that the child was really ill that morning, and in no state for further excitement; and it was not just to Nellie to put off the confession any longer. Nellie was filled with amazement. Much as she had wondered over the unfortunate spot upon the mat she supposed to be hers, she had never dreamed of a thing like this, nor had she the least suspicion of the truth. Indeed, how should she? She was a quiet child, with a more wise and thoughtful little head than those who did not know her well would have given her credit for; but words did not come to her very readily, and, after the first surprise was over, she only said to Mrs. Howard, with the tears in her eyes,-- "Please tell Gracie I am not angry with her, and hope she will be friends with me once more. Let's try not to think about it any more than we can help; will you, Mrs. Howard?" Generous, forgiving Nellie! How ashamed Gracie felt when her mother told her this, and she contrasted Nellie's conduct with her own. She lay upon her little bed that afternoon, feeling wretched both in mind and body, though it was a relief to remember that she had confessed all to mamma, and that she had set her face toward the right way once more, when Mrs. Howard came in bringing Nellie with her. Poor Gracie gave a low sob, and covered her face with her hands in utter shame and distress, feeling as if she could not bear to have Nellie look at her. But in a moment Nellie was beside her, saying,-- "Don't, Gracie; please don't. You needn't feel so very badly about it now. I don't care much, and we'll make it all up." "Oh, Nellie, Nellie! I don't deserve you to be so kind to me," sobbed Gracie. "I was so hateful to you and so jealous, and it seemed as if I could not bear to have you go before me in any thing. I know I've been just too hateful to you." "Well, never mind now," said Nellie. Mrs. Howard had gone out and left the two children together. "I can't help minding," said Gracie; "and, only think, Nellie, all the other girls in the school will have to know, and it will shame me almost to death. I hope, I hope mamma will never make me go back to school, and I mean to stay away from the fair, any way." "That is what I came to see you about," said Nellie. "The girls need not know, Gracie. You see my--your--the mat with the ink-spot on it is nearly finished now, so I have done about as much work on one as on the other. And I don't care so very much about having mine called the best, for the money will do Jessie and her grandfather just as much good, no matter who earns it. So if each of us finishes the one she has now, it will be all the same, and the rest of the children need never know it. I am sure, Gracie, I should feel just as you do, and never want to come back to school again or see any of our class if I had done this, and I know just how badly you must feel. So I thought about it, and it seemed to me it would come right again if we just went on with the work as if this had not been found out; I mean if you had not told. I'd rather no one would know it but just those who know now. Don't you think we could arrange it so, Gracie? Your mother gave me leave to tell you this, and says she would be very glad for you if it can be done, and she thinks Miss Ashton will be willing." To hear the earnest, wistful voice one might have supposed that generous, great-hearted Nellie was pleading for some great boon for herself. But she could not tell all that Gracie felt. No, indeed; she did not know what coals of fire she was heaping on her head; how perfectly humbled and remorseful she felt as she remembered all the hard thoughts she had cherished toward her; the unkind words and unjust actions of which she had been guilty; all forgotten now, it seemed, by Nellie, who was only anxious to make the path of repentance as easy as possible to her, and to avoid all unnecessary shame and exposure to the one who had so greatly injured her. With many sobs and broken words she told Nellie all that was in her heart, beseeching her forgiveness, and thanking her over and over for her consideration and sweet thoughtfulness; not that she put it in just such words, but in those that were very simple and very touching to Nellie. So peace was made between them,--a peace that was sure to be lasting and true where there was such sincere repentance on one side, such good will and hearty forgiveness on the other. Grandmamma Howard was only too glad on Gracie's account to accept Nellie's generous proposal. Miss Ashton also agreed that the matter should go no further, and so it was arranged, and further disgrace to Gracie avoided, although the weight of shame and remorse was not readily lifted from her heart, and she felt as if her schoolmates must know her secret and that she dared scarcely look them in the face. They all wondered at the new humility and modesty which she now began to show; but the change was an agreeable one, and drew forth no unkind remarks. A prettier sight than Miss Ashton's garden and piazza on that lovely June afternoon when the long-talked-of fair took place, would have been hard to find. Kind friends had decked the spot tastefully; flowers were everywhere in abundance; the tables conveniently and becomingly arranged; and the display of articles upon them was not only tempting, but such as had been manufactured by the children did them wonderful credit. Flags, ribbons, wreaths, and festoons, all joined to make the scene gay; and in and out, among and below them flitted the white-robed "little sunbeams," who lent the fairest life and brightness to the scene. "Sunbeams" they all were that day, indeed. No cloud appeared to darken their happiness, no ill-temper, jealousy, or desire to outvie one another was heard or seen. Even Gracie and Hattie, who were each rather oppressed with the sense of past naughtiness, and the feeling of what the others would say and think if they knew all, could not but be bright and gay amid this pleasant companionship. Gracie had told Hattie that she had confessed her sin to her mother, and the latter knew that some share of blame must have fallen to her; so, although she did not look upon it in as serious a light as Gracie did, she had an uncomfortable and conscious feeling. Miss Ashton had talked to her more seriously than she had ever done before, and had also informed her parents of what had taken place, telling them that she did not wish to disgrace Hattie, and so, as it was near the close of school, she would not ask them to remove her now; but that she could not take her back in the fall. Hattie's utter disregard of truth had already brought too much trouble into her little flock for her to risk any further mischief from that source. Hattie's parents had been much mortified and displeased, and the child herself had been severely punished; but I doubt if the punishment had been altogether just; for how was the child who saw equivocation and deceit used at home as a means of family government when convenience demanded it, to learn the value of the jewel thus sullied, or to judge of the line where it was believed that falsehood must stop and truth and uprightness begin? As for generous Nellie, she seemed to have no recollection of what had passed, unless it was in the new and caressing tenderness of her manner toward Gracie; not a patronizing manner, but one full of encouragement and helpfulness. The other children wondered not only at Gracie's new gentleness and modesty, but also at the sudden intimacy which seemed to have sprung up between these two. "Maybe," said Lily privately, "it is because Gracie is learning to think better of herself"--which was just the opposite from what Lily meant--"and Nellie's trying to help her." "Yes," said Maggie; "perhaps Gracie is learning it is 'never too late to mend,' which would make her much more agreeable, and other people would think more of her. I do think she is improved." Maggie had yielded not alone to the persuasions of Miss Ashton, but also to an earnest appeal from Gracie, and accepted once more the title of Queen. And very well she became it, standing in front of her throne--which she could not be persuaded to occupy--within the pretty bower into which one end of the piazza had been turned, according to her ideas. Bessie, Belle, and Lily were her "maids of honor," and helped her to sell the bouquets and baskets of flowers with which she was bountifully supplied; and they drove a thriving trade; for so many sweet smiles, bright looks, and winning words went with the flowers that the stock within the "Queen's Bower" was much in demand. She had her band of music too, for half a dozen canary-birds hung within and around the bower, and, excited by the laughter and chatter about them, seemed to try which could sing the loudest and sweetest. Jessie's parrot was on exhibition, lent by his present owner for the occasion, down in the old summer-house at the end of the garden, where Jessie herself took the ten cents admission fee, and made him display all his accomplishments. And the Doll! She must have a capital letter to do justice to her perfections. Of all the dolls that ever were seen or heard or thought of, that doll surely took the lead. It would be of no use for me to describe her or her toilet, for if you should ever see her, you would surely tell me that I had not told one half. It was nearly the hour at which the fair was "to begin," and the children were all gathered about the table on which she was displayed, when there came a ring at the front door-bell. Away fluttered every little saleswoman to her appointed stand, hoping that this might be the first customer. And so it proved; for it was no less a person than old Mrs. Howard, who had purposely timed her arrival so that she might be there before any other person. "Well, my dears," she said, looking round upon the smiling young faces about her, "this is a pretty sight. And, industrious as I know you have been, and kind as your friends have been, I should hardly have thought it possible that you should have made such a fine show on your tables. But you know I have some especial business with you, and I have come early that we may have it over before the rush begins." This was very encouraging. Mrs. Howard thought it probable they would have "a rush" of customers, and who should know better than she? "You remember I offered six prizes for different articles to be worked for me," continued the old lady, "but there are only four finished, as you know. My little grand-daughter, Gracie, felt that she had not displayed a proper spirit about them, and she decided not to finish hers for the fair, but to leave it and complete it for me afterwards." This had been Gracie's own proposal to her mother and grandmother, and they had allowed her to have her own way, thinking that this willingness to put herself behind the others, and to give up even the show of strife with Nellie, told of a spirit of true repentance, as indeed it did. When the other children had asked with much surprise where her mat was, she had answered quietly that she could not finish it. This had not proved any loss to the fair, because the time she would have devoted to the mat had been given to other articles. "Here, then," continued Mrs. Howard, "are two toilet sets and two mats for me to judge between. Of the latter, the one Nellie Ransom brings is certainly the best in point of work; but it has unfortunately received a bad ink-stain. Now those of us who know Nellie are very sure that this has not come through any neglect or carelessness of her own, and since she did not do it herself it seems hard that she should suffer for it. I should be quite willing to overlook it, for this is really the best piece of work among the four; but I cannot do so unless the others are willing. Those among you who think Nellie ought not to be a loser by this misfortune, raise your hands." Instantly every little hand was raised, and if one were before another it was Gracie's. "Very well; that is satisfactory," said Mrs. Howard. "Nellie, my dear, here are ten dollars for your mat, the first money taken in for your fair. The second sum, I think, must go to Maggie's toilet set--ah! yes, Maggie's and Bessie's, I should have said," as she saw the look which Maggie turned upon her sister, as if wishing that she should have her full share of credit--"the third to Dora's mat, and the fourth to Hattie's toilet set. You are all satisfied, I trust, with this arrangement." There was a murmur of assent, and this part of the business was settled. "And now," said Mrs. Howard, "I want to say that I think I made a mistake in offering these rates of prices, and so exciting you to outvie one another. I meant to give you a motive for trying to improve yourselves, but I believe it was not a good principle to set you thus one against the other, and I know that it has led to some hard feeling and unkindness. But that, I trust, is now all healed, and I shall take care not to put such temptation in your way again." The children all thought they knew what Mrs. Howard meant, and with true courteousness they all avoided looking at Gracie. But this was as much as was ever known by any of them, save the two or three who had been in the secret, of Gracie's temptation and fall. That she had been jealous and unkind to Nellie, they had all seen; that she had gone further and been led into deceit and meanness, they never heard. Hattie, for her own sake, held her peace for once; and penitent Gracie had not to face the scorn and wonder of all her schoolmates. After this Mrs. Howard went about from table to table, purchasing not only one article, but generally two or three, from each little saleswoman; but she said she would not remove them till the fair was over, so that they might still add to the appearance of their tables. They were all marked SOLD in enormous, staring letters, that there might be no possibility of mistake. And now, customer after customer began to flock in, and among the earlier arrivals came Mr. Powers, who was immediately seized upon by Belle, and led to the table where the baby doll lay in her glory. Now it had been announced that whoever offered the highest price for this famous infant was to have her, and it was not to be told till the close of the fair who had done this. The names of would-be purchasers, with the amount each offered, were written down by Miss Annie Stanton, who still held the doll in charge, lest too eager little hands should mar her beauties. "Please offer a whole lot, papa; I do want her so," said Belle. "Isn't she lovely? Did you ever see such a doll?" Mr. Powers expressed all the admiration he thought needful, which did not nearly satisfy Belle, who was only half consoled by what she thought a want of proper interest by Maggie's whispered assurance that men "never did appreciate dolls, and it was quite useless to expect it of them. It did not seem to be born in them." However, Mr. Powers put down his name and the sum he would give, which last remained for the present a secret between him and Miss Annie Stanton. Mamie Stone was as eager about the doll as Belle, and her mamma was called upon also to offer a high price for the treasure. But my "Sunbeam" would lengthen itself far beyond its sister rays if I should tell you all that took place at the fair. Enough to say that it was a great success, and that a sum was taken in that was more than sufficient to purchase Jessie's parrot back and to provide a comfortable home for herself and her grandfather for at least a year to come. That is, with what the little girl might hope to make herself by the further sale of her wares. Evening came, bringing with it the great interest of the day, the announcement of the munificent purchaser of the doll, and every little heart beat high with hope that it might be some friend of her own, who would bestow the coveted prize upon her. It proved to be Grandmamma Howard. Belle stood in an agony of expectation, squeezing her father's hand and scarcely breathing in the hush that came before the name was spoken; and when she heard "Mrs. Howard," a rush of color dyed her face, and a look of blank disappointment overspread it. She looked up and caught her father's gaze fixed anxiously upon her. She dashed her little hand across her eyes to scatter the tears that would well up, and, forcing a smile, said with a trembling lip, "Never mind, papa, you meant me to have it, so it was just as good of you." Her father stooped and kissed her, rejoicing in her sweetness and determined good temper. A little more than a year since, a tempest of tears and sobs would have broken from his over-indulged child; but now she had learned to control herself and to be contented and pleasant even when things did not go quite her own way. She was all smiles and brightness again in a few minutes, nearly consoled for her disappointment by her papa's caress and his few whispered words of blessing. All believed that Gracie or one of her little sisters would be presented with the doll by her grandmother; and great, therefore, was the amazement of the circle of young friends when the next day it was rumored, then made certain, that Mrs. Howard had sent it to Nellie Ransom. Every child wondered "why," and so did more than one grown person; for the Howards and the Ransoms were not, as Maggie said, "very intimate, and it was rather surprising Mrs. Howard should think of giving such a present to Nellie. But she seems to have taken a great fancy to her, and Nellie quite deserves it," she added. "I wonder if she gave it to her because of the mat," said Mamie Stone. "I think it was because she is such a serious child," said Lily. "I find old people like _seriosity_, and Nellie has a great deal of it." So they judged, these little ones. Nellie, gentle, unobtrusive "little sunbeam" that she was, went on her quiet way, shedding light and warmth in many an unsuspected nook and corner, and bringing now and then some hidden seed to blossom in beauty and fragrance. Only one of her schoolmates ever suspected that it was her thoughtful care for Gracie's character and feelings, her sweet forgiving spirit which led her to forget past injuries, which had won for her the gift of the much coveted doll, and given her a high place in the love and admiration of the few who knew all the story. [Illustration] Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. 
16954	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 16954-h.htm or 16954-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/6/9/5/16954/16954-h/16954-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/6/9/5/16954/16954-h.zip) "US" An Old Fashioned Story by MRS MOLESWORTH Author of "carrots", "cuckoo Clock", etc. With Illustrations by Walter Crane [Illustration: IN ANOTHER MOMENT TOBY'S NOSE WAS IN THE BOWL TOO, TO TOBY'S SUPREME CONTENT!--p. 26. _Front_] [Illustration] London: MacMillan & Co. Ltd 1899 CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE HOW THEY CAME TO BE "US" 1 CHAPTER II. BREAD AND MILK 20 CHAPTER III. QUEER VISITORS 40 CHAPTER IV. BABES IN A WOOD 59 CHAPTER V. TIM 79 CHAPTER VI. TOBY AND BARBARA 100 CHAPTER VII. DIANA'S PROMISE 119 CHAPTER VIII. NEW HOPES 139 CHAPTER IX. CROOKFORD FAIR 156 CHAPTER X. A BOAT AND A BABY 177 CHAPTER XI. A SAD DILEMMA 197 CHAPTER XII. GOOD-BYE TO "US" 218 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. IN ANOTHER MOMENT TOBY'S NOSE WAS IN THE BOWL TOO, TO TOBY'S SUPREME CONTENT Front. FROM BEHIND SOME STUBBLE A FEW YARDS OFF ROSE THE FIGURE OF THE YOUNG BOY WHOM THE CHILDREN HAD SEEN WALKING BEHIND THE GIPSIES--WHISTLING WHILE HE CUT AT A BRANCH HE HELD IN HIS HAND Page 74 "HERE'S SOME SUPPER FOR YOU. WAKE UP, AND TRY AND EAT A BIT. IT'LL DO YOU GOOD" 89 "THEY WANT OUT A BIT," SHE SAID. "THEY'RE TIRED LIKE WITH BEING MEWED UP IN THERE ALL DAY AND NEVER A BREATH OF AIR--NO WONDER" 132 "UPON MY WORD THEY ARE SOMETHING QUITE OUT OF THE COMMON," HE SAID; "I WOULDN'T HAVE MISSED THEM FOR A GOOD DEAL. WHAT A KING AND QUEEN OF THE PIGMIES, OR 'BABES IN THE WOOD,' THEY'D MAKE" 173 "I DO FINK WHEN US IS QUITE BIG AND CAN DO AS US LIKES, US MUST HAVE A BOAT LIKE THIS, AND ALWAYS GO SAILING ALONG" 195 "She is telling them stories of the wood, And the Wolf and Little Red Riding-Hood." _The Golden Legend._ CHAPTER I. HOW THEY CAME TO BE "US." "Blue were their eyes as the fairy-flax, Their cheeks like the dawn of day." LONGFELLOW. A soft rather shaky sort of tap at the door. It does not all at once reach the rather deaf ears of the little old lady and tall, still older gentleman who are seated in their usual arm-chairs, one with his newspaper by the window, the other with her netting by the fire, in the exceedingly neat--neat, indeed, is no word for it--"parlour" of Arbitt Lodge. In what part of the country this queerly-named house was--is still, perhaps--to be found there is no particular reason for telling; whence came this same queer name will be told in good time. The parlour suited _its_ name anyway better far than it would that of "drawing-room," which would be given it nowadays. There was a round table in the middle; there were high-backed mahogany chairs against the wall, polished by age and careful rubbing to that stage of dark shininess which makes even mahogany pleasant to the eye, and with seats of flowering silk damask whose texture must have been _very_ good to be so faded without being worn; there were spindle-legged side-tables holding inlaid "papier-maché" desks and rose-wood work-boxes, and two or three carved cedar or sandal-wood cases of various shapes. And, most tempting of all to my mind, there were glass-doored cupboards in the wall, with great treasures of handleless teacups and very fat teapots, not to speak of bowls and jugs of every form and size; and everything, from the Indian box with the ivory chessmen to the china Turk with his long pipe of green spun-glass, sitting cross-legged on the high mantelpiece between a very sentimental lady and gentleman, also of china, who occupied its two ends,--_everything_ was exactly and precisely in its own place, in what had been its own place ever since the day, now more than thirty years ago, when Grandpapa, the tall old gentleman, had retired from the army on half-pay and come to settle down at Arbitt Lodge for the rest of his life with Grandmamma and their son Marmaduke. A very small Marmaduke, for he was the only one left of a pretty flock who, one after the other, had but hovered down into the world for a year or two to spread their tiny wings and take flight again, leaving two desolate hearts behind them. And in this same parlour at Arbitt Lodge had _that_ little Marmaduke learned to walk, and then to run, to gaze with admiring eyes on the treasures in the glass cupboards, to play bo-peep behind the thick silken curtains, even in _his_ time faded to a withered-leaf green, to poke his tiny nose into the bowl of pot-pourri on the centre table, which made him sneeze just exactly as--ah! but I am forgetting--never mind, I may as well finish the sentence--just exactly as it made "us" sneeze now! After the tap came a kind of little pattering and scratching, like baby taps, not quite sure of their own existence; then, had Grandpapa's and Grandmamma's ears been a very little sharper, they could not but have heard a small duel in words. "_You_, bruvver, my fingers' bones is tired." "I _told_ you, sister," reproachfully, "us should always bring old Neddy's nose downstairs with us. They never hear _us_ tapping." Then a faint sigh or two and a redoubled assault, crowned with success. Grandmamma, whom after all I am not sure but that I have maligned in calling her deaf--the taps were so very faint really!--Grandmamma looks up from her netting, and in a thin but clear voice calls out, "Come in!" The door opens--then, after admitting the entrance of two small figures, is carefully closed again, and the two small figures, with a military salute from the boy, a bob, conscientiously intended for a curtsey, from the girl, advance a step or two into the room. "Grandmamma," say the two high-pitched baby voices, speaking so exactly together that they sound but as one. "Grandmamma, it's '_us_.'" Still no response. Grandmamma is not indifferent--far from it--but just at this moment her netting is at a critical stage impossible to disregard; she _thinks_ to herself "wait a moment, my dears," and is quite under the impression that she has said it aloud; this is a mistake, but all the same "my dears" do wait a moment--several moments indeed, hand-in-hand, uncomplainingly, without indeed the very faintest notion in their faithful little hearts that there is anything to complain of--there are _some_ lessons to be learnt from children long ago, I think,--while Grandmamma tries to secure her knots. Look at them while they stand there; it is always a good plan to save time, and we have a minute or two to spare. They are so alike in size and colour and feature that if it had not been that one was a boy and the other a girl, there would have been no telling them apart. Before Duke was put into the first stage of boy-attire--what that exactly was in those days I confess I am not sure--they never _had_ been told apart was the fact of the matter, till one day the brilliant idea struck Grandmamma of decorating little Pamela with a coral necklace. She little knew what she was about; both babies burst into howling distress, and were not to be quieted even when the unlucky beads were taken away; no, indeed, they only cried the more. Grandmamma and Nurse were at their wits' end, and Grandpapa's superior intelligence had at last to be appealed to. And not in vain. "They must _each_ have one," said Grandpapa solemnly. And so it had to be. In consequence of which fine sense of justice and firm determination on the part of the babies, they went on "not being told apart" till, as I said, the day came when Marmaduke's attire began to be cut after a different fashion, and by degrees he arrived at his present dignity of nankin suits complete. Such funny suits you would think them now--funnier even than Pamela's white frock, with its skirt to the ankles and blue-sashed waist up close under the arm-pits, for even if she walked in just as I describe her you would only call her "a Kate-Greenway-dressed little girl." But Marmaduke's light yellow trousers, buttoning up _over_ his waistcoat, with bright brass buttons, and open yellow jacket to match, would look odd. Especially on such a very little boy--for he and Pamela, as they stand there with their flaxen hair falling over their shoulders and their very blue eyes gazing solemnly before them, wondering when either of the old people will think fit to speak to "us"--Pamela and he are only "six last birfday." All this time Grandpapa is in happy--no, I won't say "happy," for the old gentleman is always, to give him his due, pleased to welcome the children to his presence, "at the right time and in the right manner," be it understood--in _complete_ unconsciousness of their near neighbourhood. There was nothing to reveal it; they had not left the door open so as to cause a draught, for Grandpapa abhorred draughts; they were as still and quiet as two little mice, when mice _are_ quiet that is to say. For often in the middle of the night, when my sleep has been disturbed by these same little animals who have been held up as a model for never disturbing any one, I have wondered how they gained this distinction! "When mouses is quiet, perhaps it's cos they isn't there," said a little boy I know, and the remark seems to me worthy of deep consideration. Grandpapa was absorbed in his newspaper, for it was newspaper day for _him_, and newspaper day only came once a week, and when it--the paper, not the day--did come, it was already the best part of a week old. For it came all the way from London, and that not by the post, as we understand the word, but by the post of those days, which meant "his Majesty's mail," literally speaking, and his Majesty's mail took a very long time indeed to reach outlying parts of the country, for all the brave appearance, horses foaming, whips cracking, and flourishing of horns, not to say trumpets, with which it clattered over the stones of the "High Streets" of those days. And the paper--poor two-leaved, miserable little pretence that _we_ should think it--cost both for itself and for its journey from London, oh so dear! I am afraid to say how much, for I should be sorry to exaggerate. But "those days" are receding ever farther and farther from us, and as I write it comes over me sadly that it is no use _now_ to leave a blank on my page and say to myself, "I will ask dear such a one, or such an other. He or she will remember, and I will fill it in afterwards." For those dear ones of the last generation are passing from us--have already passed from us in such numbers that we who were young not so very long ago shall ere long find ourselves in their places. So I would rather not say what Grandpapa's newspaper cost, but certainly it was dear enough and rare enough for him to think of little else the day it came; and I don't suppose he would have noticed the two children at all, till Grandmamma had made him do so, had it not been that just as they were beginning to be a _little_ tired, to whisper to each other, "Suppose us stands on other legs for a change," something--I don't know what--for his snuff-box had been lying peacefully in his waistcoat pocket ever since Dymock, his old soldier-servant, had brought in the newspaper--made him sneeze. And with the sneeze he left off looking at the paper and raised his eyes, and his eyes being very good ones for his age--much better in comparison than his ears--he quickly caught sight of his grandchildren. "So ho!" he exclaimed, "and _you_ are there, master and missy! I did not know it was already so late. Grave news, my love," he added, turning to Grandmamma; "looks like war again. The world is trying to go too fast," he went on, turning to his paper. "They are actually speaking of running a new mail-coach from London which should reach Sandlingham in three days. It is appalling,--why, I remember when I was young it took----" "It is flying in the face of Providence, _I_ should say, my dear," interrupted Grandmamma. The two little faces near the door grew still more solemn. What strange words big people used!--what could Grandpapa and Grandmamma mean? But Grandpapa laid down his paper and looked at them again; Grandmamma too by this time was less embarrassed by her work. The children felt that they had at last attracted the old people's attention. "We came, Grandpapa and Grandmamma, to wish you good-night," began Duke. "And to hope you will bo'f sleep very well," added Pamela. This little formula was repeated every evening with the same ceremony. "Thank you, my good children," said Grandpapa encouragingly; on which the little couple approached and stood one on each side of him, while he patted the flaxen heads. "I may call you 'my good children' to-night, I hope?" he said inquiringly. The two looked at each other. "Bruvver has been good, sir," said the little girl. "Sister has been good, sir," said the little boy. The two heads were patted again approvingly. "But us haven't _bo'f_ been good," added the two voices together. Grandpapa looked very serious. "Indeed, how can that be?" he said. There was a pause of consideration. Then a bright idea struck little Marmaduke. "I think perhaps it was _most_ Toby," he said. "Us was running, and Toby too, and us felled down, and Toby barked, and when us got up again it was all tored." "What?" said Grandpapa, still very grave. "Sister's gown, sir." "My clean white gown," added Pamela impressively; "but bruvver didn't do it. _He_ said so." "And sister didn't do it. _She_ said so," stated Duke. "But Nurse said _one_ of us had done it. Only I don't think she had thought of Toby." "Perhaps not," said Grandpapa. "Let us hope it was Toby." "Nevertheless," said Grandmamma, who had quite disengaged herself from her netting by this time, "Pamela must remember that she is growing a big missy, and it does not become big misses to run about so as to tear their gowns." Pamela listened respectfully, but Grandmamma's tone was not alarming. The little girl slowly edged her way along from Grandpapa's chair to Grandmamma's. "Did you never tear your gowns when you were a little missy, Grandmamma?" she inquired, looking up solemnly into the old lady's face. Grandmamma smiled, and looked across at her husband rather slily. He shook his head. "Who would think it indeed?" he said, smiling in turn. "Listen, my little girl, but be sure you tell it again to no one, for it was a little bird told it to me, and little birds are not fond of having their secrets repeated. Once upon a time there was not a greater hoyden in all the countryside than your Grandmamma there. She swam the brooks, she climbed the trees, she tore her gowns----" "Till at last my poor mother told the pedlar the next time he came round he must bring her a web of some stuff that _wouldn't_ tear to dress me in," said Grandmamma; "and to this day I mind me as if it had been but last week of the cloth he brought. Sure enough it would neither tear nor wear, and oh how ugly it was! 'Birstle peas' colour they called it, and how ashamed I was of the time I had to wear it. 'Little miss in her birstle-peas gown' was a byword in the countryside. No, my Pamela, I should be sorry to have to dress you in such a gown." "I'll try not to tear my nice white gowns," said the little girl; "Nurse said she would mend it, but it would take her a long time. Grandmamma," she went on, suddenly changing the subject, "what does a 'charge' mean, 'a great charge?'" "Yes," said Marmaduke, who heard what she said, "'a _very_ great charge.'" Grandpapa's eyes grew brighter. "Can they be speaking of a field of battle?" he said quickly. But Duke turned his large wistful blue eyes on him before Grandmamma had time to answer. "No, sir," he said, in his slow earnest way, "it wasn't about battles; it was about _us_." "She said _us_ was that thing," added Pamela. "Who said so?" inquired Grandmamma, and her voice was perhaps a little, a very little, sharp. "Nurse said it," said Pamela. "It was when us had felled down, and the old woman was at the door of her house, and she asked if us was hurt, and Nurse was vexed, and then she said that." "What old woman?" asked Grandmamma again. "Her that makes the cakes," said Duke. "Oh, Barbara Twiss!" said the old lady in a tone of relief. "Now, my dear children, kiss Grandpapa and kiss me, and say good-night. I will explain to you when you are bigger what Nurse meant. God bless you and give you a nice sleep till to-morrow morning!" The two little creatures obeyed at once. No "oh, _mayn't_ we stay ten minutes"'s, "just _five_ minutes then, oh please"'s--so coaxingly urged, so hard to refuse--of the little ones of our day! No, Marmaduke and Pamela said their "good-nights" in dutiful fashion, stopping a moment at the door before leaving the room, there to execute the military salute and the miniature curtsey, and went off to bed, their curiosity still unsatisfied, as children's curiosity often had to remain in those times when "wait till you are big and then you will be told" was the regular reply to questions it was not easy or desirable to answer otherwise. There was a moment's silence when they had left the room. Grandpapa's face was once more hidden in his newspaper; Grandmamma had taken up her netting again, but it did not go on very vigorously. "I must warn Nurse," she said at last. "She means no harm, but she must be careful what she says before the children. She forgets how big they are growing, and how they notice all they hear." "It was no great harm, after all," said Grandpapa, more than half, to tell the truth, immersed in his paper. "Not as said to a discreet person like Barbara," replied Grandmamma. "But still--they have the right to all we can give them, the little dears, as long as we are here to give it. I could not bear them ever to have the idea that we felt them a burden." "Certainly not," agreed Grandpapa, looking up for a moment. "A _burden_ they can never be; still it is a great responsibility--a great charge, in one sense, as Nurse said--to have in our old age. For, do the best we can, my love, we cannot be to them what their parents would have been. Nor can we hope to be with them till we can see them able to take care of themselves." "There is no knowing," said Grandmamma. "God is good. He may spare us yet some years for the little ones' sakes. And it is a mercy to think they have each other. It is always 'us' with them--never 'me.'" "Yes," said Grandpapa, "they love each other dearly;" and as if that settled all the difficulties the future might bring, he disappeared finally into the newspaper. Grandmamma, for her part, _meant_ to disappear into her netting. But somehow it did not go on as briskly as usual. Her hands seemed to lag, and more than once she was startled by a tear rolling quickly down her thin soft old cheek--one of the slow-coming, touching tears of old age. She would have been sorry for Grandpapa to see that she was crying; she was always cheerful with him. But of that there was no fear. So Grandmamma sat and cried a little quietly to herself, for the children's innocent words had roused some sad thoughts, and brought before her some pictures of happy pasts and happy "might-have-beens." "It is strange," she thought to herself, "very strange to think of--that we two, old and tired and ready to rest, should be here left behind by them all. All my pretty little ones, who might almost, some of them, have been grandparents themselves by this time! Left behind to take care of Duke's babies--ah, my brave boy, that was the hardest blow of all! The others were too delicate and fragile for this world--I learnt not to murmur at their so quickly taking flight. But he--so strong and full of life--who had come through all the dangers of babyhood and childhood, who had grown up so good and manly, so fit to do useful work in the world--was there no other victim for the deadly cholera's clutch, out there in the burning East?" and Grandmamma shuddered as a vision of the terrible scenes of a plague-stricken land, that she had more than once seen for herself, passed before her. "We had little cause to rejoice in the times of peace when they came. It would have seemed less terrible for him to be killed on the battlefield. Still--it was on the battlefield of duty. My boy, my own good boy! No wonder she could not live without him--poor, gentle little Lavinia, almost a child herself. Though if she had been but a little stronger,--if she could but have breasted the storm of sorrow till her youth came back again to her a little in the pleasure of watching these dear babies improving as they did,--she might have been a great comfort to us, and she would have found work to do which would have kept her from over-grieving. Poor Lavinia! How well I remember the evening they arrived--she and the two poor yellow shrivelled-up looking little creatures. I remember, sad at heart as we were--only two months after the bitter news of my boy's death!--Nurse and I could almost have found it in our hearts to laugh when the ayah unwrapped them for us to see. They were so like two miserable little unfledged birds! And poor Lavinia so proud of them, through her tears--what did she know of babies, poor dear?--and looking so anxiously to see what we thought of them. I _could_ not say they were pretty--Duke's children though they were." And a queer little sound--half laugh, half sob--escaped from Grandmamma at the recollection. But it did not matter--Grandpapa was too deaf to hear. So she dried her eyes again quietly with her fine lavender-scented cambric pocket-handkerchief, and went on with her recollections all to herself. She seemed to see the two tiny creatures gradually--very gradually--growing plump and rosy in the sweet fresh English air, the look of unnatural old age that one sometimes sees in very delicate babies by degrees fading away as the thin little faces grew round and even dimpled; then came the recollection of the first toddling walk, when the two kept tumbling against each other, so that even the sad-eyed young widow could not help laughing; the first lisping words, which, alas, might not be the sweet baby names for father or mother--for by that time poor Lavinia had faded out of life, with words of whispered love and thankfulness to the grandparents so willing to do their utmost. But it was a sad little story at best, and even Grandmamma's brave old heart trembled when she thought that it might come to be sadder still. "What would become of them if they were left _quite_ alone in the world," she could not help saying to herself. "And though I am not so old as my dear husband by ten years, I cannot picture myself finding strength to live without him, nor would a poor old woman like me be much good to the young creatures if I did! But one must not lose courage, nor grieve about troubles before they come. For, after all, who would ever have believed these two poor fledglings would grow up to be two bonnie bairnies like Marmaduke and Pamela now!" And for the last time that evening Grandmamma again wiped her eyes--though these tears were of thankfulness and motherly pride in the thought of the sweet and pretty children upstairs, who at that moment were kneeling in their little white nightgowns, one on each side of old Nurse, as they solemnly repeated after her the Lord's Prayer, and after that their own evening petitions that "God would bless dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma, and make 'us' very good children, and a comfort to them in their old age." CHAPTER II. BREAD AND MILK. "Words which tenderness can speak From the truths of homely reason." WORDSWORTH. Grandmamma would probably have spoken to Nurse the next day about being careful as to what she said before the children, had not the next day brought rather a commotion. Nurse was ill, which, old as she, too, was, rarely happened. It was a bad attack of rheumatism, and very likely its coming on had made her less patient than usual the day before. However that may have been, Grandmamma was far too sorry to see her suffering to say anything which might have troubled her, for she was already distressed enough at not being able to get up and go about as usual. "Never mind, Nurse," said the children to console her, when a message had been brought from Grandmamma in the morning to say that Nurse was on no account to try to get up till the doctor had seen her, "us is going to be very good. Us can do all your work, and you can stay in bed till your legs is not cracked any more," for they had heard her complaining of her knees and ankles being "wracked" with pain. On the whole I am afraid Duke and Pamela did not think Nurse's rheumatism altogether an "ill-wind," as they sat on their high chairs at breakfast at the nursery table. "Shall you eat all yours up, bruvver?" asked Pamela, pointing to the bowl of bread and milk which Duke was discussing. "Shall you?" asked Duke warily, before committing himself. Pamela looked contemplatively at her bowl. "I think I'll leave just a very little," she said. "Cook won't see. I wish the bowls wasn't _quite_ so big." "_Cook_ wouldn't see if us left a great deal," said Duke insinuatingly, but Pamela looked shocked. "That would be very naughty," she said. "_If_ you leave a great deal, Duke, I'll have to put it in the cupboard myself." Upon which mysterious hint Duke set to work valiantly. But he had a small appetite, and so had Pamela. It was almost the only remains of their having been such delicate little children, and perhaps if they had been _too_ much given in to about eating, they would have ended by eating almost nothing at all, and being much less strong and well than they were. Nurse, who had come to them from a family of great strong boys and girls at a country rectory, had no patience with "fads and fancies;" and as, on the whole, the children had prospered wonderfully under her care and she was really good to them, Grandmamma did not often interfere, nor did it ever occur to them to complain, even though nowadays children would, I think, find some of old Nurse's rules very much to be complained of indeed. Of these one was, that if the children did not finish the bowl of bread and milk at breakfast it was put away in the nursery cupboard and had to be eaten, cold and uninviting-looking as it had then become, before anything else at dinner-time. This was a sore trouble to the little brother and sister, more especially as if they did not finish the bread and milk they could not expect to have the treat waiting for them downstairs in the dining-room at Grandpapa's and Grandmamma's breakfast--of a cup of weak but sweet tea and a tiny slice of bread and butter or toast, with sometimes the tops of the old people's eggs, and at others a taste of honey, or marmalade, or strawberry jam, all daintily set out by Grandmamma's own little white hands! So for every reason Duke and Pamela wished to eat up the bread and milk to the last spoonful. It was not that they did not like it--it was as good and nice as bread and milk could be, and they were not dainty. Only they could not eat so much! This morning they had not half finished when their appetites began to flag. Perhaps it was with the excitement of Nurse being absent--perhaps they chattered and "played" over their breakfast, not having her to keep them up to the mark--I can't say. But the bowls were still deplorably full, though the milk was no longer steaming, and the little squares of bread had lost their neat shape, and were all "squashy" together, when Duke threw down his spoon in despair. "I can't eat any more, sister. I cannot try any more." Pamela opened her lips to make some reproach; she was a very "proper" little girl, as you have probably discovered, but the words died away before they were uttered, as her eyes fell on her own bowl, and with a deep sigh she said: "I'm afraid I can't finish mine either. And after us saying to Nurse about going to be so good." Her blue eyes began to look very dewy. Duke, who could not bear to see his dear "sister" sad, spoke out (in Nurse's absence be it observed) valiantly--more so, it must be confessed, than was his wont. "I don't see that it's naughty of us not to eat more when us isn't hungry for more. _I_ think it would be like little pigs to eat more than they want. Little pigs would go on eating all day just 'cos they're too silly, and they've got nothing else to do." "But," objected Pamela, "us haven't eaten as much as us _can_, Duke, for you know downstairs us _could_ eat Grandmamma's treat. _I_ could--I could snap it up in a minute, and the tea too, and yet I _can't_ eat any more bread and milk!" and she gazed at the bowl with a puzzled as well as doleful expression. "I'm afraid--yes, I'm afraid, Duke, that us is dainty like Master Frederick and Miss Lucy in 'Amusing Tales.' And Nurse says it is so very naughty to be dainty when so many poor children would fink our bread and milk such a great treat." "I'm sure I wish, then, they'd come and eat it," said Duke. "I'd be very glad to give it them." His boldness quite took away his sister's breath, and she looked up at him in astonishment. "_Bruvver!_" she said reproachfully. "Well, there's nothing naughty in that. It would be much better than letting it all be wasted. And----" but just at that moment came a queer little sound at the door, which made Duke tumble off his high chair as fast as he could, and hurry to open it. "It's Toby," he cried. Toby, sure enough, it was--Toby with his little black nose and bright eyes gleaming from behind the overhanging shaggy hair, that no one _but_ a Toby could have seen through without squinting--Toby, rather subdued and meekly inquiring at first, as if not quite sure of his welcome, till--a glance round the room satisfying him that there was no one to dread, no one but his two dearly-beloved friends--his courage returned, and he rushed towards them with short yelps of delight, twisting about his furry little body, and wagging his queer short feathery tail, till one could not tell what was what of him, and almost expected to see him shake himself into bits! "Toby, dear Toby!" cried the children, all their perplexities forgotten for the moment. "_How_ clever of him--isn't it?--to come to see us this morning, just as if he knew us was alone. Dear Toby--but hush! don't make a noise, Toby, or Nurse may be vexed--are you so pleased to see us, Toby?" Suddenly Duke separated himself from the group of three all rolling in a heap on the floor together and made for the table, and before Pamela could see what he was doing he was back again--his bowl, into which he had poured the contents of his sister's as well, in his hand, and in another moment Toby's nose was in the bowl too, to Toby's supreme content! It was done now--there was no stopping him till _he_ had done. Aghast, and yet filled with admiration, Pamela could only express her feelings by the one word--"Bruvver!" "Isn't it a good thought?" said Duke. "Why, he'll have finished it all in a minute, and nobody will ever know that it wasn't us. And nothing will have been wasted. There now," as Toby, having really made wonderfully quick work, lifted from the now empty bowl his hairy muzzle bespattered with remains of bread and milk, which he proceeded to lick away with his sharp bright-red tongue, with an air of the greatest satisfaction. For a moment or two Pamela's face expressed nothing but approval. But gradually a little cloud stole over it. "What shall us say if Grandpapa and Grandmamma ask if us have eaten all our bread and milk?" she said. Duke considered. "Us can say the bowls are quite empty. _That_ won't be a story," and Pamela's face cleared again. Just then she had no time for second thoughts, for the sound of a bell ringing downstairs made both children start. "Prayers," they exclaimed, and as they said the word a young housemaid put her face in at the door. "Master Duke and Miss Pamela," she said, "Nurse says I'm to take you down to prayers. But you must come first to wash your hands and smooth your hair." A very correct little couple presented themselves a few minutes later at the dining-room door, and after the salute and the curtsey, and wishing Grandpapa and Grandmamma "a very good morning," seated themselves one on each side of the old lady, while Grandpapa read from the prayer-book a few verses of the Bible, the Collect of last Sunday, and two or three prayers for the benefit of the whole family, including a row of neat, mostly elderly, servants near the door. Duke and Pamela listened attentively, their hands crossed on their knees, their eyes fixed on Grandpapa--no fidgetting or staring about or making signs to each other. Such things would probably have been severely punished. And then came what was almost the happiest part of the day for "us,"--breakfast number two; that is, breakfast with Grandpapa and Grandmamma. With the greatest interest they watched to see what was to be given them. This morning there were no eggs, but there were some tempting little slices of toast, fresh butter, and a glass dish of honey, clear as amber, with which materials Grandmamma proceeded to fabricate two delicious sandwiches, having already filled the little cups with weak, but, this morning, sugarless tea. "No need to put sugar when you are eating honey. You would not taste it," she explained. "Now, then, is not that a nice little treat for my two good children?" and Duke and Pamela were eagerly drawing in their chairs when another question from Grandmamma suddenly reminded them of what they had for the time forgotten. "You ate your breakfast nicely upstairs, I hope? Did you finish all the bread and milk?" Brother looked at sister and sister looked at brother. Both grew rosier than usual, but Grandmamma, though fairly quick of hearing, was somewhat near-sighted. Pamela touched Duke without the old lady seeing, and _looked_ what he understood--"Let us tell, Duke." But Duke would not allow himself to think he did understand. The tea and the honey sandwiches were so tempting! "The bowls were quite empty, Grandmamma," he said. And Grandmamma, who had wondered a little at their hesitation in answering, seemed relieved. For, kind as she was, "rules were rules," to Grandmamma's thinking; and, though it would have pained her more than the children, she would certainly have thought it right to send them upstairs treatless had the answer been different. "That is well," she said cheerfully, and then the two climbed on to their chairs and drew their cups and plates close to them; while Grandmamma went round to her own end of the table, where--for she was a very tiny little old lady--she was almost hidden from view by the large silver tea-urn. She went on talking to Grandpapa, and the children set to work at what was before them. They were quite silent; not that they ever thought of really speaking, except when "spoken to," at their grandparents' table, but no little whispers or smiles passed between themselves as usual; they ate on solemnly, and _somehow_--how was it?--the honey sandwiches did not taste quite as delicious as they had expected. But though each had the same sort of disappointed feeling, neither said anything about it to the other. After breakfast Grandpapa went off to his study, and Grandmamma rang the bell for Dymock, who carried away the big tea-urn, the silver hot-water dish in which was served Grandpapa's rasher of bacon, the knives and forks,--everything, in short, on the table except the cups and saucers and the rest of the china belonging to the breakfast-service. This china was very curious, and, to those who understood such things, very beautiful. Grandpapa had got it in his travels at some out-of-the-way place, and the story went that it had been made for some great Chinese lady--some "mandarin-ess," Grandmamma used to say in laughing, who had never allowed it to be copied. How it had been got from _her_ I cannot say. It was very fine in quality, and it was painted all over with green dragons, with gilt tongues and eyes, and the edges of the cups and saucers were also gilt. There were large as well as small cups; the large ones, of course, were for breakfast, and the small ones for tea, but Grandmamma always kept out two of the latter for Duke and Pamela. In those days one never saw large cups of oriental china, and this was what made the service particularly uncommon, and Grandpapa had never been able to find out if the large ones were really Chinese or only imitation, copied from the smaller ones. If really Chinese, then the lady-mandarin was most likely an Englishwoman after all, who had had them specially made for her. You will be surprised to hear that during the thirty or forty years during which Grandpapa and Grandmamma had daily used this precious china not a single piece had been broken, scarcely even chipped, though, by force of simple usage, the green dragons had grown less brilliant, and here and there the golden tongues and eyes had altogether disappeared, while the whole had grown soft and mellowed, so that a moment's glance was enough to show it was really _old_ porcelain. And perhaps you will be still more surprised to learn how it was that these happy cups and saucers had escaped the usual fate of their kind. It was because Grandmamma always washed them up herself! I think there was no part of the day more pleasant to "us" than when--Dymock having cleared away all that was his charge, and brought all that Grandmamma required from the pantry--the old lady established herself at one end of the table, with two bowls of beautifully white wood, and a jug of hot water before her, and a towel of fine damask in her hand, and set to work daintily to rinse out each cup and saucer in the first bowl, passing them then into the fresh water of the second, and wiping them--after they had stood to drip for a moment or two on a small slab of wood made for the purpose--most carefully with the little cloth. It was nice to watch her--her hands looked so white, and moved so nimbly, and--I had forgotten to mention that--looked so business-like with the brown holland cuffs braided in white which she kept for this occasion, and always put on, with the big holland apron to match, before she began operations. Yes, it had been a treat to "us" merely to watch her, and so you can fancy how very proud Duke and Pamela felt when she at length allowed them, each with a little towel, to wipe their own cups and saucers. They had been promoted to this for some months now, and no accident had happened; and on those days--few and far between, it must be allowed--on which they had not been found deserving of their breakfast number two, I think the punishment of not "helping Grandmamma to wash up" had been quite as great as that of missing the treat itself. For very often, while deftly getting through her task, Grandmamma would talk so nicely to the children, telling them stories of the time when she was a little girl herself, and of all the changes between those far-away days and "now"; of the strange, wonderful places she had visited with Grandpapa; of cities with mosques and minarets gleaming against the intense blue sky of the East in the too splendid, scorching sunshine that no one who has not seen it can picture to himself; of rides--weary endless rides--night after night through the desert; or voyages of months and months together across the pathless ocean. They would sit, the little brother and sister, staring up at her with their great solemn blue eyes, as if they would never tire of listening--how wonderfully wise Grandpapa and Grandmamma must be!--"Surely," said little Pamela one day with a great sigh, "surely Grandmamma must know _everyfing_;" while Duke's breast swelled with the thought that he too, like his father and grandfather before him, would journey some day to those distant lands, there, if need were, like them "to fight for the king." For there were times at which "bruvver" was quite determined to be a soldier, though at others--the afternoon, for instance, when the young bull poked his head through the hedge and shook it at him and Pamela, and Duke's toy-sword had unfortunately been left at home in the nursery--he did not feel quite so sure about it! But on this particular morning the little pair were less interested and talkative than usual. They sat so quiet while Grandmamma made her arrangements that her attention was aroused. "You are very silent little mice, this morning," she said. "Is it because poor Nurse is ill that you seem in such low spirits?" Duke and Pamela looked at each other. It would have been so easy to say "yes," and Grandmamma would have thought them so kind-hearted and sympathising! Once one has swerved a little bit from the straight exact road and begun to go down-hill even in the least, it is so tempting to go on a little farther--so much less difficult than to stop short, or, still more, to try to go back again. But these children were so unused to say anything not quite true that they hesitated, and this hesitation saved them from making another step in the wrong direction. "I wasn't finking of Nurse, Grandmamma," said Pamela at last in rather a low voice. "Nor I wasn't neither," said Duke, taking courage by her example. "That's all right, then," said Grandmamma cheerfully, not having noticed anything unusual in their tone. "Poor Nurse, we are sorry for her to be ill, but I don't think it will be anything very bad. And I am sure you will try to be _very_ good." "Yes, Grandmamma," said the two voices together, but less confidently and more timidly than usual. This time their tone caught the old lady's attention. "There's something on their minds," she said to herself. But she was a wise old lady, and thought it better to wait a while before trying to find out what it was. "When I was a little girl," she began--and the children pricked up their ears--"when I was a little girl I remember once that our nurse was ill, or she had to go away to see some friend who was ill, and, as I was the eldest of several little brothers and sisters, I had to help to take care of them. I had always thought it would be very pleasant to be without a nurse, though we liked ours very well, and to be able to do just as we wished. But I shall never forget how pleased I was to see her come back again," and Grandmamma laughed a little at the recollection. "Why were you so pleased, Grandmamma?" asked Pamela. "Had you done anyfing naughty?" "_That_ wouldn't have made Grandmamma pleased for her nurse to come back," said Duke; and a sudden thought of how "us" would have felt had Nurse come into the room just as Toby was licking up the last of the bread and milk made his face grow rosy. "We had not meant to be naughty," said Grandmamma, "but we were not fit to manage for ourselves. Each of us wanted to do a different way, and we were like a flock of poor little sheep without a shepherd. You do not know, children, what a comfort it is to have rules one must obey." "But big people don't have to obey," said Duke. "Ah yes, they have; and when they try to think they have not, then it is that everything goes wrong with them;" and seeing by the look in the two little faces that they were still puzzled--"People have to _obey_ all their lives if they want to be happy," she went on. "Long after they have no more nurses or fathers and mothers--or grandpapas and grandmammas," with a little smile, which somehow made the corners of Duke's and Pamela's mouths go down. "The use of all those when we are young is only to teach us what obeying means--to teach us to listen to the voice we should _always_ obey----" and Grandmamma stopped a minute and looked at "us." "God," said the two very solemnly. "Yes; but God speaks to us in different ways, and we have to learn to know His voice. And the way of all in which we _most_ need to know it is when it speaks to us in our own hearts--in ourselves. It would be a very poor sort of being good or obeying if it was only so long as somebody else was beside us telling us what to do and looking to see that we did it." "Yes," said the two little voices together, lower and still more solemn. "As, for instance, this morning if, just because Nurse was not with you, you had done anything you would not have done had she been there," said Grandmamma, looking keenly at the two flushed faces. Another--"Yes, Grandmamma." "Or," went on the old lady, speaking more slowly, "a worse kind of disobeying--the telling what is not really true; lots of people, big as well as little, do that, and sometimes they try to make _themselves_ think, by all sorts of twistings and turnings, that they have not done so when their own hearts know they _have_. For the voice inside us is _very_ hard to silence or deceive--I think sometimes indeed it _never_ is silenced, but that our ears grow deaf to it--that we make them so. But this is very grave talk for you, my dear children--too grave and difficult perhaps. I am getting so old that I suppose I sometimes forget how very young you are! And here come your own little cups and saucers, nicely rinsed out, and waiting to be wiped dry." "Thank you, Grandmamma," said Duke. "Fank you, Grandmamma," said Pamela. And the two small pairs of hands set to work carefully at their daily task. But they did not speak or ask Grandmamma any questions, and somehow the old lady felt a little uneasy, for, even though they were on the whole quiet children, this morning there was a sort of constraint about them which she did not understand. And they, on their side, felt glad when the "washing-up" was over and Grandmamma sent them upstairs to their nursery, where they had lessons every morning for two hours with a young girl whose mother had a sort of dame school in the village. CHAPTER III. QUEER VISITORS. "... they are what their birth And breeding suffer them to be-- Wild outcasts of society." _Gypsies_--WORDSWORTH. Miss Mitten, the young governess, had not yet come when the children got to the nursery, though all was in order for her--the table cleared, the three chairs set round it ready. There was nothing to do but to get out the books and slates. Duke went to the window and stood there staring out silently; Pamela, who always liked to be busy, dragged forward a chair, meaning to climb on to it so as to reach up to the high shelf where the lesson things were kept. But, as she drew out the chair, something that had been hidden from view in a corner near which stood a small side-table caught her eye. She let go the chair, stooping down to examine this something, and in a moment a cry escaped her. "Bruvver! oh, bruvver," she exclaimed, "just see! How can it have got brokened?" and she held up the bowl--or what had been the bowl rather--out of which Toby had gobbled up his unexpected breakfast,--broken, hopelessly broken, into several pieces! In an instant Duke was beside her, and together they set to work to examine the damage, as if, alas! any examining could have made it better. It was far past mending, for, besides the two or three large pieces Pamela had seized, there lay on the ground a mass of smaller fragments, down to mere crumbs of china. "_Toby_ couldn't have done it, could he?" said Pamela. "He stayed in here when us went down to prayers." "No, oh no! _Toby_ couldn't have broken it," said Duke; "and even if he had, it would not have been his fault. He didn't put it down on the floor. It was near here he ate the bread and milk up--perhaps he rolled the bowl behind the table." "And Biddy pushed the table against it when she was taking away the things. Yes, that must have been it," said Pamela. "Biddy couldn't have noticed there was only one bowl on the tray." "Anyway she didn't look for it," said Duke. "She is very careless; Nurse often says so." "But us can't put the blame on her," said Pamela. "Us _must_ tell, Duke." Duke had the pieces of china in his hand, and was carefully considering them. "Will Grandmamma be vexed, do you think, sister?" "Grandmamma doesn't like things being brokened," said Pamela. "And Nurse said one day these bowls was very good china." "And Grandmamma will ask all about how it was broken," added Duke dolefully; "and then us'll have to tell about giving Toby our bread and milk, and oh, sister, I said the bowls was _quite_ empty, to make her think _us_ had emptied them!" "I'm afraid Grandmamma will fink us is _very_ naughty," agreed Pamela; "she'll fink us don't listen to that--that speaking inside us that she was telling us about,--for it's quite true, bruvver; I felt it was quite true when she was talking. It _does_ speak. I heard it this morning when us was planning about not telling. Only I didn't listen," and the tears rolled slowly down the little girl's face. "I heard it too, sister. Yes, it's quite true," said Duke, beginning to sob. "But I can't go and tell Grandmamma now. There's such a great deal to tell; it isn't only about Toby. It's about having said the bowls was empty," and Duke's sobs redoubled. "Supposing--supposing, sister, us didn't tell Grandmamma just this time, and us would never, _never_ not listen to that speaking inside us again?" Pamela hesitated. She stood quite quite still, her eyes gazing before her, but as if seeing nothing--she seemed to be listening. "Bruvver," she said at last, "I can't tell you yet. I must fink. But I'm _almost_ sure it's speaking now. I'm almost sure it's saying us must tell." "Oh don't, don't, Pamela," cried poor Duke; "you mustn't say that. For I can't--I am sure I can't--tell Grandmamma. And you won't tell without me knowing, will you, sister?" "For sure not," replied Pamela indignantly. "Us must do it togevver like always. But there's Miss Mitten coming--I hear her. Wait till after she's gone, bruvver, and then I'll tell you what I've been finking." With this Duke was obliged to content himself. But he and Pamela took care to put away in a shelf of the toy cupboard, where they would not be seen, the remains of the broken bowl. Miss Mitten had two very quiet and subdued little pupils that morning. She noticed Duke's red eyes, but, not being on very intimate terms with the children, for she was rather a formal young person, she said nothing about them. Only when lessons were quite finished she told her pupils they might tell their Grandmamma that they had been very good and attentive. "Your good Grandmamma will be pleased to hear this," she said, "for she must be troubled about poor Nurse's being ill. I hope you will do your best to give her no trouble you can possibly avoid," and with these words Miss Mitten took her leave. She had scarcely left when Biddy came to take the children out a walk, and after that it was their dinner-time, so that it was not till the afternoon that they found themselves quite alone and able to talk over their troubles. They had not seen Grandmamma since the morning, for she had gone out in the pony-carriage with Grandpapa to pay some visits, which in those days were _really_ "morning calls"! and she had left word that after their dinner Duke and Pamela might play in the garden till she and Grandpapa came home. "And when us sees them coming us'll ask Grandpapa to tell Walters to drive us round to the stable in the pony-carriage," said Duke, jumping up and down in great excitement, quite forgetting his troubles for the moment. But his forgetfulness did not last long. Biddy began looking about the room as if in search of something; she seemed vexed and uneasy. "What's the matter, Biddy?" said Duke, stopping in the midst of his gymnastics. "Have you seen one of the china bowls anywhere about, you or Miss Pamela, Master Duke?" asked the girl. "Cook is so angry with me, and she will have it I've broken it and won't tell," and poor Biddy looked ready to cry. "Didn't you miss it when you took the tray down?" said Pamela, and Duke was astonished she could speak so quietly. "No," replied Biddy, "and then I _was_ at fault, for sure I gathered up the things quickly, and never noticed there was but one bowl. And they must have been both there, for you both had your breakfast. The only thing I can think of is that some one took it out of the room after you were downstairs, master and missy," for it never occurred to Biddy to think Duke or Pamela would have concealed it had they broken the bowl, "but I'm afeared Cook will lay it all on me." "Do you fink they cost much--bowls like these?" asked Pamela. "Not so very much perhaps, but I don't think I've ever seen any quite like them in any shop. Besides, if even I could get to Sandle'ham to see, it's a thing I daren't do. It's one of your Grandmamma's strictest rules that if anything's broke we're to tell. And I'm sure if I had broke it I would tell." "Perhaps Cook won't say anything more about it," said Duke, but Biddy shook her head. "Not to-day perhaps. She's busy to-day, for two ladies and two gentlemen are coming to dinner. But she'll be very angry with me when she comes to send up your bread and milk to-morrow morning if so be as the bowl isn't there." "Are there only two like that?" asked Pamela. "Your Grandmamma has some others, I think, but they're kept locked up in a cupboard in the china closet," said Biddy dolefully. "I'd tell my mistress myself in a minute if I had broke it, but the worst is, it will seem as if I have broke it and won't tell, and that will make her very vexed with me. But you must make haste to go out into the garden, master and missy. It's such a fine day, and if you stayed here it might wake Nurse. She's just fallen asleep, and the doctor said she might be better to-morrow if she got some sleep." "Out in the garden" to-day it was lovely, for though only April it was unusually bright and warm. And the garden of Arbitt Lodge matched the house. It was so quaint and neat, and yet such a very delightful garden to play in, full of queer little unexpected paths between high stiff hedges that quite hid such small people as "us," leading to tiny bits of lawn, where one was sure to find, if not a summer-house, at least a rustic bench in a nice corner beside some old tree whose foliage made a pleasant shade. Duke and Pamela had given names of their own to some of the seats and arbours, as they found this a great convenience for their games, especially that of paying visits. I think their favourite bench was one placed on what they called "the hill;" that was a part of the garden banked up very high against the wall, from which you could look down on the passers-by without being seen by them, and the name of this one was "Spy Tower." It was a nice place on a sunny day, for the high trees made it shady, and when they had no particular game they cared to play it was always amusing to watch who passed. This afternoon they did not feel in good enough spirits to play, and almost without speaking they walked quietly in the direction of "the hill." "Us can see when Grandpapa and Grandmamma are coming in time to run round and meet them at the gate," said Pamela, as they climbed up the bank. "I don't think I want to see them coming, and I don't want them to see us," said Duke. "Sister, I am so midderable that I think if there was a big sea near here I would go into it and be drowned." "Bruvver!" ejaculated Pamela. "Yes, sister," he continued, "it would be the best thing. For if I was drown_ded_ quite dead, they'd all be so sorry that then you could tell them about the bowl, and Biddy would not be scolded. And--and--you could say it was far most _my_ fault, you know, for it was, and then they wouldn't be very angry with you. Yes," he repeated solemnly, "it would be the best thing." By this time Pamela was completely dissolved in tears--tears of indignation as well as of grief. "Bruvver," she began again, "how can you say that? Us has always been togevver. How can you fink I would _ever_ say it was most your fault, not if you was ever so drownded. But oh, bruvver, don't frighten me so." Duke's own tears were flowing too. "There isn't any big sea near here," he said; "I only said if there was. It's just that I am so very midderable. I wish Nurse hadn't got ill." "Oh, so do I," said Pamela fervently. By this time they had reached Spy Tower. Pamela seated herself discreetly on the bench, though it was so much too high for her that her short legs dangled in the air. Duke established himself on the ground in front of her. It was a very still day--more like late summer than spring--hardly a leaf stirred, and in the distance various sounds, the far-off barking of a dog, the faint crowing and cackling of cocks and hens, the voices, subdued to softness, "of the village boys and girls at play," all mingled together pleasantly. The children were too young to explain to themselves the pleasant influences about them, of the soft sunshine and the cloudless sky, seen through the network of branches overhead, of the balmy air and sweet murmurs of bird and insect life rejoicing in the spring-time; but they felt them nevertheless. "How very happy us would have been to-day if it hadn't been for the bowl being brokened," said Duke. "No, it began before that," said Pamela. "It was the not telling Grandmamma. I fink that was the real naughty, bruvver. I don't _fink_ Grandmamma would have minded so much us giving the bread and milk to Toby." "Her wouldn't have given us any treat," objected Duke. "Well, that wouldn't have mattered very much for once. And perhaps it would have been a good fing; _perhaps_ Grandmamma would have told Cook not to send up quite so much, and----" "Why do you say that _now_?" said Duke rather crossly; "it's only making it all worser and worser. I wish----" But what Duke wished was never to be known, for just at that moment sounds coming down the lane, evidently drawing nearer and nearer, made him start up and peep out from behind the few thin low-growing shrubs at the top of the wall. "Hush, sister," he said, quite forgetting that it was himself and not "sister" who had been speaking,--"there are _such_ funny people coming down the lane. Come here, close by me; there, you can see them--don't they look funny?" Pamela squeezed herself forward between Duke and a bush, and looked where he pointed to. A little group of people was to be seen making their way slowly along the lane. There were a man, two women, and two boys--the women with red kerchiefs over their heads, and something picturesque about their dress and bearing, though they were dirty and ragged. They, as well as the man, had very dark skins, black hair, and bright piercing eyes, and the elder of the two boys, a great loose-limbed fellow of sixteen or so, was just like them. But the other boy, who did not look more than nine or ten, though his skin was tanned by the weather nearly as brown as his companion's, had lighter hair and eyes. He followed the others at a little distance, not seeming to attend to what they were saying, though they were all talking eagerly, and rather loudly, in a queer kind of language, which Duke and Pamela could not understand at all. The younger boy whistled as he came along, and he held a stout branch in his hand, from which, with a short rough knife, he was cutting away the twigs and bark. He did not seem unhappy though he looked thin, and his clothes hardly held together they were so ragged. All these particulars became visible to the children, as the party of gipsies--for such they were, though of a low class--came nearer and nearer. I forgot to say that the sixth member of the party was a donkey, a poor half-starved looking creature, with roughly-made panniers, stuffed with crockery apparently, for basins and jugs and pots of various kinds were to be seen sticking out of them in all directions. And besides the donkey's load there was a good deal more to carry, for the man and the women and the big boy were all loaded with bundles of different shapes and sizes, and the little fellow had a sort of knapsack on his back. They would probably have passed on their way without dreaming of the two small people in Spy Tower up above their heads, had not Duke, suddenly catching sight of the donkey's burden, exclaimed loudly to Pamela: "See, see, sister; they have jugs and dishes. Perhaps us could get a bowl like ours." At the sound of the child's voice the man stopped short in what he was saying to his companions, and looked up. "Good day, my little master, and my pretty missy too," he said in a smooth voice, not the least like the rather harsh tones in which he had been speaking a moment before in the strange language. "At your service, and is there anything I can do for you?" "Oh the pretty dears," exclaimed one of the two women, while the other turned away with a rough laugh, muttering something the children could not distinguish the meaning of. "Oh the pretty dears! Like two sweet birds up in a nest. And wouldn't you like your fortunes told, my honeys?" "I don't know what that means," replied Duke, feeling very valiant at the top of the wall. "I want to know if you've got any china bowls to sell--bowls for bread and milk, with little blue leaves running over them." "To be sure, to be sure," said the man. "We've the very thing--it is strange, to be sure, that I should have just what the little master wants, isn't it?" he went on, turning to the woman. "If the gentleman and lady could come down and look at them, they would see better," said she, seizing the panniers with a great show of getting out the crockery they contained. "Us can't come down there," said Duke. "You must come in at the gate, and us will meet you at the back door." The man and woman hesitated. "Will the servants let us come so far, d'ye think?" asked the man. "Are there no dogs about? Must we say the little master and missy told us to come for that they want to buy a bowl?" "Oh no," cried Pamela hastily, "that wouldn't do. The servants mustn't know." The man glanced at the woman with a meaning look. "To be sure, to be sure," she said. "Master and missy must please themselves. It's no business of the servants. Perhaps it's for a little present to their mamma they want one of our pretty bowls?" "Us hasn't any mamma," said Duke, "and it isn't for a present, but still us doesn't want any one to know. Are you _sure_ you've got any bowls just like ours?" "Certain sure," said the woman; "you see we've such a many--if I was to get them all out you'd see. Yours is blue--with leaves all over it--we've some, sweet and pretty, with pink roses and green leaves." "No, no," said the children, shaking their heads, "that wouldn't do. It must be just the same." "And have you got it there, then?" asked the woman. "But that won't matter. You'll soon see what beauties ours are. And so cheap! Not to everybody of course as cheap as to you, but it isn't often we see so pretty spoken a little gentleman and lady as you. And you shall have them as cheap as we can give them." "Then us must get our money-box," said Duke. "It's in the nursery cupboard. Will you go round to near the back gate," and he pointed in the direction he named, "and sister will go through the garden to meet you, and I'll run in for our money-box." The man peered about him, and again a sort of meaning look passed between him and the woman. "To be sure, to be sure," he said. "And pretty missy will wait with us till you come. But don't be long, master, for we've a weary way to go afore night." "Poor things," said Pamela, "are you tired and hungry? I wish us could ask you to come in and rest, but you see Grandpapa and Grandmamma are out and Nurse is ill, and there's no one to ask." "Dear me, what a pity!" said the woman. "To be sure we're tired and hungry, and it's not an easy business to unpack the panniers, but anything to please master and missy." Just then the other woman, who had been standing apart with the big boy all this time, called out something in the same strange-sounding language. And, apparently forgetting the children's presence, the man roared out at her with such brutal roughness that Duke and Pamela shrank back trembling. The first woman hastened to reassure them. "For shame, Mick," she said, and then with a laugh she turned to the children. "It's just a way he has. You must excuse him, master and missy. And if little master will go quick for the money-box it would be better. There won't be much in it, I suppose, but it isn't much we'd want to take." "Oh but there's a great deal," said Duke. "One big guinea--that's between us, and two little ones, one each, and three shillings and a fourpenny of mine----" "And five sixpences and seven pennies of mine," said Pamela. "Who'd a-thought it?" said the woman admiringly. "I'd be pleased to see so much money for once." "Well, I'll show it you," said Duke, and off he started. Pamela looked after him for a moment. "Wouldn't it be better," she said to the woman, "if you saw a bit of the bowl, then you could find the ones like it in a minute?" "What a clever missy!" exclaimed the woman, bent on flattery. "Then I'll run after bruvver and fetch the bits," said Pamela, and, not heeding the woman's calling after her that there was no need to give herself the trouble, off she set too, overtaking Duke just before he reached the house. "I've come after you!" she exclaimed, breathless; "I want to get the broken bits and then they'll see what the bowl was like. And, bruvver,"--and the little girl hesitated a little,--"I was _raver_ frightened to stay alone wif those people. The man did speak so rough, didn't he?" Duke had felt very brave on the top of the wall, and rather proud of himself for feeling so. "You needn't be afraid when _I'm_ there, sister," he said. "Besides they can't hurt us--us'll just buy the bowl and run back with it. Us needn't go farther than just by the back gate." "Do you fink you should take _all_ the money?" asked Pamela doubtfully. "It can't cost all that." "I'll not take the gold guineas, then," said Duke. "At least," he went on, sorely divided between caution and the wish to show off his riches, "I'll only take _one_--just to let them see it. And one shilling and one sixpence to let them see, and all the pennies. You needn't be frightened, sister," he repeated encouragingly, as the two trotted across the garden again, "I won't let the man speak rude to _you_." CHAPTER IV. BABES IN A WOOD. "Out of this wood do not desire to go; Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no." _Midsummer Night's Dream._ There was no one to be seen when they got to the back gate. The children stood and looked about--Pamela with the bits of broken crockery in her apron held up in front, Duke tightly clasping the precious money-box. They looked this way and that way, up the lane and down the lane, but could see nothing or nobody save Farmer Riggs' very old horse turned out at the side of the hedge, and two or three ducks who had perversely chosen to wander out to grub about in a small pool of stagnant water instead of gratefully enjoying their own nice clean pond, as Grandmamma's ducks might have been expected to do. At another time Duke and Pamela would certainly have chased the stray ducks home again, with many pertinent remarks on their naughty disobedience, but just now they had no thought or attention to give to anything but their own concerns. A sudden feeling came over Pamela, and she turned to Duke. "Bruvver," she said, "those people hasn't come. I fink they're not good people, and they won't come near the house. I daresay they're somewhere down the lane, not far off--but don't you _fink_ perhaps us had better not look for them any more, but just go home, and when Grandmamma comes in tell her _everyfing_. Even if she is raver angry, wouldn't it be better, bruvver? I'm almost sure my little voice inside is telling me so," and Pamela stood for a moment with a look of intent listening on her face. "Yes, I'm sure that's what it's trying to say. Can you hear yours, bruvver?" Duke looked undecided. "I can't listen just now, sister," he replied. "I'm full of thinking how nice it would be to buy a bowl just the same, and take it in and give it to poor Biddy, and then she wouldn't be scolded. I don't think I'd mind telling Grandmamma once us had got the bowl. She'd be so pleased to have one the same." "_I_ fink she'd be most pleased for us to tell her everyfing," maintained Pamela stoutly. And Duke, always impressed by her opinion, wavered, and no doubt he would have wavered back into the right way, had not, just at that moment, a low whistle been heard some way to the left down the lane; and, looking in the direction from whence it came, the little boy and girl caught sight of a head quickly poked out and as quickly drawn back again into the shade of the hedge. But not too quickly for them to have recognised the sharp black eyes and rough black hair of the gipsy pedlar. Without replying to Pamela Duke darted off, and, though much against her will, the little girl felt she could not but follow him. Before they had quite reached the spot the head was poked out again. "I've had to wait here for you, master and missy," said the man. "There were some farmers men down that way, round the corner," and he jerked his thumb--for he had by this time come out of his hole--in an imaginary direction, "as said this were a private road, and they'd set dogs on us if we came on. I'm a peaceable fellow, and not fond o' fightin', so I'd just have gone on my way out of their road but for promisin' you to come round this way." "It's very strange," said Duke; "I don't know what it means about a private road, but I know everybody always passes this way--that's why us likes Spy Tower so much, there's so many people passing." "It's all along of our being poor folk," said the man; "there's no fair play for poor folk. But I'm one as keeps his word, so here I am. And the donkey and the missus are down the road there waiting--there's a little wood where we thought nobody would disturb us for a bit, if you and missy will come so far--the missus said she'd unpack the pots. But you must be quick--I dursn't hang about here, and if you can't come there's no more to be said," and he turned as if to go. "Just wait one instant, please," said Pamela hastily, extracting one of the fragments from her apron; "just look at this. It's no use our going to see the bowls if you've none the same--do you fink you have any like this?" The man pretended to start. "Well, that is cur'ous," he said. "If my eyes is not deceivin' me, that's the very pattern we've a whole set on--the bowls shouldn't ought to be sold separate, but to oblige you we'll see what the missus will do," and again he turned to go. The children looked at each other. They had never before in their lives been outside the gates alone; of this back road and where it led to they knew very little, as it was always on the other road--that leading to Sandlingham--that Nurse liked to walk. They did not remember the little wood the man spoke of, but they did not like to contradict him; then, if it was only such a little way, they could run back in a minute when they had got the bowl, and all would be right. So they took each other's hands and followed the man, who was already striding some steps in front down the lane, glancing behind him over his shoulder from time to time to see if the little couple had made up their minds. A few minutes' quick walking on his part, necessitating something between a trot and a run on theirs, brought them out of the lane into the high road. Here the man stopped short for a moment and looked about him--the children supposed in search of his companions and the donkey. But there was no one and nothing to be seen. "I don't think us can come any farther," said Duke rather timidly. The man turned round with a scowl on his face, but in a moment he had smoothed it away and spoke in the same oily tones. "It's just a step farther," he said, "and I can take you a shorter way through the fields than the missus could go with the donkey. This way, master and missy," and he quickly crossed the road, still glancing up and down, and, climbing over a stile, stood beckoning for the children to follow. They had never noticed this stile before; they had not the slightest idea where it led to, but somehow they felt more afraid now to turn back than to go on; and, indeed, it would not have been any use, for, had he cared to do so, the man could have overtaken them in a moment. The stile was hard for their short legs to climb, but they had a great dislike to the idea of his touching them, and would not ask for help. And once he had got them on the other side of it he seemed to feel he had them in his power, and did not take much notice of them, but strode on through the rough brushwood--for they were by this time in a sort of little coppice--as if he cared for nothing but to get over the ground as fast as possible. And still the two followed him--through the coppice, across one or two ploughed fields, down a bit of lane where they had never been before, plunging at last into a wood where the trees grew thick and dark--a forest of gloom it seemed to Duke and Pamela--and all this time they never met a creature, or passed any little cottage such as they were accustomed to see on the cheerful Sandlingham road. The pedlar knew the country, and had chosen the least frequented way. Had they by any chance met a carriage or cart, even when crossing the high road, he would not have dared to risk being seen with the children, but in that case he would no doubt have hurried off, leaving them to find their way home as best they might. But no such good fortune having befallen them, on they trotted--hand-in-hand for the most part, though by this time several stumbles had scratched and bruised them, and their flying hair, flushed faces and tumbled clothes made them look very different from the little "master and missy" Biddy had sent out into the peaceful garden to play that sweet April afternoon. _Why_ they went on, they could not themselves have told. Often in after years, and when they had grown older and wiser, they asked themselves the question. It was not exactly fear, for as yet the man had not actually spoken roughly to them, nor was it altogether a feeling of shame at giving in--it was a mixture of both perhaps, and some strange sort of fascination that even very wise people might not find it easy to explain. For every time their steps lagged, and they felt as if they could go no farther, a glance over his shoulder of the man in front seemed to force them on again. And as the wood grew closer and darker this feeling increased. They felt as if they were miles and miles from home, in some strange and distant country they had never before seen or heard of; they seemed to be going on and on, as in a dream. And though poor little Pamela still, through all her stumbles and tumbles, held tightly up before her the corners of her apron, containing the bits of the unlucky bowl, and Duke, on his side, still firmly clutched his precious money-box, I do not believe either of them had by this time any very clear remembrance of why they were laden with these queer burdens, or what was the object of the strange and painful expedition. And still on strode the piercing-eyed gipsy, as sure of his prey now apparently as a fowler who watches unmoved the fruitless struggles of some poor little birds in the net from which they have no chance of escaping. It would be impossible to say how far they had gone--perhaps not so very far after all, though their panting breath and trembling little legs showed that the gipsy's purpose of tiring them out was pretty well accomplished--when at last a sharp cry from Pamela forced the pedlar to look round. She had caught her foot on a stone or a root, and fallen, and in falling one of the jagged bits of the broken crockery had cut her leg pretty deeply; the blood was already streaming from it, her little white sock was deeply stained, and she lay on the ground almost fainting with terror and pain. "Stop that screaming, will ye?" said the man, and then, with a half return to his former tone, "There's nothing to cry about, missy. It's just a scratch--I'll tie it up with a bit of rag," and he began fumbling about in his dirty pockets as he spoke. "There's the donkey and the others waiting for us just five minutes farther;" and for once the gipsy spoke the truth. The way he had brought the children was in reality a great round, chosen on purpose to bewilder them, so that the rest of his party had been able to reach the meeting-place he had appointed very much more quickly by the road. But Pamela, once thoroughly upset and frightened, was not to be so easily calmed down. "No, no," she screamed, "I won't let him touch me. Go away, go away, you ugly man," she cried, pushing him back with her tiny hands when he tried to come near. "I _won't_ let you touch me or carry me," for that now seemed to be the gipsy's intention, "leave me here with Duke; we don't want you any more." The man's dark face grew darker with the scowl that came over it. For half a moment he seemed on the point of seizing Pamela in his arms in spite of her cries and resistance. But there was Duke too to be considered; Pamela alone it would be easy to cover up, so that her cries should not be heard; but he could not carry both, and if the boy ran after them screaming, or if he tried to run home, to ask for help--for "home" was really not far off--there was no knowing what trouble the anything but blessed "brats" might bring upon worthy Mick and his horde! So that respectable gentleman decided on different tactics. "You're a very naughty little girl," he said--speaking, however, not roughly, but more as if Pamela's behaviour really shocked and hurt him. "After all the trouble I've give myself for you--a-goin' out of my road, and a-unpackin' all the pots and crocks down there, for to please you. Not even to let me tie up your foot or carry you to the missus for her to do it! Well, if you lie there till you bleed to death, it's no fault o' mine." But Duke's presence of mind had returned by this time. "I'll tie up her foot with my hankercher," he said, producing the little twelve-inch square of linen, which for a wonder he found in his pocket, on the whole much cleaner than could have been expected. And though he grew white and sick with the sight of the streaming blood, he managed without any opposition from his sister to strap it up after a fashion, the gipsy looking on in silence. "You can go now, thank you," said Duke, his voice trembling in spite of himself. "Us don't mind about the bowl--it's too far to go. Us will tell Grandmamma all about it--Oh how I do wish us had told her at first," he broke off suddenly. "Please go," he went on again to the pedlar; "sister's frightened. I'll stay here with her till her foot's better, and then us'll go home." "And how will ye do that, I'd like to know, my young master?" said the pedlar, and there was a mocking tone in his voice that made the boy look up at him with fresh alarm. "Ye're furder from 'home' than ye think for. No, no; here ye'll have to stay till I fetch the donkey to carry you both. And to think of all that trouble and time lost for nothing." "They'll give you something at home for bringing us back; they will indeed," said Duke. "Grandpapa and Grandmamma will be so pleased to see us safe again, I _know_ they'll give you something," he repeated, while a sob rose in his throat at the thought that already perhaps dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma--never had they seemed _so_ dear!--were wondering and troubled about their absence. And somehow he quite forgot that he himself could reward the gipsy, for in attending to Pamela's wounded foot he had laid down the money-box, and no longer remembered that he had it with him. The gipsy grunted, and muttered something about "making sure" that Duke scarcely heard. Then he turned to go. "I'm off for the donkey then. But mind you the stiller you stays in this here wood the better," he added impressively. "That's why I didn't like missy crying out so loud. It's a queer place--a _very_ queer place. I'se warrant your Nurse never brought you this way when you were out a-walking." "No, never," said Duke, startled, and even Pamela left off sobbing to stare up at him with her tearful blue eyes, as if fascinated by these mysterious hints. "Ah, I thought not," he said, nodding his head. "Well, stay where you are, and make no sound whatsumnever, and no harm'll come to ye. But if you stir or speak even above a whisper," and he lowered his own voice, "there's no saying. There's beasts you never heard tell of in this wood--worsest of all, snakes, that think nothing of twisting round a child and off with it for their supper afore one could cry out. But if you stop quite still they'll not find you out before I'm back with the donkey. It's about their time o' day for sleeping just now, I'm thinking," and with this crumb of consolation the cruel-hearted gipsy turned on his heel. Words would fail me to describe the terror of the two poor little children: a cry of appeal to the pedlar to stay beside them, not to leave them to the dreadful creatures he spoke of, rose to their lips, but stopped there. For were they not almost as terrified of him as of the snakes? Pamela forgot all about her wounded foot, though it was growing stiff with pain, and the blood, which Duke's unskilful binding had not succeeded in checking, was still flowing in a way that would have alarmed more experienced eyes. It was cold too--and terror made them colder--for the evening was drawing on, and it was only April. Yet they dared not move--Pamela indeed could not have stood up--and so there they stayed, Duke crouched beside his sister, who lay almost at full length on the short tufty grass, among the roots and stumps, for just here a good deal of wood had been cut down. There was no fear of their moving--the shivers and sobs that they could not control added to their fears--they would have left off breathing even, if they could have managed it, rather than risk betraying their presence to the snakes! But after some minutes--not more than five probably, though it seemed more like five hours--had passed the silence and strain grew unbearable to Duke. He peeped at Pamela; her eyes were closed, she looked so dreadfully white!--his heart gave such a thump that he looked round for a moment in terror, it seemed to him such a loud noise,--what could make her look so? Could the fear and the pain have killed her? "Pamela," he whispered, in what he meant to be a very low whisper indeed; "Oh, sister, are you dead?" Her eyelids fluttered a little, and she half opened them. "No, bruvver; at least I don't fink so," she said, and her whisper was very faint without her trying to make it so, for she was really quite exhausted. "I wasn't sure a minute ago, but I fink now I'm only dying. But don't speak, for the snakes might hear." "They're asleep, he said," returned Duke, with a sob of anguish at Pamela's words. "But some might be awake. If it wasn't for that, oh, bruvver, you might run away, and perhaps you'd get safe home. Couldn't you _try_, bruvver?" and Pamela half raised herself on her arm. "And leave _you_, sister!" cried Duke indignantly, forgetting to whisper; "how could you think I'd ever do such a thing? If I could _carry_ you--oh what a pity it is I'm not much bigger than you!" "You couldn't carry _me_," said Pamela feebly, and her head sank back again; "and the snakes would hear us and catch us. But oh, bruvver, I'm afraid I'll be quite dead before the man comes back again, and yet I don't want him to come." Almost in despair Duke sat up and looked round for any possibility of help. It was nearer than he thought; and yet when a voice, apparently a very little way off, called out, as if in answer to his unspoken appeal-- "I'm a-coming. Don't ye be afeared," he started with new terror. "A snake!--Oh, sister, can it be a snake?" he cried wildly, for there was nothing to be seen. "Snakes don't talk, as ever I heard on," said the voice again, and this time it was accompanied by a merry laugh, which brought great comfort to poor Duke. And in another moment the mystery was explained. From behind some stubble a few yards off rose the figure of the young boy whom the children had seen walking behind the gipsies--whistling while he cut at a branch he held in his hand--from their point of observation in Spy Tower. His face was tanned and freckled by the sun, but his fair hair and bright blue eyes showed that he was not by birth one of the dark-skinned tribe; and something in the bright smile, showing a row of teeth as white and even as Duke's own, and in the cheerful voice, at once gained the little boy's confidence. [Illustration: FROM BEHIND SOME STUBBLE A FEW YARDS OFF ROSE THE FIGURE OF THE YOUNG BOY WHOM THE CHILDREN HAD SEEN WALKING BEHIND THE GIPSIES--WHISTLING WHILE HE CUT AT A BRANCH HE HELD IN HIS HAND.--p. 74.] "I've been looking for ye," he said, speaking in a rather lower tone. "I knew he was a-going to bring ye round this way, so I hid in the bushes till I see'd him go by. And I crep' along on my hands and knees for fear he should look back. But he's out o' the way for a few minutes. It's only a bit of a step to where the others is, but he said something about the donkey, didn't he? It'll take him a bit to unload it. An' what's he been a-doing to ye?" he went on, glancing round till his eyes for the first time caught sight clearly of the little figure stretched on the ground. "He's never gone and dared to hit the little lady?" and the good-humoured face grew dark and almost fierce as he stooped down close to Pamela. She looked pitiable enough; her face had grown whiter and whiter, her eyes were still closed, and the blood from her foot had crept about her as she lay till it had soiled the frills of her little white skirts. "No," said Duke; "no, it's her foot. The bits of the bowl cut it when she felled down. I tied it up with my hankercher, but it hasn't left off bleeding." The boy did not speak, he was too busy examining the poor foot, which he handled so tenderly that Pamela did not shrink from his touch. At last he looked up. "I say, master," he said, "we must have some water for this 'ere foot. Just you sit down where I am and hold it so; it won't bleed so bad that way, and I'll get some water. There's some hard by," and he looked round. "If I had but something to fetch some in." "There's my money-box," said Duke, with a sudden flash of recollection, "it would hold a little," and in his turn he looked round. But no money-box was to be seen. "Oh where can it be?" he cried. "I know I had it when sister felled." "Was there summat in it?" asked the boy. "Oh yes," replied Duke; "one of the little gold guineas, and one of my shillings, and one of sister's sixpennies, and all the pennies." "Ah," said the boy, "then I'm afeared you've said good-bye to the lot o' them. Catch Mick let fish like that out of his net. But," he added--for Duke seemed to be stunned by the loss--"sit ye down, and I'll fetch what water I can in my cap, or we'll have missy's foot very bad, and that 'ud be worser than losin' the money." He was back in a moment with water enough to soak the diminutive handkerchief, with which he gently bathed away some of the blood, so that he could see the wound. It was a bad cut, but it was not now bleeding so much. The little surgeon pressed the sides gently together, which made Pamela give a little scream of pain. "Don't cry, missy dear," he said. "It'll not hurt so much when I've tied it up. Ye've not another hankerwich? I'd like to lay this one over the cut--it's nice and wet--and tie it on with summat else." "I fink there's one in my pocket," said Pamela, and when Duke had extracted it, and with its help the poor foot was tied up much more scientifically than before, she sat up and looked about her, less white and miserable by a good deal, thanks to their new friend. "What a nice boy you are," she said condescendingly. "What's your name? Is that---- ugly man" she was going to have said, but she hesitated, afraid of hurting the boy's feelings--"is the man your father?" and she dropped her voice. "Bless yer, no," he replied with real fervency, "and that's one thing I'm thankful for. Mick my father; _no_, thank you, missy. My name's Tim, leastways so I'm called. Diana she says it's short for Timothy, but Tim's long enough." "And who's Diana?" asked the children, beginning to forget their own troubles in curiosity. "Her as he roared out at so--yonder--when you was up at the top o' the wall. She's a deal better than him and the missus is Diana. But listen, master and missy. He'll be back in a minute, and----" "Oh let us run away before he comes! oh do help us to run away!" they exclaimed, all their terrors returning. "Us doesn't want the bowl now. Oh Tim, can't us all run away, quick, before he comes?" And the two little creatures seized hold of their new friend's ragged jacket as if they felt that in him was their only chance of safety. CHAPTER V. TIM. "Whose imp art thou with dimpled cheek, And curly pate and merry eye?" J. BAILLIE. They were so excited, so eager to be off at once, that for a minute or two Tim could scarcely get them to listen to him. They had forgotten all about the snakes, or else their confidence in the boy as a protector was so great that they were sure he would defend them against every danger. "Oh Tim, dear Tim, do let us go quick," they kept repeating. "But master and missy," he explained at last when they would let him speak, "we can't. Don't you see Mick knows exactly where he left yer, and he'd be after us in a minute. There's nowhere near here where we could hide but what he'd find us. You'd only get me a beating, that 'ud be all about it. No, listen to me. P'raps Mick means to take yer home straight away, but if he doesn't we must wait a bit till I can find out what he's after. He's a deep one is Mick." "Couldn't you run home quick to tell Grandpapa and Grandmamma where us is?" said Duke. "Grandpapa, and the coachman, and Dymock, and the gardener--they'd all come to fetch us." "I dursn't," said Tim. "Not yet; Mick's a deep one. If he thought I'd run off to tell he'd----" "What would he do?" they asked breathlessly. "He'd hide away somehow. 'Twouldn't be so easy to find him. He'll be back in a moment too--I couldn't get off before he'd be after me. No; we must wait a bit till I see what he's after." "Why haven't you runned away before?" asked Pamela. "If he's not your father, and if you don't like him." "Nowhere to run to," said Tim simply. "It's not so bad for me. I'm used to it. It's not like you, master and missy. Diana and me, when you was up at the top o' the wall, we'd ha' done anything to stop you coming down." "But, Tim," said Pamela, almost in a whisper "you don't mean that Mick's going to steal us away for always." "No, no," said the boy, "he only wants to get some money for you. But we'll see in a bit. Just you stay there quiet till he comes, and don't you say you've seen me. I'll soon see you again; but he mustn't find me here." They began to cry again when he left them, but he had not gone too soon; for in less than five minutes--by which time Tim had hidden himself some little way off--they heard the voice of the gipsy urging on the donkey over the rough ground. He seemed in a very bad temper, and Duke and Pamela shivered with fear. "Oh I wish us had runned away," whispered Pamela, though, when she tried to lift herself up and found she could not put the wounded foot to the ground even so as to hobble, she felt that to escape would have been impossible. The gipsy scowled at them, but said nothing as he lifted first the boy and then the girl on to the donkey. "There, now," he said, with a slight return to his falsely-smooth tones, "you'll be pleased at last, I should hope. To think of all the trouble we've had, the missus and me, a-unpacking of all the pots and crocks for you to ride on the donkey." "And are you going to take us straight home, then?" said Pamela, whose spirits had begun to revive. "What, without the bowl?" exclaimed Mick, in pretended surprise, "when there's such a lot all set out on the grass in a row for you to see." He spoke so naturally that both the children were deceived for the moment. Perhaps after all he was not so bad--even Tim had said _perhaps_ he was going to take them home! They looked up at him doubtfully. "If you don't mind, please," said Duke, "us'd rather go home. It doesn't matter about the bowl, for sister's foot's so sore and it's getting late. I'll give you all the money--oh please, where have you put my money-box?" Greatly to his surprise, the gipsy pulled it out of some slouching inner pocket of his jacket and gave it to him. "Here it is, master; but it'd a' been lost but for me--a-laying on the ground there." Duke opened it. "I'll give you----" he began again, but he suddenly stopped short. "The little gold guinea's not here," he cried, "only the shilling and the sixpence and the pennies." "Must have rolled out on the ground if ever it was there," said Mick sullenly. "_I_ never see'd it." "It _was_ there," cried Duke angrily. "Do you think I'd tell a story? I must go back and look for it. Let me down, I say, let me down." Then Mick turned on him with a very evil expression on his face. "Stop that, d'ye hear? Stop that," and he lifted his fist threateningly. "D'ye think I'm going to waste any more time on such brats and their nonsense? Catch me a-taking you home for you to go and say I've stolen your money, and get me put in prison by your grandpapas and grandmammas as likely as not," he went on in a half-threatening, half-whining tone. Duke was going to answer, but Pamela pulled his sleeve. "Be quiet, bruvver," she said in a whisper. "Tim said us must wait a bit." Almost as she said the words a voice was heard whistling at a little distance--they were now out of the wood on a rough bridle path. Mick looked round sharply and descried a figure coming near them. "What have you been about, you good-for-nothing?" he shouted. "Why didn't you stay with the others? You might have lent me a hand with the donkey and the brats." Tim stood still in the middle of the path, and stared at them without speaking. Then he turned round and walked beside Mick, who was leading the donkey. "What are ye a-doing with the little master and missy?" he asked coolly. "Mind yer business," muttered the gipsy gruffly. Then he added in a louder tone, "Master and missy has lost their way, don't ye see? They're ever so far from home. It was lucky I met them." "Are ye a-going to take them home?" continued Tim. "For sure, when I can find the time. But that won't be just yet a bit. There's the missus a-waiting for us." And, turning a corner, they came suddenly in sight of the other gipsies--the two women and the big sulky-looking boy--gathered round a tree, the donkey's panniers and the various bundles the party had been carrying lying on the ground beside them. If the panniers had been unpacked and their contents spread out, as Mick had told the children, they had certainly been quickly packed up again. But there was no time for wondering about how this could be; the woman whom the pedlar called "the missus" came up to her husband as soon as she saw them, and said a few words hastily, and with a look of great annoyance, in the queer language she had spoken before, to which he replied with some angry expression which it was probably well the children did not understand. "Better have done with it, I should say," said the other woman, who was much younger and nicer-looking, but still with a rather sullen and discontented face. "That's just like her," said Mick. "What we'd come to if we listened to her talk it beats me to say." "You've not come to much good by not listening to it," retorted Diana fiercely. But Tim, who had gone towards her, said something in a low voice which seemed to calm her. "It's true--we'll only waste our time if we take to quarrelling," she said. "What's to be done, then?" "We must put the panniers back, and the girl must sit between them somehow," said the man. "She can't walk--the boy must run beside." So saying, he lifted both children off the donkey, not so gently but that Pamela gave a cry as her sore foot touched the ground. But no one except Duke paid any attention to her, not even Tim, which she thought very unkind of him. She said so in a low voice to Duke, but he whispered to her to be quiet. "If only my foot was not sore, now us could have runned away," she could not help whispering again. For all the gipsies seemed so busy in loading themselves and the donkey that for a few minutes the children could have fancied they had forgotten all about them. It was not so, however. As soon as the panniers were fastened on again Mick turned to Pamela, and, without giving her time to resist, placed her again on the donkey. It was very uncomfortable for her; her poor little legs were stretched out half across the panniers, and she felt that the moment the donkey moved she would surely fall off. So, as might have been expected, she began to cry. The gipsy was turning to her with some rough words, when Diana interfered. "Let me settle her," she said. "What a fool you are, Mick!" Then she drew out of her own bundle a rough but not very dirty checked wool shawl, with which she covered the little girl, who was shivering with cold, and at the same time made a sort of cushion for her with one end of it, so that she could sit more securely. "Thank you," said Pamela, amidst her sobs; "but oh I hope it's not very far to home." Mick stood looking on, and at this he gave a sneering laugh. "It's just as well to have covered her up," he said. "Isn't there another shawl as'd do for the boy? Not that it matters; we'll meet no one the road we're going. The sooner we're off the better." He took hold of the bridle and set off as fast as he could get the donkey to go. Diana kept her place beside it, so that, even if Pamela had fallen off, it would only have been into the young woman's arms. Duke followed with Tim and the other woman, but he had really to "run," as Mick had said, for his short legs could not otherwise have kept up with the others. He was soon too out of breath to speak--besides, he dared not have said anything to Tim in the hearing of "the missus," of whom he was almost more afraid than even of Mick. And the only sign of friendliness Tim, on his side, dared show him was by taking his hand whenever he thought the woman would not notice. But, tired as he was already, Duke could not long have kept up; he felt as if he _must_ have cried out, when suddenly they came to a turning in the road and the gipsy stopped. "We'll get back into the wood this way," he said, without turning his head, and with some difficulty he managed to get the donkey across a dry ditch, and down a steep bank, when, sure enough, they found themselves again among trees. It was already dusk, and a very little way on in the wood it became almost dark. The gipsy went on some distance farther--obliged, however, to go very slowly; then at last he stopped. "This'll do for to-night," he said. "I'm about sick of all this nonsense, I can tell ye. We might ha' been at Brigslade to-night if it hadn't been for these brats." "Then do as I say," said Diana. "I'll manage it for you. Big Tony can carry one, and I the other." But Mick only turned away with an oath. [Illustration: "HERE'S SOME SUPPER FOR YOU. WAKE UP, AND TRY AND EAT A BIT. IT'LL DO YOU GOOD."--p. 89.] Big Tony was the name of the gipsy boy. He never spoke, and never seemed to take any interest in anything, for he was half-witted, as it is called; though Duke and Pamela only thought him very sulky and silent compared with the friendly little Tim. By this time they were too completely tired to think about anything--they even felt too stupid to wonder if they were on the way home or not--and when Diana lifted Pamela off the donkey and set her down, still wrapped in the shawl, to lean with her back against a tree, Duke crept up to her, drawing a corner of the shawl round him, for he too was very cold by now, poor little boy--and sat there by his sister, both of them in a sort of half stupor, too tired even to know that they were very hungry! They did fall asleep--though they did not know it till they were roused by some one gently pulling them. "Here's some supper for you. Wake up, and try and eat a bit. It'll do you good," the gipsy Diana was saying to them; and when they managed to open their sleepy eyes, they saw that she had a wooden bowl in one hand, in which some hot coffee was steaming, and a hunch of bread in the other. It was not very good coffee, and neither Duke nor Pamela was accustomed to coffee of any kind at home, but it was hot and sweet, and they were so hungry that even the coarse butterless bread tasted good. As they grew more awake they began to wonder how the coffee had been made, but the mystery was soon explained, for at a short distance a fire of leaves and branches was burning brightly with a kettle sputtering merrily in the middle. And round the fire Mick and his wife and big Tony were sitting or lying, each with food in their hands; while a little nearer them Tim was pulling another shawl out of a bundle. "Give it me here," said Diana, and then she wrapped it round Duke, drawing the other more closely about Pamela. "Now you can go to sleep again," she said, seeing that the coffee and bread had disappeared. "It'll not be a cold night, and we'll have to be off early in the morning;" and then she turned away and sat down to eat her own supper at a little distance. "Tim," whispered Duke; but the boy caught the faint sound and edged himself nearer. "Tim," said Duke again, "is he not going to take us home to-night?" "I'se a-feared not," replied Tim in the same tone. A low deep sigh escaped poor Duke. Pamela, so worn out by the pain as well as fatigue she had suffered that she could no longer keep up, was already fast asleep again. "When it's quite, quite dark," continued Duke, "and when Mick and them all are asleep, don't you think us might run away, Tim?" Tim shook his head. "Missy can't walk; and she's dead tired out, let alone her poor foot," he said. "You must wait a bit till she can walk anyway. Try to go to sleep, and to-morrow we'll see." Duke began to cry quietly. "I'm too midderable to sleep," he said. "And it's all my fault. Just look at sister, Tim. She's not even undressed, and she'll die--sleeping all night without any bed out in the cold. Oh, and it's all my fault!" "Hush, hush, master!" said Tim, terrified lest the others should overhear them. "What does he want to do with us? Why won't he take us home?" asked Duke. Tim hesitated a moment. "I thought at first it was just to get money for bringing of ye back," he said. "I've known him do that." "But us would tell," said Duke indignantly. "Us would tell that he wouldn't let us go home." "Ah, he'd manage so as 'twouldn't matter what you said," replied Tim. "He'd get some pal of his to find you like, and then he'd get the money back from him." "What's a pal?" asked Duke bewildered. "Another like hisself; a friend o' his'n," said Tim. "But that's not what he's after. I found out what it is. There's a show at some big place we're going to; and they want pretty little ones like you and little missy, to dress them up and teach them to dance, and to play all sort o' tricks--a-riding on ponies and suchlike, I daresay. I'se seen them. And Mick'll get a good deal that way. I'd bet anything, and so'd Diana, that's what he's after." "But us'd _tell_," repeated Duke, "us'd tell that he'd stoled us away, and they'd have to let us go home." Again Tim shook his head. "Those as 'ud pay Mick for ye wouldn't give much heed to aught you'd say," he answered. "And it'll maybe be a long way off from here--over the sea maybe." "Then," said Duke, "then us _must_ run away, Tim. And if you won't help us, us'll run away alone, as soon as ever sister's foot's better. Us _must_, Tim." He had raised his voice in his excitement, so that Tim glanced anxiously in the direction of the fire. But Mick and his wife seemed to have fallen asleep themselves, or perhaps the wind rustling overhead among the branches prevented the child's little voice reaching them; they gave no signs of hearing. All the same it was best to be cautious. "Master," said Tim solemnly, "I'm ready to help you. I said so to Diana, I did, as soon as ever I see'd what Mick was after, a-tempting you and missy with his nonsense about the bowl you wanted; there's no bowls like what you wanted among the crocks." "Why didn't you call out to us and tell us not to come?" said Duke. "I dursn't--and Mick'd have told you it was all my lies. And I never thought he was a-going to bring you right away neither. I thought he'd get money out of you like he does whenever he's a chance. But, master, if you're ever to get safe away you must do as I tell you, you must." This was all the comfort poor Duke could get. In the meantime there was nothing to do but try to go to sleep and forget his troubles. There was not very much time to do so in, for long before it was really dawn the gipsies were up and astir, and by noon the little brother and sister were farther from "home" than they had ever been since the day when their poor young mother arrived at Arbitt Lodge with her two starved-looking fledglings, now nearly six years ago. For some miles from where they had spent the night Mick and his party joined a travelling caravan of their friends, all bound for the great fair of which Tim had spoken to Duke. And now it would have been difficult for even Grandpapa or Grandmamma to recognise their dear children. Their own clothes were taken from them, their white skin, like that of the princesses in the old fairy tales, was washed with something which, if not walnut juice, had the same effect, and they were dressed in coarse rough garments belonging to some of the gipsy children of the caravan. Still, on the whole, they were not unkindly treated--they had enough to eat of common food, and Diana, who took them a good deal under her charge, was kind to them in her rough sulky way. But it was a dreadful change for the poor little things, and they would already have tried, at all risks, to run away, had it not been for Tim's begging them to be patient and trust to him. All day long--it was now the third day since they had been stolen--the two or three covered vans or waggons which contained the gipsies and their possessions jogged slowly along the roads and lanes. Now and then they halted for a few hours if they came to any village or small town where it seemed likely that they could do a little business, either in selling their crockery or cheap cutlery, baskets, and suchlike, or perhaps in fortune-telling, and no doubt wherever they stopped the farm-yards and poultry-yards in the neighbourhood were none the better for it. At such times Duke and Pamela were always hidden away deep in the recesses of one of the waggons, so there was nothing they dreaded more than when they saw signs of making a halt. It was wretched to be huddled for hours together in a dark corner among all sorts of dirty packages, while the other children were allowed to run about the village street picking up any odd pence they could by playing tricks or selling little trifles out of the general repository. And the brother and sister were not at all consoled by being told that before long they should be dressed up in beautiful gold and silver clothes--"like a real prince and princess," said Mick, once when he was in a good humour--and taught to dance like fairies. For Tim's words had explained to them the meaning of these fine promises, and, though they said nothing, the little pair were far less babyish and foolish in some ways than the gipsies, who judged them by their delicate appearance and small stature, had any idea of. But still they were very young, and there is no telling how soon they would have begun to get accustomed to their strange life,--how soon even the remembrance of Grandpapa and Grandmamma and their pretty peaceful home, of Toby and Miss Mitten, of the garden and their little white beds, of Nurse and Biddy and Dymock, and all that had hitherto made up their world,--would have begun to grow dim and hazy, and at last seem only a dream, of which Mick, and the Missus and Diana, and the others, and the green lanes, with the waggons ever creeping along, and the coarse food and coarser talking and laughing and scolding, were the reality, had it not been for some fortunate events which opened out to them the hope of escape before they had learnt to forget they were in prison. Tim was a great favourite in the gipsy camp. He was not one of them, but he did not seem to remember any other life; in any case he never spoke of it, and he was so much better tempered and obliging than the cruel, quarrelsome gipsy boys, that it was always to him that ran the two or three tiny black-eyed children when their mothers had cuffed them out of the way; it was always he who had a kind word or a pat on the head for the two half-starved curs that slunk along beside or under the carts. There was no mystery about his life--he was not a stolen child, and he could faintly remember the little cottage where he had lived with his mother before she died, leaving him perfectly friendless and penniless, so that he was glad to pick up an odd sixpence, or even less, wherever he could, till one day he fell in with Mick, who offered him his food and the chance of more by degrees, as he wanted a sharp lad to help him in his various trades--of pedlar, tinker, basket-maker, wicker-chair mender, etc., not to speak of poultry-stealing, orchard-robbing, and even child-thieving when he got a chance that seemed likely to be profitable. Poor little Tim--he had learnt very scanty good in his short life! His mother, bowed down with care and sorrow--for her husband, a thatcher by trade, had been killed by an accident, leaving her with the boy of three years old and two delicate babies, who both died--had barely managed to keep herself and him alive by working in the fields, and she used to come home at night so tired out that she could scarcely speak to the child, much less teach him as she would have liked to do. Still on Sundays she always, till her last illness, managed to take him to church, and in her simple way tried to explain to him something of what he then heard. But he was only eight years old when she died, and, though he had not forgotten _her_, the memory of her words had grown confused and misty. For, in the four years since then, he had had no companions but tramps and gipsies--till the day when Duke and Pamela were decoyed away by Mick, he had never exchanged more than a passing word or two with any one of a better class. And somehow the sight of their sweet innocent faces, the sound of their gentle little voices had at once gained his heart. Never had he thought so much of his mother, of his tiny brother and sister, who, he fancied, would have been about the size of the little strangers, as since he had been with them. And when he saw them looking shocked and frightened at the rough words and tones of the gipsies,--when Pamela burst out sobbing to see how dirty her face and hands were, and Duke grew scarlet with fury at the boys for throwing stones at the poor dogs,--most of all, perhaps, when the two little creatures knelt together in a corner of the van to say their prayers night and morning--prayers which now always ended in a sobbing entreaty "to be taken home again to dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma,"--a strange feeling rose in Tim's throat and seemed as if it would choke him. And he lay awake night after night trying to recall what his mother had taught him, wishing he knew what it meant to be "good," wondering if the Grandpapa and Grandmamma of whom the children so constantly spoke would perhaps take pity on him and put him in the way of a better sort of life, if he could succeed in helping the little master and missy to escape from the gipsies and get safe back to their own home. For every day, now that he had seen more of the children, he understood better how dreadful it would be for them if wicked Mick's intentions were to succeed. But hitherto no opportunity of running away had offered--the children were far too closely watched. And Tim dared not take any one, not even Diana, into his confidence! CHAPTER VI. TOBY AND BARBARA. "Missing or lost, last Sunday night." THOMAS MOORE. The chance for which Tim was hoping seemed slow of coming. He was always on the look-out for it; and, indeed, had he not been so Duke would have kept him up to his promise, for whenever he saw Tim alone for a moment he was sure to whisper to him, "How soon do you think us can run away?" And it was now the seventh day since the children had been carried off! Pamela's foot was almost well. She could walk and even run without it hurting her. Diana had bound it up carefully, after putting on some ointment which certainly healed it very quickly. For, with all their ignorance and brutality, the gipsies were really clever in some ways. They had knowledge of herbs which had been handed down to them by their ancestors, and their fingers were skilful and nimble. And for their own sakes Mick and the Missus were anxious that their two pretty prisoners should not fall ill. So that, though dirty and uncared-for as far as appearance went, the little pair had not really suffered in health by their misfortunes. It was partly, perhaps, owing to their innocent hopefulness, which kept up their spirits when, had they been wiser and older, they would have lost heart and grown ill with fear and anxiety. They were now far enough from Sandlingham for Mick to feel pretty sure they would not be tracked. The actual distance they had travelled was not great, but a few miles in those days were really more than a hundred at the present time. For there were, of course, no railways; in many parts of the country the cross-roads were so bad that it was necessary and really quicker to make long rounds rather than leave "the king's highway." And--still more important, perhaps, in such a case--there were no telegraphs! No possibility for poor Grandpapa and Grandmamma--as there would be nowadays, _could_ such a thing happen as the theft of little children--to send word in the space of an hour or two to the police all over the country. Indeed, compared with what it is in our times, the police hardly existed. And everything was in the gipsies' favour. No one had seen them in the neighbourhood of Arbitt Lodge. They had not been on the Sandlingham high-road before meeting the children, and had avoided it on purpose after that. So, among the many explanations that were offered to the poor old gentleman and lady of their grandchildren's disappearance, though "stolen by gipsies" was suggested, it was not seriously taken up. "There have been no gipsies about here for months past," said Grandpapa. "Besides, the children were in our own grounds--gipsies could not have got in without being seen--it is not as if they had been straying about the lanes." Everything that could be done had been done. All the ponds in the neighbourhood had been dragged; the only dangerous place anywhere near--a sort of overhanging cliff over some unused quarries--had been at once visited; the quarries themselves searched in every corner--even though they were very meek-and-mild, inoffensive quarries, where it would have been difficult to hide even a little dog like Toby. And all, as we of course know, had been in vain! There really seemed by the end of this same seventh day _nothing_ left to do. And Grandpapa sat with bowed gray head, his newspaper unopened on the table beside him, broken down, brave old soldier though he was,--utterly broken down by this terrible blow. While Grandmamma slowly drew her arm-chair a little nearer than usual to the fire, for grief makes people--old people especially--chilly. All her briskness and energy were gone; her sweet old face was white and drawn, with no pretty pink flush in the cheeks now; her bright eyes were dimmed and paled by the tears they had shed, till now even the power of weeping seemed exhausted. "I never thought--no, through all I never thought," she murmured to herself, so low that even if Grandpapa had been much sharper of hearing than he was her words could not have reached him,--"I never thought that a day would come when I should thank the Lord that my Marmaduke--yes, and poor little Lavinia too--had not lived to see their darlings the pretty creatures they had become! Yet now I am thankful--thankful for them to have been spared this anguish. Though, again, if they had been alive and well and able to take care of Duke and Pam, perhaps it would never have happened." And once more--for the hundredth time, I daresay--poor Grandmamma began torturing herself by wondering in what she had erred--how could she have taken better care of the children?--was it her fault or Grandpapa's, or Nurse's, or Biddy's, or anybody's? There had been _something_ the matter with Duke and Pam that last morning; they had had something on their little minds. She had thought so at the time, and now she was more than ever sure of it. What could it have been? "I thought it best not to force their confidence, babies though they are," she reflected. "But perhaps if I had persuaded them very tenderly, they would have told me. Was I too severe and strict with them, the darlings? I meant to act for the best, but I am a foolish old woman--if only the punishment of my mistakes could fall on me alone! Ah dear, ah dear!--it would have been hard to lose them by death, but in that case I should have felt that they were going to their father and mother; while _now_--it is awful to picture where they may be, or what may have become of them! Oh Toby, is it you, you poor little dog?" for just at this moment Toby rubbed himself against her foot, looking up in her face with a sad wistful expression in his bright eyes. "Oh Toby, Toby," said Grandmamma, "I wonder if you could tell us anything to clear up this dreadful mystery if you could talk." But Toby only wagged his tail--he was very sad too, but he had far too much self-respect _not_ to wag his tail when he was kindly spoken to, however depressed he might be feeling--and looked up again, blinking his eyes behind their shaggy veil. "Oh Toby," said poor Grandmamma again, as if she really did not know what else to say. And Grandpapa, half ashamed of his own prostration, roused himself to try to say a cheering word or two. "We must hope still, my love," he said. "To-morrow may bring news from the Central London Police Office, where the Sandlingham overseer has written to. He bade us keep up hope for a few days yet, we must remember." "Only for a few days more," repeated Grandmamma. "And if those days bring nothing, what _are_ we to think--what are we to do?" "Upon my soul," said Grandpapa, "I do _not_ know;" and with a heavy sigh he turned away again, glancing at the newspaper as if half inclined to open it, but without the heart to do so. "Of course," he said, "if by any possibility they had fallen into kind hands, and it had occurred to any one to advertise about them, we should have known it before this. The police are all on the alert by now. If dishonest people have carried them off for the sake of a reward, they will find means of claiming it before long. The head-man at Sandlingham does not advise our offering a reward as yet. He says it might lead to more delay if they are in dishonest hands. Their captors would wait to see if more would not be offered--better let them make the first move, he says." "To think of putting a price on the darlings, as if they were little strayed dogs!" exclaimed Grandmamma, lifting her hands. Just at this moment the door opened, and Dymock came in. Grandmamma raised her face quickly, with a look of expectation--the door never opened in those sad days without her heart beating faster with the hope of possible tidings--but it as quickly faded again. Dymock had just the same melancholy expression; he still walked on tiptoe, and spoke in a muffled voice, as if he were entering a sick-room. This was his way of showing his sympathy, which really was most deep and sincere But somehow it provoked Grandmamma, who was, it must be confessed, _rather_ a quick-tempered old lady at all times, and at present her nerves were of course unusually irritated. "Well, what is it, Dymock?" she said testily. "I wish you would not go about like a mute at a funeral. You make me think I don't know what." "Beg pardon, ma'am, I'm sure," said Dymock humbly, but still in the same subdued way. He would not have taken offence just now at any remark of Grandmamma's; but he could not help speaking to her with a sort of respectful indulgence, as much as to say, "I know she can't help it, poor old lady," which Grandmamma found exceedingly aggravating. "Beg pardon. But it's Mrs. Twiss. If she could see you for a moment, ma'am?" "Old Barbara!" exclaimed Grandmamma. "Is it possible that she--she is so shrewd and sensible--can she have heard anything do you think, Dymock?" But Dymock shook his head solemnly. "No, no, ma'am. It's not that. I'm very sorry if by my manner I raised any false hopes." "That you certainly did not, my good Dymock," said the old lady grimly. "But--would you see Mrs. Twiss, ma'am? She's going from home I believe." "Going from home--she who never leaves her own cottage! Yes, I will see her," and in another moment the neat old woman was making her curtsey at the door. "Come in, come in, Barbara," said Grandmamma. "And so you are off somewhere? How is that? Ah, if I were as strong and well as you, I think I would be tempted to set off on my travels to look for my lost darlings. It is the staying here waiting and doing nothing that is so dreadful, my good friend." And Grandmamma's voice quavered with the last words. It was not the first time she had seen Barbara since the children's disappearance, for they were old friends, and the cake woman had hurried up to Arbitt Lodge at once on hearing of the sad trouble that had befallen its inmates, to express her concern and see if maybe she could be of any use. "Yes, indeed, ma'am. I can well understand it," she said. "How you bear up as you do is just wonderful. I'm sure I can't get it out of my mind for a moment. I keep seeing them as they passed by that last afternoon. Nurse was a bit vexed with them--missy's frock was torn and----" "Yes," interrupted Grandmamma--Grandpapa seeing her occupied had at last made up his mind to open his newspaper--"Yes, I was thinking of that. They told us about it, and they asked what it meant to be 'a great charge;' they had heard Nurse say that to you. She is a good woman, I feel sure, Barbara, but perhaps she is a little too strict. I have got it so on my mind that they had some little trouble they did not like to tell about, and that that, somehow, has had to do with it all." "You don't mean, ma'am, that such tiny trots as that would have run away on purpose?" said Barbara in surprise. "Oh no, they'd never have done that." "No, I do not mean that exactly," said Grandmamma. "I do not think I know rightly what I mean. Dear, dear, I wish Dymock would keep Toby away," she added. "You don't know how he startles me--every time he comes close to me I fancy somehow it is the children," and Grandmamma looked so uneasy and nervous that Barbara quietly took up the little dog and put him out of the room. "And, Barbara, you had no reason for coming to see me? Except, of course--I was forgetting--that you are going away." "Only for a few days, ma'am," Barbara replied. "I had a letter from my niece--leastways from her husband--the niece who lives over near Monkhaven--yesterday. She's been very ill, ma'am,--very ill indeed, and though she's getting better it would be a great comfort to her to see me, and maybe spirit her up a bit to get well quicker. So I'm just setting off--I've locked up my cottage and left the key next door. But I couldn't start without looking in again to see if maybe you had any news." "No, no--nothing," replied Grandmamma. "And I feel as if I couldn't bear much more. I am breaking up, Barbara; a few days more will see the last of me, my old friend, if they bring no tidings." Barbara's eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing.--She had exhausted all her attempts at comfort, all her "perhaps"'s, and "maybe"'s as to what had become of the children; and though she was a very cheerful and hopeful old woman, she was also very sympathising, and it made her dreadfully sad to see Grandmamma so changed and cast down. "It goes to my heart, ma'am, to see you so," she got out at last. "I know there's nothing I can do, but all the same I wish I weren't going away just now, though the few days will soon be past." "Yes," said Grandmamma, "they will certainly; and yet even two days seem an eternity just now. You see how foolish and weak I am growing, Barbara. I want every day to be over, and yet I cannot bear to have the days pass and to say to myself that the chances of any tidings are lessening and lessening. Soon it will be two weeks--it is already eight days. When it was only two days it did not seem so hopeless. But I must not keep you, Barbara. How do you mean to get to Monkhaven?" "Farmer Carson is to give me a lift as far as Brigslade, and then I can walk the rest," said the sturdy old woman, "so good-day to you, ma'am, and, oh deary me, but I do hope there may be better news to hear when I come back on Friday," and with a cordial shake of the hand from Grandmamma, Barbara turned to go. But just then there came at the door a whining and scratching which made the old lady give a sigh of impatience. "It is the dog again," she said. "He is so restless there is no keeping him quiet, and, though I am very fond of him, I really cannot bear the sight of him just now. I do wish he were away." Grandmamma spoke so weariedly and seemed so nervous that Barbara felt more sorry for her than ever. Suddenly an idea struck her. "Would you let me take him with me, ma'am?" she said. "He knows me so well that I should have no trouble with him, and he'd be nice company on the walk from Brigslade." Grandmamma hesitated, but only for a moment. "Yes, take him, Barbara," she said. "He will be much happier with you, poor little dog. And till I have my darlings again,--and will that ever be, Barbara?--I really cannot bear to see or hear him. Yes, take him with you, poor little dog; and--and--keep him as long as you like--unless--unless there _do_ come good news." And thus it came to pass that Toby set out on his travels with Barbara Twiss, while poor Grandmamma shrank down again into her arm-chair by the fire, and Grandpapa tried to imagine he was reading his newspaper as usual. What did poor Toby think of it all? His ideas had been very confused for some days, poor little dog. He could not make out what had become of the children. He sniffed about everywhere, once or twice barking with sudden delight when, coming upon some relic of his little master or mistress, such as Duke's old garden hat or Pamela's tiny parasol, he imagined for a moment or two that he had found them, only to creep off again with his tail between his legs in renewed disappointment when he discovered his mistake, all of which, it is easy to understand, had been very trying to poor Grandmamma, and no doubt to Toby himself. He did not understand what he was scolded for when he certainly meant no harm; he could not make out why Dymock gave him little shoves out of the way and Biddy bade him sharply be quiet when he, naturally enough, yelped at this inconsiderate treatment. And worst of all, when, after the most mature reflection, he took up his quarters on one of the two little white beds in the night nursery, deciding that there, sooner or later, his friends _must_ return, was it not _too_ bad that Nurse, hobbling about again after her rheumatic attack, which she had made much worse by fretting,--was it not _too_ bad that she should unceremoniously dislodge him with never a "by your leave," or "with your leave"? Toby shook himself and walked off in disgust. "You very silly and stupid old woman," he said to her in his own mind, "if you only had the sense to understand _my_ language, you would see that the only rational thing to do is to wait for Duke and Pam in a place where they are sure to come. And that is their beds. I have thought it out, I assure you. But there is no use trying to put reasonable ideas into human beings' heads. I might bark myself black in the face before any one could take in what I mean." It was just after this that he had wandered away downstairs in search of a quiet corner; and on first entering the parlour Grandmamma spoke to him so kindly that he began to think of bestowing his company upon her for the rest of the day, especially as she was always installed near a good fire. Toby dearly loved a fire; even on a hot summer's day the kitchen fire had great attractions for him. But when Mrs. Twiss came in, and he, as was his duty and business of course, went to the door to see who it was, that officious Dymock shut him out again, and actually when he whined and scratched in the politest manner to be let in Grandmamma spoke crossly to him. "Et tu, Brute!" thought Toby to himself. What was coming over the world? On the whole he was not sorry to find himself trotting down the lane beside Barbara, whom he had a sincere regard for. She spoke to him with proper respect; she was not given to shoves like Dymock, or sharp expressions like Nurse and Biddy, and when she called him to follow her, Toby willingly followed. "You're to come along with me, poor doggie," she said. "You're only a worry to the good lady at present, and I'm pleased to have your company. Besides, who knows, you're a sharp dog, Toby, and you and I will keep our eyes and ears open, and you your nose as well, for that's a gift the more, you have, you doggies, nor us." And so saying Barbara and her companion made their way to the cross-roads, a point well known in the country-side. For there a great finger-post served the double purpose of informing the traveller in four directions and of frightening many a country lad or lassie of a moonlight night, when it stood gaunt and staring like a gigantic skeleton, as everybody knows the meeting of cross-roads is at no time a canny spot. Here Farmer Carson had promised to take up Barbara, for his home lay a mile or two out of the village, all of which she kindly explained to her little companion as they went along. She had a great habit of talking to herself, and she was so much alone that it was quite a treat to have "some one" to talk to, as she also informed Toby. He looked up at her with his bright eyes, from time to time wagging his tail, "for all the world like a Christian," thought Barbara, but nevertheless I am afraid he did not take in her information as fully as appeared. For when, after they had sat waiting for him for some minutes, the worthy farmer drove up with a cheery "Good morning, Mrs. Twiss," Toby had the impertinence to bark furiously at him and his most respectable old mare, as if they had not quite as good a right as he to the king's highway! This, of course caught the farmer's attention. "That's a knowing little chap you've got with you, neighbour Twiss," he said; "he favours the one at the Lodge, does he not?" This naturally led to Barbara's explaining that he was the one at the Lodge in person, and then she and her friend beguiled the way by talking over the sad and mysterious disappearance of the children. It was very sad, and very strange, the farmer agreed. Then he scratched his head with the hand that was not occupied with the reins. "I've thought a deal about it," he said, "and I've come to think it's--as likely as not--gipsies after all." Barbara started. "But there's been none about," she said, "not for ever so long. The General"--the General was Grandpapa--"thought of that at the very first and asked all about. But there'd been none heard of, and heard of they always are pretty quick, and none so pleasantly, as you should know well, Mr. Carson." "I do so, I do so," he agreed, nodding his head. "But they're a cunning lot. If they'd any reason for getting quick out of the way, they'd do it. All I can tell you is this, and I only heard it last night: one o' my men coming home what he calls a short-cut way saw traces of a fire down by Black Marsh; and he's certain sure the marks weren't there the day before the children disappeared. That was the last time he'd passed that way." "And that's more nor a week past," said Barbara. "If it should be so,--if the gipsies have really got them,--they may be a long way off by now." "Just so," said the farmer; "that's the worst of it. And no telling what road they've gone, neither. No; I'm sadly afraid if it's been gipsies there's not much chance of seeing them again, unless they're tempted by the rewards. Pretty little creatures like that they can always make a good deal by, for those shows as goes about. And they're such babies--only four or five years old, aren't they? They'll soon forget where they come from and all." "Nay," said Barbara, "they're small for their age, for they're six past. But they're not dull; no, indeed, they're very quick children. They'd not forget in a hurry." Then she grew very silent. It made her terribly sad to think of the two tender little creatures in such hands; suddenly Toby, who had been quietly reposing at her feet, jumped up and gave a short sharp bark. "What is it, Toby?" said Barbara, patting him. Toby grunted a little, and then lay down again. The reason of his barking was that he had just discovered why old Barbara had brought him away on this journey. It was that _he_ was to find the children--he quite understood all about it now, and wished to say so. CHAPTER VII. DIANA'S PROMISE. "Oh, who can say But that this dream may yet come true?" THOMAS MOORE. For some days the gipsy caravan had been making its way along a very lonely road; they had come across no towns at all and no large villages. They got over more ground now, for there was less temptation to linger. The truth was that Mick and the other heads of the party had in some way got news that the great fair to which they were bound was to begin sooner than they expected, and unless they hurried on they might not be there in time to take up a good position among the many strays and waifs of their kind always to be found at such places. There were ever so many ways in which they expected to turn a number of honest or dishonest "pennies" at this same fair. It was one of their regular harvest times. Mick and his friends always managed to do something in the way of horse-dealing on such occasions, and Diana, who was the best-looking of the younger gipsy-women, was thoroughly up to all the tricks of fortune-telling. Her cold haughty manners had often more success than the wheedling flatteries of the others. She _looked_ as if she were quite above trickery of any kind, and no doubt the things she told were not altogether nonsense or falsehood. For she had learned to be wonderfully quick in reading the characters of those who applied to her, even in divining the thoughts and anxieties in their minds. And besides these resources the gipsies had a good show of baskets and brooms of their own manufacture to dispose of; added to which this year a hard bargain was to be driven with Signor Fribusco, the owner of the travelling circus, for the "two lovely orphans," whose description had already been given to him by some of the gipsy's confidantes, to whom Mick had sent word, knowing them to be in the Signor's neighbourhood. Some of this Tim had found out by dint of listening to bits of conversation when he was supposed to be asleep. He grew more and more afraid as the days passed on and no chance of escape offered, for various things began to make him fear they were not very far from the town they were bound to. For one thing Mick's wife and Diana began to pay more attention to the two children's appearance. Their fair hair was brushed and combed every day, and their delicate skin was carefully washed with something that restored it almost to its natural colour; all of which had an ominous meaning for Tim. "Diana is very kind now," said Pamela, one day when she and Duke had been allowed for once to run about a little with the other children. There certainly seemed small risk in their doing so, for the gipsies had encamped for the night on a desolate moor, where no human habitations of any kind were in sight, no passers-by to be feared. "Yes," said Duke, who had hold of Tim's other hand; "she makes us nice and clean and tidy." "And she's making a gown for me," said Pamela. "It's made of my own white gown, but she's sewing rows of red and blue and gold round it. And she says if Duke is good she's going to make him a red jacket. Isn't it kind of her? Do you know, Tim," she went on in a lower tone, "us has been thinking that perhaps they're meaning to take us home soon, and that they want us to look very nice. Do you think it's that, Tim? I'm sure Grandpapa and Grandmamma would be so pleased they'd give them lots of money if they took us back." "I'm afeared it's not taking you home they're thinking of, missie," said Tim grimly. "Then why don't you help us to run away, Tim?" said Duke impatiently. "I've asked you and asked you. I'm sure us might run away _now_--there's nobody looking after us." "And where would we run to?" said Tim. "There's not a mortal house nor a tree even to be seen. Run away, indeed! We'd be cotched--cotched afore we'd run half a mile. And yet it's the very first time you've bin let run about a little. I'm ready enough to run away, but no good running away to be cotched again--it 'ud be worser nor ever." "Then is us never to run away? Is us never to see Grandpapa, and Grandmamma, and Dymock, and Biddy, and Nurse, and Toby--oh, dear Toby!--and the garden, and the nursery, and our little beds, again?" said both children, speaking together and helping each other with the list of their lost blessings, and in the end bursting into tears. Tim looked at them ruefully. "Don't 'ee now, don't 'ee, master and missy," he said anxiously. "They'll see you've been crying, and they'll not let you out any more." Duke and Pamela tried to choke down their sobs. "Will you try to help us to run away, then, if us is very good--Tim, dear Tim, oh do," they said piteously. And Tim tried to soothe them with kind words and promises to do his best. Poor fellow, he was only too ready to run away for his own sake as well as theirs. The feelings which had been stirred and reawakened by the children's companionship had not slumbered again; on the contrary, they seemed to gain strength every day. Every day he felt more and more loathing for his present life; every night when he tumbled into the ragged heap which was called his bed he said to himself more strongly that he _must_ get away--he could not bear to think that his mother, looking down on him from the heaven in which she had taught him to believe, could see him the dirty careless gipsy boy he had become. It was wonderful how her words came back to him now--how every time he could manage to get a little talk with his new friends their gentle voices and pretty ways seemed to revive old memories that he had not known were there. And the thought of rescuing them,--of succeeding in taking them safe back to their own home,--opened a new door for him. "Maybe," said Tim to himself, "the old gentleman and lady'd take me on as a stable-boy or such like if the little master and missie'd speak a word for me, as I'm sure they would. And I'm right down sure I'd try to do my best--anything to get away from this life." Of course he could have got away by himself at any time much more easily than with the children. But till now, as he had told them, he had not cared to try it, for where had he to run to? And, besides, it was only since Duke and Pamela had been with the gipsies that the wish to return to a better kind of life had grown so very strong. He sighed heavily as he stood on the desolate moor with his two little companions, for he felt what he would not say to them, how terribly difficult their escape would be. Suddenly Pamela tugged at his arm. "What is that shining down there, Tim?" she said, pointing over the moor, which sloped downwards at one side. "Is it a river?" Tim looked where she directed, and his face brightened a little. "'Tis the canal, missie," he said. "It comes past Monkhaven, and goes--I don't rightly know where to. Maybe to that place we're going to, where the fair's to be. I once went a bit of a way on a canal--that was afore I was with Mick and his lot. There was a boy and his mother as was very good to me. I wish I could see them again, I do." "But what _is_ a canal, Tim," said Pamela. "Us has never seen one, and that down there looks like a silver thread--it shines like water." "So it is water, missie--a canal's a sort of a river, only it goes along always quite straight. It doesn't go bending in and out like a real river, sometimes bigger and sometimes littler like." "And how did you go on it," asked Duke. "And the boy and his mother? You couldn't walk on it if it was water--nobody can except Jesus in the big Bible at home. _He_ walked on the top of the water." "Did he really?" said Tim, opening his eyes. "I've heerd tell on him. He was very good to poor folk and such like, wasn't he? Mother telled me about him, tho' I thought I'd forgotten all she'd told me. But I remember the name now as you says it. And what did he walk on the top o' the water for, master?" Duke looked a little puzzled. "I don't quite remember, but I think it was to help some poor men when the sea was rough." "No, no," said Pamela; "_that_ was the time he felled asleep, and they woked him up to make the storm go away." "I'm sure there was a storm the time he was walking on the water, too," said Duke; "there's the picture of it. When us goes in, sister, us'll get Grandmamma's picture-Bible and look"--but suddenly his voice fell, his eager expression faded. In the interest of the little discussion he had forgotten where they were, how far away from Grandmamma and her picture-Bible, how uncertain if ever they should see her or it again! Pamela understood. "I wish Jesus would come and help us now," she said softly. "I'm sure us needs him quite as much as those men he was so kind to. Tell us about the canal, Tim." "It's boats," replied Tim. "Long boats made just the right shape. And they've got rooms in them--quite tidy-like. The one that boy lived in along o' his mother was as nice as--as nice as nice. And then they go a-sailin' along--right from one end of the canal to the other." "What for--just because they like it?" "Oh no. They've all sorts of things they take about from one place to another--wood often and coal. But that wasn't a coal boat--it was nice and clean that one. And there's hosses as walks along the side of the canals, pullin' of the boats with ropes. It's a pleasant life enough, to my thinking--that's to say when they're tidy, civil-like folk. Some of them's awful rough--as rough as Mick and the Missus and all o' _them_." Duke and Pamela listened with the greatest interest. They quite forgot to cry any more about their home in listening to what Tim told them. "Oh, Tim," said Pamela, "I'll tell you what _would_ be nice. If us and you could get one of those boats, and a horse to pull it, and go sailing away till we got home to Grandpapa and Grandmamma. That would be nice, wouldn't it, Tim?" "Yes, missie," said Tim. "But is there canals near your place?" Pamela's face fell. "I don't know. I never thought of that," she said. "But I daresay there's one that goes to not far off from there. And Mick would never catch us then, would he, Tim? We'd go so fast, wouldn't we?" "They don't go that fast--not canal boats," replied Tim. "Still I don't think as Mick'd ever think of looking for us there. That'd be the best of it." But just then the rough voice of Mick himself was heard calling to them to come back; for they had wandered to some little distance from the other children, who were quarrelling and shouting near the vans. "Come back you brats, will ye?" he roared. And the poor little things, like frightened sheep, followed by Tim, hurried back. Pamela shuddered at the sound of their jailor's voice in a way the boy could not bear to see. Mick had never yet actually struck her or her brother so as to hurt them; but Tim well knew that any day it might come to that. "And a blow from his heavy hand--such a blow as he's given me many a time when he's been tipsy--would go near to killing them tender sort o' fairy-like critturs," said the boy to himself, shuddering in his turn. "He's been extra sober for a good bit, but onst he gets to the fair there's no saying." And over and over again, as he was falling asleep, he asked himself what could be done,--how it would be possible to make their escape? Somehow the sight of the canal had roused a little hope in him, though he did not yet see how it could be turned to purpose. "If we keeps it in sight, I'll see if I can't get near hand it some day and have a look at the boats, if there's any passing. Maybe there'd be some coming from where the fair is. And if there was any folk like them as was so good to me that time, they'd be the right sort for to help us." And poor Tim had a most beautiful dream that night. He thought he himself and Duke and Pamela were sailing down a lovely stream in a boat shining like silver, and with sails of white striped with red and blue and gold, like the frock Diana was trimming for Pamela. They went so fast it was more like flying than sailing, and all of a sudden they met another boat in which were a lady and gentleman, whom he somehow knew at once were the Grandpapa and Grandmamma of the children's talk, though they were dressed so grandly in crimson robes, and with golden crowns on their heads like kings and queens, that he was frightened to speak to them; for he had nothing on but his ragged clothes. And just as Duke and Pamela were rushing towards them with joy, and he was turning away ashamed and miserable, wiping his tears with his jacket sleeve, a soft voice called to him not to be afraid but to come forward too. And looking up he saw a figure hovering over him, all white and shining like an angel. But when he looked at the face--though it was so beautiful--he knew he had seen it before. It was that of his poor mother; he knew at once it was she, though in life he could only remember her wan and worn and often weeping. "Take courage, my boy--a new life is beginning for you. Have no fear." And then, just as it seemed to him that little Pamela turned round, holding out her hand to lead him forward, he woke! But his dream left a hopeful feeling in his heart. It was still very early morning and all his companions were asleep. Tim got up and very quietly crept out of the sort of one-sided tent, made by drawing a sail-cloth downwards from the top of the van, where he and the other boys slept. He walked a little way over the rough moor, for there was no road, scarcely even a track, and looked down to where, in the clear thin morning light, the canal lay glittering below. Then he gazed over the waste in front. Which way would they be going? Would they skirt the canal more closely or branch off and strike away from it? Tim could not tell. But he resolved to keep his eyes and ears open and to find out. All that day the gipsy vans jolted along the rough cart-track across the moor. They halted as usual at mid-day--but Tim could not get to speak to the twins at all. And then the caravan started again and went rumbling on till much later than usual, for, as Tim overheard from the gipsies' conversation, they were eager now to get to Crookford, where the fair was to be, as quickly as possible. When they at last stopped for the night it was almost dark; but the boy crept close up to the entrance of the waggon where he knew the children to be, and hid himself at the side, and, as he expected, the two little figures came timidly forward. "Diana," they said softly, and he heard the girl answer not unkindly, but coldly, as was her way. "Well, what now?" "Mayn't us come out a little bit, even if it is dark? Us is so tired of being in here all day." "And my head's aching," added Pamela. Diana hesitated. A small fine rain--or perhaps it was only mist--was beginning to fall; but in spite of that she would probably have let them out a little had not Mick just then come forward. "They want out a bit," she said. "They're tired like with being mewed up in there all day and never a breath of air--no wonder," and she made as if she were going to lift Pamela down the steps. "Are you crazed, girl?" said the gipsy, pushing her back. "To let them out now in the chill of the evening, and it raining too--to have them catch their deaths of cold just as I've some chance of making up for all the trouble they've cost me. Fool that I was to be bothered with them. But you're not a-going to spoil all now--that I can tell ye." Diana looked at him without speaking. She was not at all in the habit of giving in to him, but she knew that a quarrel terrified the children. She felt too, as she lifted her dark face to the clouded sky, that it was really raining, and she reflected that there might be truth in what Mick said so rudely. [Illustration: "THEY WANT OUT A BIT," SHE SAID. "THEY'RE TIRED LIKE WITH BEING MEWED UP IN THERE ALL DAY AND NEVER A BREATH OF AIR--NO WONDER."--p. 132.] "I think it is too cold and damp for you," she said turning to the door where the two little white faces were looking out piteously. "Never mind," she added in a lower tone, "I'll come back in a minute, and we'll open the window to let some air in, and then I'll sing you to sleep." Tim could scarcely believe his ears to hear the rough harsh Diana speaking so gently. "If _she'd_ help us," he thought to himself, "there'd be some chance then." But he remained quite still, crouching in the shelter of the van--almost indeed under it--he was so anxious to hear more of Mick's plans if he could, for he noticed that the gipsy hung about while the girl was speaking to the children, as if he had something to say to her unheard by them. They were so frightened of him that they drew back into the dark recesses of the van, and when they were no longer to be seen, Mick pulled Diana's sleeve to attract her attention. "Just you listen to me, girl, will ye?" he said. "I'll stand none of your nonsense--thinking to queen it over us all. Now just listen to me." Diana shook his hand off her arm. "I'll listen if you'll speak civil, Mick," she said. "What is it you've got to say?" She spoke quietly but sternly, and he seemed frightened. He had evidently been drinking more than of late, and Tim shuddered at the thought of what might happen if he were to get into one of his regular tipsy fits while the children were still there. "It's along o' them childer," said Mick, though less roughly now. "You're a-spoiling of them, and I won't have it. To-morrow evening'll see us at Crookford, and the day after they're to be took to the Signor. Their looks'll please him--I'm not afeard for that; but I've gave him to understand that they're well broke in, and there'll be no trouble in teaching them the tricks and singin' and dancin' and all that. And he's to give me a good sum down and a share of the profits. And if he's not pleased and they're turned back on my hands--well, it'll be _your_ doing--that I can tell you, and you shall pay for it. So there--you know my mind." He had worked himself up into rage and excitement again while he spoke, but Diana did not seem to care. "What do you know of the man? will he be good to them?" she said coolly. Mick gave a sneering laugh. "He won't starve them nor beat them so as to spoil their pretty looks," he said. "They'll have to do what they're told, and learn quick what they've got to learn. You don't suppose childer like that 'ull pay for their keep if they're to be made princes and princesses of?" "Then what did you steal them for? You do nothing but grumble about them now you've got them--why didn't you, any way, take them home after a bit and get something for your pains?" "I thought o' doing so at the first," said Mick sulkily, as if forced to speak in spite of himself. "But they're sharper nor I thought for. No knowing what they'd ha' told. And when Johnny Vyse came by and told o' the fair, and the Signor sure to be ready to take 'em and pay straight for 'em, I see'd no use in running my head into a noose by taking 'em back and getting took myself for my pains. I've had enough o' that sort o' thing, as you might know." "Let _me_ take them home, then," said Diana suddenly. "I'll manage so as no blame shall fall on you--no one shall hear anything about you. And for myself I don't care. I'd almost as lief be in prison as not sometimes." Mick stared at her. "Are ye a-going out of yer mind?" he said, "or d'ye think I am? After all the trouble I've had with the brats, is it likely I'll send 'em home and lose all? It's too late now to try for a reward; they're sharp enough to tell they could have been took home long ago. But if the Signor isn't square with me, I may make something that way too--I can tell on _him_ maybe. But I'll take care to get my reward and be out o' the way first. I'm not such a fool as you took me for after all, eh? And if you see what's for your good you'll do your best to help me, and you'll find I'll not forget you. One way or another I'm pretty sure to make a tidy thing of them." Diana turned away, and for a moment or two there was silence. Tim's heart beat so fast he almost felt as if the gipsies would hear it. He could not see Diana's face, but he trembled with fear lest Mick's bribes should win her over. And when her words came it seemed as if his fears were to be fulfilled. "You _are_ a sharp one, Mick, and no mistake," she said, with a strange hard laugh. The gipsy was too muddled in his head to notice anything peculiar in her tone, and he took her answer for a consent. "That's right. I thought ye'd hear reason," he said. And then he lurched off to his own quarters. Diana stood where she was for a moment. Suddenly she raised her hands to her face, and Tim fancied he heard a smothered sob. Without stopping to think what he was risking, the boy crept out of the shadow where he had been hidden, and caught hold of her skirts just as she was turning to mount into the van where the children were. "Diana," he said breathlessly, "I've heard all he said. You don't mean to take part with him, do you? You'll never help to sell those pretty babies like that? I'll do anything--anything you tell me--if you'll join with me to get them sent home." In her turn Diana caught hold of him and held him fast. "Tim," she said, "you want to get off yourself, and you'd do your best for them. I've seen it. But alone you'd never manage it. I'll help you, Tim. I won't have it on my conscience that I stood by and saw those innocents sold to such a life. If it had been to keep them a while longer with us, I mightn't have done anything, not just yet, not till I saw a chance. But whatever Mick and the others say, I won't see them taken away unless it is to go back to their own people." "That's right, Diana," said Tim. "And I'll help you. Keep your wits about you and be ready when I give the sign. Now get out of the way and take care. If Mick hadn't made himself stupid lately he'd have seen you were thinking of something. You mustn't say a word to the children; leave them to me," and again squeezing the boy's arm meaningly, she climbed up into the waggon, where the two little prisoners, tired of waiting for her, had fallen fast asleep. Tim, for his part, tumbled into his so-called bed that night, with a wonderfully lightened heart, and his dreams were filled with the most joyous hopes. CHAPTER VIII. NEW HOPES. "I am a friend to them and you." _Winter's Tale._ It was a good thing Tim had some new ground of hope, for otherwise the next day or two would have sadly distressed him. He never once could get near the children. And, what he found very strange, Diana herself seemed to be doing her utmost to keep him from them. Two or three times, especially when Mick or the Missus happened to be near, she roughly pushed him back when he was making his way to the door of the van, where Duke and his sister were. And at first the boy was not only surprised, but rather offended. "What for will you not let me play with them a bit?" he said to her, half inclined to appeal to Mick, who did not interfere. "They've no need of _you_--keep out of my way," Diana answered roughly, at which Mick and the others laughed as if it was a very good joke, for hitherto Diana had been always accused of "favouring" the boy. Tim looked up resentfully. He had it on his tongue--for after all he was only a child--to say something which might have done harm never to be undone, for he could not understand Diana. But something in her face, as she looked at him steadily, stopped the words of reproach as they rose to his lips. "You'll make an end of them, you will, if you keep them choked up in there all day," he said sullenly. "Why can't you let 'em out for a bit of a run with me, like you've done before?" "I'll let them out when it suits me, and not before. It's none of your business," she replied, while adding in a lower tone that no one else could overhear: "I'd never have thought you such a fool, Tim;" and Tim, feeling rather small,--for he began to understand her a little,--walked off. All this was at what they called dinner-time, when the vans generally halted for an hour or so and hitherto--even when they were travelling too quickly for the children to have walked beside for a change, as they had sometimes done when going slowly--Mick or Diana had always let them out at this hour for a breath of fresh air. But to-day, though it was beautifully fine and the sun was shining most temptingly, poor Duke and Pamela had to be content with the sight of it through the tiny little window in the side of the van, which Diana opened, and with such air as could get in by the same means. It was hot and stuffy inside, and their little heads ached with being jolted along, and with having had no exercise such as they were accustomed to. Still they did not look altogether miserable or unhappy, as they tried to eat the dinner the gipsy girl had brought them on a tin plate, from the quickly-lighted fire by the hedge, where the old hag who did the cooking for the party had been stewing away at a mess in a great pot. She ladled out the contents all round for the others, but Diana helped herself. She picked out the nicest bits she could see for the two little prisoners, and stood by them for a minute or two to see if they really were going to eat. "I'll come back in a bit to see if it's all gone," she said, when she had seen them at work, "and remember what I said this morning. That'll help to make you eat hearty." "Her's very kind," said Duke; but as he spoke he laid down the coarse two-pronged fork Diana had given him to eat with, and seemed glad of an excuse to rest in his labours for a while. "But I can't eat this, can you, sister?" Pamela looked up--she had got a small bone in her fingers, at which she was trying to nibble. "I'm pretending to be Toby eating a bone," she said gravely. "Sometimes it makes it seem nicer." "_I_ don't think so," said Duke. "It only makes it worser to think of Toby," and his voice grew very doleful, as if he were going to cry. "Now don't, bruvver," said Pamela. "Let's think of what Diana said." "What was it?" said Duke. "Say it again." "'Twas that, p'raps, if us was very good and did just ezactly what her tells us, us'd go somewhere soon, where us'd be _very_ happy," said Pamela. "Where do you fink it can be, Duke? Us mustn't tell _nobody_, not even Tim; but I don't mind, for Diana said she thought Tim'd go too. Do you fink she meant" (and here poor little Pam, who had learnt unnatural caution already, glanced round her--as if any one could have been hidden in the small space of the van!--and lowered her voice)--"that she meant us was to go _home_ again to dear Grandmamma and Grandpapa?" Duke shook his head. "No," he said, "they'll never send us home now. Mick'd be put in prison if he took us home. I know that. I heard what they was saying about it one day when they didn't know I was there. And it's too far away--it's a dreadful way away. We can never go home. I daresay Grandpapa and Grandmamma and everybody's dead by now," concluded Duke, who talked with a sort of reckless composure sometimes, altogether too much for Pamela, who burst into tears. "Oh bruvver!" she cried between her sobs, "don't talk like that. I _fink_ God's too good to have let dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma die. And us has said our prayers such many many times about going home. I'm sure Grandpapa would never put Mick in prison if us asked him not, and p'raps if Mick was sure of that he'd take us home. Oh don't you fink us might go and ask him," and she started up. "Us can't promise it; Grandpapa'd _have_ to do it. It'd be his _dooty_," said Duke sternly--his ideas on all subjects were very grim at present--"he'd have to stop Mick going and stealing away other children like he did us. And Diana said us mustn't speak to _nobody_ about what she told us." "I don't care about it if it isn't that us is going home," said Pamela, crying quietly. "I don't care about gold frocks like fairies and all that if dear Grandmamma and Grandpapa can't see us." Duke looked at her gloomily. "P'raps Diana meant us'd soon be going to heaven," he said at last. "I heard them saying us'd 'not stand it long,' and I know that means going to die." "I don't care," sobbed Pamela again, "if Grandpapa and Grandmamma are dead, heaven'd be the best place for us to go to;" and regardless of all Diana had said to her about trying to eat and to keep up her spirits, the little girl let the tin plate, with the greasy meat and gravy, slip off her knees on to the floor, and, leaning her head on the hard wooden bench, she went off in a fit of piteous and hopeless sobbing. In a moment Duke's arms were around her, and he was kissing and hugging and doing his best to console her. "Dear little sister," he cried, "don't be so _very_ unhappy. It was very naughty of me to say dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma and everybody would be dead." "And Toby," interrupted Pamela. "Did you mean Toby too?" Duke considered. "No, I don't think I meant Toby. He must be a good deal younger than Grandpapa and Grandmamma, and I don't think he'd be _quite_ so unhappy about us as they'd be." "If _I'd_ been Toby I'd have come to look for us," said Pamela, crying now less violently. "Us could have wrote a letter and tied it to his collar, and then Grandpapa could have come to look for us. Toby can run so fast," and she was going on to describe what she would have done in Toby's place when the little door of the van opened and Diana reappeared. Her face clouded as she looked at the children. "Crying again! Oh missie," she said reproachfully, "that's not good of you. You'll cry yourself ill, and then----" Diana in turn looked round and lowered her voice, "have you forgotten the secret I told you? You'll never get away where you'd like to be if you make yourself ill. And scarce a bite of dinner have you touched," she went on, looking at the bits of meat reposing beside the overturned plate. Pamela lifted up her tear-swollen face and drew herself out of Duke's arms, to fling herself into Diana's. "If us is going to die, it's no good eating," she said. "Who said you was a-going to die?" exclaimed the gipsy girl. "Duke and I was talking, and us thought p'raps heaven was the nice place you said us'd go to if us was good," replied Pamela. Diana gave a little laugh, half sad and half bitter. "It isn't here you'll learn much about going to _that_ place," she said. "But that wasn't what I meant. Listen, master and missy; but, mind you, never you say one word,--now hush and listen," and in a very low voice she went on: "To-night we'll get to a big town where there's a fair. Mick's got it all settled to give you to a--a gentleman there, who'd dress you up fine and teach you to sing and to dance." "Would he be kind to us?" asked both children eagerly. Diana shook her head. "Maybe, and maybe not. That's just why I cannot stand by and see you given to him," said Diana, half as if speaking to herself. "It was a bad day's work when he took them," she went on. Then suddenly rousing herself: "Listen children, again," she said. "If that man as I'm speaking of comes to see you to-night, as he most likely will, you must, for my sake and your own, speak very pretty, and try to laugh and look happy and answer all he says. It's only for once. For to-morrow--I can't say for sure to-morrow--but I think it will be, and I can't say the time--I'm going to do my best to get you sent back to where you should never have been taken from." She stopped a moment as if to judge of the effect of her words. For an instant the children did not speak; they just stared at her with their blue eyes opened to their widest extent, their little white faces looking whiter than before, till gradually a rush of rosy colour spread over them, the blue eyes filled with tears, and both Duke and Pamela flung themselves into the gipsy girl's arms. "_Home_, do you mean, Diana?" they said. "Home to our own dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma?" "And Toby," added Duke. "And Toby," echoed Pam. Diana clasped them tight; her eyes, that for many a day had not shed a tear, were running over. "Yes, home, my blessed darlings," she said. "But you'll come with us" was the next idea. "You've been so good to us. Grandpapa'd never put _you_ in prison, Diana." They sat up now and looked at her anxiously. "Perhaps not," she said, shaking her head nevertheless. "But I dursn't go with you. I must stay here to stop them going the right way after you for one thing. And then--you didn't know it, but, bad as he is, Mick's my brother. I dursn't get him into trouble." "Mick's your bruvver!" repeated Pam; "the same as bruvver is to me. And he speaks so naughty to you, Diana. I don't fink he _can_ be your bruvver. I fink you've made a mistake. Oh do come wif us, dear Diana. You and Tim." "Yes for Tim, it'd be the best thing he could do, and the best chance for you to get safe home. But for me," and again Diana shook her head. "Let alone Mick, I'm only a poor wild gipsy girl," she said. "I couldn't take to your pretty quiet ways; no, it'd kill me. It's in the gipsy blood--we must for ever be on the go. It wasn't so bad long ago when father and mother was alive. Father was honest--he was a gentleman gipsy, he was. But Mick's another sort. If I could get away from him I would--but not so as to get him into trouble. I'll try some day to get among a better lot. There's bad and good among us, though you mightn't believe it. But here am I wasting time talking of myself, and I want to tell you all I'm thinking of. First, do you know the name of the village or town nearest where you live?" "Sandle'ham," said the children. "But is that near your home?" pursued Diana. The twins shook their heads. They didn't know. "Us was there once," said Duke. "But it was a long time ago. It seemed a very far way." "And is there no village nearer?" "Yes, of course," said Pamela. "There's where Barbara Twiss and the butcher Live, and where the church is." "And what's it called?" "What's it called?" repeated the children. "Why, it's just called the village. It isn't called anything else." "That's what I was afraid of," said Diana. "And it was all new country thereabouts to me. Well, there's nothing for it but to make for Sandle'ham, and once there Tim must go to the police." At this dreadful word the children set up a shriek, but Diana quickly stopped them. "Hush, hush!" she said, "you'll have them all coming to see what's the matter. The police won't hurt _you_, you silly children. They'd be your best friends if only they could find you. I'd rather have had nothing to say to them, for fear they should get too much out of Tim, but I see no other way to get you safe home. But now we mustn't talk any more, only remember all I've said if that man comes. And to-morrow, when I give you the word, you must be ready," she went on impressively; "you won't be afraid with Tim. I'll do the best I can, but we'll have to trust a deal to Tim; and you must do just what he tells you, and never mind if it seems strange and hard. It's the only chance for them," she added to herself, with a strange longing in her beautiful dark eyes, as she again left them, "but if I could but have taken them safe back myself I'd have felt easier in my mind." She put in her head again to warn the children not to try to speak to Tim, and if they must speak to each other to do so in a whisper. But at first their hearts seemed too full to speak. They just sat with their arms round each other, too bewildered and almost stunned with the good news to take it in. "Bruvver," said Pamela at last, "don't you fink it's because us has said our prayers such many many times?" "P'raps," replied Duke. "And you _don't_ fink now what--you know what you said about Grandpapa and Grandmamma," said Pamela, her voice faltering. Duke hesitated. He was not quite generous enough to own that his gloomy prophecies had been a good deal the result of his being tired and cross and contradictory. In his heart he had no misgiving such as he had expressed to Pamela--he had no idea that what he had said might really have been true. "You _don't_ fink so, bruvver?" persisted Pam. "I daresay if us goes back very soon it'll make them better even if they are very ill. I think us had better put that in our prayers too--for us to get back to them so quick that there won't be time for them to get very ill. I wouldn't mind them being just a _little_ ill, would you, sister? It'd be so nice to see them getting better." "I'd _rather_ they wasn't ill at all," said Pamela, "but I daresay God'll understand. Oh I _wish_ it was to-morrow! don't you, bruvver?" "Hush," said Duke. "Diana said us mustn't talk loud--and see, sister, they're going to put the horse in and go on again. Oh how tired I am of going along shaking like this all day! And don't you remember, sister, when us was little us used to think it would be _so_ nice to live in a cart like a house, like this?" "Us never thought how _nugly_ it would be inside," said Pamela, glancing round the little square space in which they were with great dissatisfaction. And no wonder--the waggon was stuffed with bundles and packages of all shapes and sizes; on the sides hung dirty coats and cloaks belonging to some of the tribe, and the only pleasant object to be seen was a heap of nice clean-looking baskets and brooms, which had been brought in here, as the basket-cart was already filled to overflowing. For the gipsies expected to do a good trade in these things at the Crookford fair. "I wish Diana would give us one of these nice baskets to take home--a present to Grandmamma," continued Pamela, as her glance fell upon them. "You're very silly, sister," said Duke. "Don't you understand that us is going to _run away_, like Tim has always been wanting. And Diana's going to help us to run away. Mick mustn't know and nobody, not till us is too far for them to catch us. I think it's a great pity Diana told you; you're too little to understand." "I'm as big as you, bruvver, and my birfday's the same. You're very unkind to say I'm littler than you, and I _do_ understand." She spoke indignantly, but the last words ended in tears. Poor little people!--life in a gipsy caravan was not the sort of thing to improve their tempers. But the dispute was soon followed by a reconciliation, and then they decided it was better not to talk any more about what Diana had told them, but to "make plans" inside their heads about how nice it would be to go home again; how they would knock at the door so softly, and creep into the parlour where Grandmamma would be sitting by the fire with Toby at her feet, and Grandpapa at the table with the newspaper; and _how_ they would hug them both! At which point you will see the plan making was no longer confined to the "inside of their heads." "And Duke," added Pamela half timidly. "Us must tell all about the broken bowl. And us must always tell everything like that to Grandmamma." "Yes," said Duke. "I fink my voice that Grandmamma told us about _did_ tell me to tell," pursued the little girl thoughtfully. "Didn't yours, bruvver?" "I sometimes think it did," said Duke with unusual humility. "I think it must have been that I wouldn't listen. You would have listened, sister. It was much more my fault than yours. I shall tell _that_." "No, no, it was bof our faults," said Pamela. "But I fink Grandpapa and Grandmamma will be so very pleased to have us that they won't care whose fault it was." And then the two little creatures leant their heads each on the other's, and tried to keep themselves steady against the rough jolting, till by degrees--and it was the best thing they could have done--they both fell asleep, and were sleeping as peacefully as in their own white cots at home when, later in the afternoon, Diana got into the waggon again, and, rolling up an old shawl, carefully laid it as a pillow under the two fair heads. It was getting dusk by now, and the gipsies all disappeared into the vans, for they began to drive too quickly for it to be possible for them to keep up by walking alongside. The gipsy girl sat there gazing at the two little faces she had learnt to love. She gazed at them with a deep tenderness in her dark eyes. She knew it was almost the last time she should see them, but it was not of that she was thinking. "If I could but have taken them back myself and seen them safe!" she kept thinking. "But I daren't. With Tim no one will notice them much, but with me it'd be different. And it'd get Mick and the others into trouble, even if I didn't care for myself. It's safer for them too for me to stay behind. But how to get them safe out of Crookford! I must speak to Tim. And I don't care what Mick says or does after this. I'll never, _never_ again have a hand in this kind of business; he may steal horses and poultry and what he likes, but I'll have no more to do with stealing children. If ill had come, or did come, to these innocent creatures I'd never know another easy moment." CHAPTER IX. CROOKFORD FAIR. "And the booths of mountebanks, With the smell of tan and planks." LONGFELLOW. The jolting had ceased, and it was quite dark before Duke and Pamela awoke. But through the little window of the van came twinkling lights, and as they sat up and looked about them they heard a good many unusual sounds--the voices of people outside calling to each other, the noise of wheels along stony roadways--a sort of general clatter and movement which soon told that the encampment for the night was not, as hitherto, on the edge of some quiet village or on a lonely moor. "Bruvver," said Pamela, who had been the first to rouse up, "are you awake? What a long time us has been asleep! Is it the middle of the night, and what a noise there is." Duke slowly collected his ideas. He did not speak, but he stood up on the bench and peeped out of the window. "It must be that big place where there's a fair," he said. "Look, sister, there's lots and lots of carts and peoples. And over there do you see there's rows of little shops--that must be the fair." He seemed rather excited, but Pamela, after one peep, would not look any more. "No, no, bruvver," she said. "I am frightened. If it is the fair, that man will be coming that Diana told us about, and perhaps he'll take us before Diana and Tim can help us to run away. I'm too frightened." But Duke had managed to get the window unhooked, and was now on tiptoe, stretching out his head as far as it would go. "Oh sister," he exclaimed, drawing it in again, "you _should_ see. It's such a big place, and such lots and lots of peoples, and such a noise. Oh do climb up here, sister, and look out." But Pamela still cowered down in her corner. Suddenly they heard the well-known sound of the key in the door,--for when the children were alone in the van they were always locked in,--and turning to look, they saw Diana. She brought with her a bowl of milk and some bread, which the children were very glad of, as they had eaten so little at dinner, and she said nothing till they had finished it. "Are you still sleepy?" she said then. "Would you like to go to bed or to come out a little with me?" "Oh, to go out a little," said Duke; but Pamela crept up close to Diana. "I don't want to go out," she said. "I'm frightened. But I don't want to stay here alone for fear that man should come. Can't you help us to run away now, before he comes? Oh please do, dear Diana." Diana soothed her very kindly. "Don't be frightened, missy dear," she said. "He won't be coming just yet. I think you'd better come out a little with me. You'll sleep better for it." "And you won't take us to that man?" said Pamela half suspiciously. Diana looked at her reproachfully. "Missy, missy dear, would I do such a thing?" "Sister, you know she wouldn't," said Duke. "Then I'll come," said Pamela, and in another minute the two children, each with a hand of the gipsy girl, were threading their way through the lanes of vans and carts, half-completed booths, tethered horses and donkeys, men, women, and children of all kinds, which were assembled on the outskirts of Crookford in preparation for the great fair. Nobody noticed them much, though one or two gipsies loitering about, not of her own party, nodded at Diana as she passed as an old acquaintance, with some more or less rough joke or word of greeting. And those belonging to Mick's caravan did not seem surprised at seeing the children at freedom. This was what Diana wished, and it had been partly with this object, as well as to accustom Duke and Pamela a little to their present quarters, that she had managed to get leave to take them out a little, late as it was. It had seemed quite dark outside--looking through the window of the van--but in reality it was only dusk, though the lights moving about, the fires lit here and there in little stoves outside the booths, and the general bustle and confusion, made it a very bewildering scene. Pamela tried not to be frightened, but she clutched Diana's hand close, till suddenly, on turning a corner, they ran against a boy coming at full speed. It was Tim, and the little girl let go of Diana to spring to him with a cry of pleasure. "Oh Tim, dear Tim," she cried, "us hasn't seen you for such a long time!" "True enough, missy," he said cheerfully; and, looking at him more closely, both children noticed that he did look brighter and merrier than ever, little as he was in the habit of seeming sad. "It's all right," he went on, turning to Diana; "such a piece o' luck!" "Come and tell me as soon as we come back," said the girl. "I'll be in the van putting them to bed. Mick's off--gone to look for the Signor. I'll try for them to be asleep when _they_ come," and with these rather mysterious words Diana drew on the children, and Tim ran off with a nod. They walked on till they got a little clear of the crowd, and on to a road evidently leading out of the town. It had grown darker, but the moon had risen, and by her light at some little distance the children saw the same silvery thread that they had noticed winding along below them from the high moorland some days before. "That's the river where the boats are like houses--that Tim told us about," said Pamela. "Yes," said Diana, "it's the canal. It comes right into the town over that way," and she pointed the left. "The boats take stone from hereabouts,--there's lots of quarries near Crookford. I wanted you to see it, for we've been thinking, Tim and me--it's more his thought than mine--that that'd be the best way for you to get away. Mick'll not be likely to think of the canal, and Tim's been down to see if there was any one among the boat-people as would take you. He used to know some of them not far from here. And the canal goes straight on to a place called Monkhaven, on the road to Sandle'ham. Did you ever hear of that place?" The children shook their heads. "Well, it can't be helped. That's as far as you can get by the canal. After that Tim must use his wits and look about him; and when you get to Sandle'ham I'm afraid there's no help for it--you'll have to ask the police to take you home." "But Tim too?" said Pamela. "Tim's to go home with us." "I hope so," said Diana. "I hope the old gentleman and lady will be good to him, poor boy! Tell them it was none of _his_ fault, your being stolen away--he's but a poor homeless waif himself; and even if so be as they could do nothing for him, he mustn't come back here. Mick'd be like to kill him." "But Grandpapa and Grandmamma will be good to him. I _know_ they will," said Duke and Pamela together. "They'd be good to you too, Diana," they added timidly. But Diana again shook her head. "That can't be," she said. "Still, when all this has blown over a bit, I'll try to hear of you some day. Tim'll maybe be able to let me know the name of the place where your home is." "And you must come to see us. Oh yes, yes--you must, Diana!" said the children, dancing about with glee. The girl looked at them in some surprise; it was the first time she had seen them merry and light-hearted as they were at home, and it made her better understand how wretched their new life must have been for them to change them so. "I'll try," she said; "but it doesn't much matter for that. The thing is for you to be safe at home yourselves." Then she said it was time to go back. It was quite dark by now, and the children kept very close to her as they found themselves again in the rabble of the behind-the-scenes of the fair. People there too were beginning to shut up for the night, for most of them, poor things, had been working hard all day. As they came up to where Mick's party had encamped, Diana said something in the queer language the children did not understand to some of the gipsies who were hanging about. Their answer seemed to relieve her. "Come, children," she said; "you must be tired. I'll get you to bed as quick as I can; and try to get to sleep. It's the best thing you can do."--"They'll not be coming just yet, maybe," she added to herself, "if they've got to drinking over their bargain; so much the better perhaps. If only the children are asleep they'll perhaps be none the wiser, and I'll hear all there is to hear." The preparing for bed was a different thing indeed from the careful washing, hair-brushing, and attiring in snow-white nightgowns that was called "undressing" "at home." All that Diana could manage in the way of washing apparatus was a rough wooden tub with cold water, a bit of coarse soap, and an old rag by way of a towel! And even this she had done more to please the children than because she saw any need for it. This evening she made no pretence of anything after taking off the children's outer clothes--Duke's nankin suit, now sadly soiled and dilapidated, and the old red flannel skirt and little shawl which had replaced Pamela's white frock. The frock was still in existence; but by Mick's orders Diana had trimmed it up gaudily for the child to make her appearance in to the Signor; so the little girl's attire was certainly very gipsy-like. "Shall I have to go home to Grandmamma with this nugly old petticoat and no frock?" she asked, when Diana had taken off all her clothes down to her little flannel vest, and wrapped her up for the night in a clean, though old, cotton bedgown of her own. "And why have you taken off my chemise, Diana? I've kept it on other nights." "I'm going to wash it," said Diana. "I'd like to send you back as decent as I _can_." Pamela seemed satisfied. Then she and Duke knelt together at the side of the shake-down Diana called their bed, and said their prayers together and aloud. The gipsy girl had heard them before--several times--but this evening she listened with peculiar attention, and when at the end the little creatures, after praying for dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma, and that God would please soon take them safe home again, went on to add a special petition for "dear Diana," who had been so kind to them, that she might be always good and happy, and that Mick and nobody should be unkind to her, the girl turned away her face to hide the tears which slowly welled up into her eyes. "Good-night, dear Diana," said the two little voices, as she stooped to kiss them. "Good-night, master and missy. Sleep well, and don't be frightened if you're wakened up. I'll be here." Then, as she was turning away, she hesitated. "Do you really think now," she said, "that it's any good praying for a wild gipsy girl like me?" "Of course it is," said Pamela, starting up again. "Why shouldn't it be as much good for you as for any one? If you want to be good--and I think you are good, Diana--you can't help praying to God. For all the good comes from Him. That's what Grandmamma told us. And He puts little bits of His good into us." Diana looked puzzled. "Yes," persisted Pamela, nodding her head. "There's like a little voice that speaks inside us--that tells us when we're" (Pamela could use the word "we," as correctly as possible when speaking in general, not merely of Duke and herself) "naughty and when we're good." In her turn Diana nodded her head. "And the more we listen to it the plainer we hear it," added Pamela. "_Us_ didn't listen to it when us found that Toby had brokened the bowl," said Duke gravely. "At least I didn't, and it leaves off speaking when people doesn't listen." Diana had long ago heard the story of the beginning of the children's troubles. "Listening to it is almost like praying, you see, Diana," said Pamela. "And of course when we know all the good comes from God, it's only _sense_ to pray to Him, isn't it?" "I'll think about it," said the gipsy quietly. "Now go to sleep as fast as you can." Easier in their innocent minds about their own affairs by a great deal than Diana was _for_ them, the twins quickly followed her advice. But Diana dared not go to rest herself; in the first place she had a long talk with Tim in a corner where they could not be overheard, and then, finding that Mick had not yet come back, she hung about, terrified of his returning with the Signor, and frightening the poor children, without her being at hand. "You'd best go to bed, I think," said Tim. "I 'spex he's got to drinking somewhere, and he won't be seen to-night." "I dursn't," said Diana. "He might come any minute, and that man might want to carry them off in their sleep, so as to have no noise about it." "But how could you stop him?" asked Tim, his merry face growing very sober. "I'd do my best, and you must be ready, you know," she said. "He'd be in a nice taking if he didn't find the Signor, or if _he_ wanted to back out of it," said Tim. "Not much fear of that," said Diana. "The Signor's too sharp; he'll soon see he couldn't get such a pretty pair once in twenty years. He's a man I shudder at; once he wanted me to join his show, but, bad and cruel as Mick is, I'd rather have to do with him. But hush, Tim, there they are! I hear Mick's voice swearing--they're coming this way. Run you off and hide yourself, but try to creep up to the van where the children are when they're gone, and I'll tell you what has to be done." Tim disappeared with marvellous quickness. Diana rose to her feet and went forward a little, with a light in her hand, to meet her brother. He was accompanied, as she expected, by the Signor, and she saw in a moment that Mick was more than half drunk, and in a humour which might become dangerous at any moment. "He's made him drunk," she said to herself, "thinking he'll drive a better bargain. He'd better have let him alone." The Signor was a very small, dark, fat man--dressed, as he considered, "quite like a gentleman." He had bright, beady, twinkling eyes, and a way of smiling and grinning as if he did not think nature had made him enough like a monkey already, in which I do not think any one would have agreed with him! "So here's your handsome sister, my friend Mick," he said, as he caught sight of Diana--"handsomer than ever. And you were coming to meet us, were you--very amiable I'm sure." Mick, whose eyes were dazzled by the light, and who was too stupid to take in things quickly, frowned savagely when he saw the girl standing quietly before him. "What are you waiting there for?" he said, with some ugly words. "There's no need of _you_. Get out of the way. I know where to find the childer. The Signor and I can manage our own affairs." "Can you?" said Diana contemptuously. "Well, good-night, then. You'll waken them up and frighten them so that they'll scream for the whole fair to hear them. And how the Signor means to get them away quietly if they do so _I_ can't say. There'd maybe be some awkward questions to answer as to how they came among us at all, if some of the people about should be honest, decent folk. And there are fools of that kind where you'd little look for them sometimes. However, it's no business of mine, as you say. Good-night," and she turned away. The Signor turned to Mick with a very evil look in his face. "Fool that _you_ are," he muttered, but Mick only stared at him stupidly. The Signor caught his arm and shook him. "Are you going to let her go off?" he said. "You told me yourself she had looked after the brats and could do anything with them, and now you go and set her back up! She's fit to rouse the place out of spite, she is. And I can tell you I'm not going to get myself into trouble about these children you've made such a fuss about. I've not seen them yet, and rather than risk anything I'll be off," and he, in turn, seemed as if he were going off. This roused Mick. "Stay, stay--wait a bit," he said eagerly, "Diana," he called,--and as Diana was in reality only waiting behind a shed she soon appeared again,--"I were only joking. Of course it's for you to show the Signor the pretty dears--such care as she's had of them, so bright and merry as she's taught them to be, you wouldn't believe," he went on in a half whine. "It'll be a sore trouble to her to part with them--you'll have to think o' that, Signor. I've promised Diana we'd act handsome by _her_." "Of course, of course," said the other, with a sneer. "Sure to be handsome doings where you and me's concerned, friend Mick. But where _are_ the creatures? You're not playing me a trick after all, are you?" he went on, looking round as if he expected to see the children start up from the earth or drop down from the sky. "This way," said Diana, more civilly than she had yet spoken, "follow me if you please--they're close by." In another minute she was standing on the steps of the van with the key in the lock. Then suddenly she turned and faced the Signor. "They're asleep," she said. "I kept them up and awake a long time, but I hadn't thought you'd be so late. I can wake them up if you like, and if they saw me there they wouldn't cry. But they'd be half asleep--there'd be no getting them to show off to-night. But of course it's as the Signor chooses." He looked at her curiously. He was surprised to find her seemingly as eager as Mick that he should think well of the merchandise they were offering him for sale! He had rather expected the gipsy girl to set herself against the transaction, for he knew she disliked him, and that no money would have persuaded her herself to join his "troupe." But he was too low himself to explain anything in others except by the lowest motives. "She thinks she'll get something handsome out of me if she's civil about it," he said to himself. Seeing, however, that civility was to be the order of the day, he answered her with an extra quantity of grins. "Quite of your opinion, my young lady. Better not disturb the little dears. Should like a look at them, however, with your kind assistance." Diana said no more, but, unlocking and opening the door, stepped carefully into the van, followed by her companions--Mick remaining somewhat behind, probably because he could not have got quite into the recesses of the waggon without tumbling, and such sense as remained to him telling him he had better not make a noise. The van inside was divided in two--something after the manner of a bathing-machine, such as I daresay most children have often seen. The door in the middle was not locked, and Diana pushed it softly open; then, advancing with the light held high so as to show the children's faces without flaring painfully upon them, stood at one side and signed to the Signor to come forward. And he was too much startled and impressed--ugly, cold-hearted little wretch though he was--by the sight before him to notice the strange, half-triumphant, half-defiant expression on Diana's dark beautiful face. [Illustration: "UPON MY WORD THEY ARE SOMETHING QUITE OUT OF THE COMMON," HE SAID; "I WOULDN'T HAVE MISSED THEM FOR A GOOD DEAL. WHAT A KING AND QUEEN OF THE PIGMIES, OR 'BABES IN THE WOOD,' THEY'D MAKE."--p. 173.] "There they are," it seemed to say, "and could anything be lovelier? _Wouldn't_ you like to have them?" They lay there--the delicate little faces flushed with "rosy sleep"--the fair fluffy hair like a golden shadow on the rough cushion which served as a pillow, each with an arm thrown round the other; they looked so like each other that even Diana was not sure which was which. No pair of fairies decoyed from their own country could have been prettier. The Signor was startled into speaking the truth for once. "Upon my word they are something quite out of the common," he said; "I wouldn't have missed them for a good deal. What a king and queen of the pigmies, or 'babes in the wood,' they'd make! I'll have to get something set up on purpose for them. And they're sharp at learning and speak plain you say?--at least he did," he added, turning round to look for Mick, who by this time had lurched up to the middle door of the van and was leaning on the lintel, looking in stupidly. "Ay, they're sharp enough, and pretty spoken too," said Diana. "Sharp and pretty spoken," echoed Mick. "Then I'm your man," said the Signor; "I'll----" But the girl interrupted him. "There's one thing to be said," she began. "You must not think of letting them be seen hereabouts. You might get yourself and us too into trouble. It's too near where they come from." The Signor held up his hands warningly. "Hush," he said, "I don't want to know nothing of all that. They're two desolate orphans, picked up by you out of charity, and I take them to teach them a way of gaining a livelihood. That's all about it." "Well, all the same, you can do nothing with them hereabouts," repeated Diana, anxious to gain time to put into execution the plans of escape. "You'd better leave them here quietly with us till after the fair. No one shall see them except those who've seen them already." They were in the outer half of the van by now, for Diana, afraid of disturbing the children, had drawn back with the light, and the Signor had followed her. At her last speech he turned upon her with sudden and angry suspicion. "No, no," he said. "I'll have no tricks served me. Have you been putting your handsome sister up to this, Mick, you fool? You promised me the brats at once." "Yes, at once. You shall have them at once when you pay me," said Mick, beginning to get angry in turn, "but not before. I don't want to keep them--not I; they're the pest of my life, they are, but I'll see my money or you shall never set eyes on them again." And he looked so stolidly obstinate that the other man glanced at Diana as if for advice. "You'd better have left him alone," she said in a low voice, contemptuously. "If you make him angry now he's not sober, there's no saying what he'll do." The Signor began to be really afraid that his prey might slip through his hands. He turned to Diana. "I'm one for quick work and no shilly-shallying," he said. "And I have Mick's word for it. He's signed a paper. I'll take care to get myself and you into no trouble, but I must have the children at once. Now listen, Mick. I'll be here to-morrow morning at say eight--well, nine o'clock, with the money. And you must have the children ready--and help me to take 'em off quietly, or--or--I don't want no bother," he added meaningly. "All right," said Mick; "they'll be ready," and he followed the Signor down the steps of the van, Diana still holding the light. "Nine o'clock," said the Signor once more, as if he depended more on the girl than on the man. "At nine o'clock," she repeated, and she stood there till quite sure that the Signor had taken himself off, and that Mick had no intention of returning. Then she blew out the light and crept softly in and out among the vans, tethered horses, etc., forming the gipsy caravan, till she came to the waggon where she knew Tim slept. He was wide awake, expecting her, and in answer to her whispered call said nothing till they had got some yards away. "I think the other boys is asleep," he said, "but best make sure. Well, Diana?" "You must go at once--no, not just at once, but as soon as the dawn breaks. That man's coming for them at nine, and once in his hands----!" Diana shook her head, and though she said no more the boy understood her, that then all hope of escape would be gone. "I'll be ready," said Tim. CHAPTER X. A BOAT AND A BABY. "And now I _have_ a little boat." _Peter Bell._ The children were still sleeping when the first straggling feeble rays of dawn began to creep through the darkness. Diana stood at the door of the van and looked anxiously at the sunrise. Her experienced eye soon saw that it was going to be a fine day, and she gave a sigh of relief. She was still dressed as she had been the night before, for she had not slept, not lain down even--so great had been her fear of falling asleep--at all. She had spent all the dark hours in preparing for the flight of the little prisoners--all that her hands, untrained in such matters as sewing and mending, could do to make the twins appear in decent guise on their return to their own home had been done. And now all was ready. There was nothing to do but to wake them and explain to them what was before them. Tim was already up and off--for she had arranged with him to meet the children a little way out of the town, and he had tapped at the door of the van as he passed. There was no one stirring among the queer inhabitants of the fair, as Diana remarked with satisfaction. Everything was perfectly still, and with a sigh the gipsy girl stepped up into the van again and went through to the inner part. Duke and Pamela were lying much as they had been the evening before. It seemed a pity to wake them, but it had to be done. Diana stooped down and gently shook Duke's arm. "Master," she said,--"master and missy, you must wake up." Duke opened his sleepy eyes and stared before him; Pamela, more quickly awakened, started up, crying: "What is it, Diana? It isn't that naughty man come for us?" "No, no," said the gipsy, glad to see that Pamela had her wits about her. "It is that Tim is ready to run away with you, as you've so often planned. And you must get up and dress as quick as you can before Mick or any one is awake, for the man will be coming this morning, and I must have you ever so far away before then." Her words completely aroused both children. In an instant they were on their feet, nervously eager to be dressed and off. There was no question of baths _this_ morning, but Diana washed their faces and hands well, and smoothed their tangled hair. "I must make them as tidy as I can," she said to herself with a sob in her throat. Duke saw with satisfaction that his nankin suit--which Diana had persuaded him not to wear the day before, having lent him a pair of trowsers of Tim's, which she had washed on purpose, and in which, doubled up nearly to his waist, he looked very funny--was quite clean; and Pamela, to her still greater surprise, found herself attired in a tidy little skirt and jacket of dark blue stuff, with a little hood of the same for her head. "Why, what's this?" she said. "It's a new gown!" "I made it," said Diana quietly. "I wanted you to look as tidy as I could. You'll tell them, missy dear--won't you?--that poor Diana did her best." "Indeed us will," cried both together. But they did not know that the gipsy girl had cut up her one decent dress to clothe little Pamela. "And shall us see Grandpapa and Grandmamma to-day?" they went on, hugging Diana in their joy as they spoke. "Not to-day, nor to-morrow, but before long, I hope," she replied. And then, as they were eager to go, "Won't you say your prayers, master and missy, that you may come safe to your home; and," she added in a low voice, "ask God to show poor Diana how to be good?" "Us will always pray for you, dear Diana," they said, after they had risen from their knees again, "and some day, you know, you _must_ come and see us." She did not answer, but, quickly lifting them down the steps of the waggon, locked the door and put the key in her pocket. Then, still without speaking,--the children seeming to understand they must be as quiet as possible,--she lifted Pamela in her arms, and Duke running beside, they had soon made their way out of the midst of the vans and carts and booths, all of whose owners were still asleep. For even now it was barely dawn, and the air felt chilly, as is generally the case early of a May morning. Diana walked so fast, though she had a big basket as well as a little girl in her arms, that Duke, though he would not have owned it, could scarcely keep up with her. But at last, just as he was beginning to feel he must cry mercy, she slackened her pace and began to look about her. "He should be somewhere near," she said, more as if speaking to herself than to the children, and just then, with a sort of whoop, out tumbled Tim from the other side of a low hedge, where there was a dry ditch in which he had been comfortably lying. "Hush!" said Diana, glancing round her. "There's no need," said Tim; "there's not a soul within hearing. I needn't have come on before for that matter. No one saw us start." "And which way do you go now?" asked the gipsy, setting Pamela down as she spoke, to the child's great satisfaction, though she had not liked to say to Diana that she was really too big to be carried. "Straight on for about half a mile," answered the boy; "then there's a road to the right takes us straight to the canal. It's not light enough yet for you to see, but there's a little house close to the towing path over there, where the boats often stop the night when it's crowded in the town. That's where they're to be." "All right," said Diana. "I'll go with you to the turn, and then I must get back as fast as I can." "Let me carry the basket," said Tim. He had a bundle under his arm, but it was very light, for his possessions were few. "What's in the basket?" asked Duke. "All I could get," said Diana. "Some bread and eggs, and some oranges I bought last night. I thought you'd be glad of them maybe. And Tim, you have the money safe?" Tim nodded his head. In a few minutes they reached the road he had spoken of. In silence poor Diana kissed the three children and turned away, for she could not speak. But Duke and Pamela burst into tears. "Oh if you would but come with us," they said over and over again. But Diana shook her head. "You shouldn't cry, master and missy dear, to go to your own home. It was a wicked shame to take you from it, but I hope God will forgive me the little I had to do with it, for I've truly done my best to get you safe back. And you'll ask the kind gentleman and lady to be good to poor Tim, and put him in an honest way of life." "Oh yes," sobbed the children. And then Diana kissed them again and resolutely turned away. But Tim ran after her. "You don't think Mick'll beat you?" he said anxiously. "He shan't have the chance," she answered scornfully. "No, no, Tim, I'll take care of myself. Be a good boy; getting away from us is the best thing could come to you. And some day maybe I'll have news of you, and you of me perhaps." Tim hastened back to the children, but his merry face was sad and his heart heavy. A short time brought them to the edge of the canal, and there sure enough a boat was moored. There was no one moving about the little house Tim had pointed out, but on board the canal boat two figures were to be seen--or rather three, for they were those of a young man and a younger woman with a baby in her arms; and in answer to a whistle from Tim the man came forward and called out cheerfully, "Good morning; is it all right?" "All right," called back Tim, and then he turned to the children. "We're going in this boat, master and missy. See, won't it be fine fun, sailing away along the canal?" Pamela seemed a little frightened. "You're sure he won't take us to that naughty man?" she said, holding Tim's hand tight. "Bless you, no; it's to get away from him we're going in the boat. Peter--that's the name of the man there--Peter's promised to take us as far as he goes towards Sandle'ham. It's such a piece of luck as never was to have come across him; he's the cousin of the boy I told you of who let me stay in his boat when I was a little 'un." "Oh," cried the children,--"oh yes, us remembers that story. It was a boy and his mother. And was it a boat just like this, Tim?" "Not near so clean and tidy. This one's been all new painted, don't you see? It's as clean as clean. But we must be quick. Peter and I'll jump you in. He's all ready to start. There's the horse a-waiting." Duke was quite content, but Pamela still hung back a little. "Us has never been in a boat," she said. "Come on," called out Peter, and the young woman with the baby came forward with a smile. "You must look sharp," said Peter, in what was meant to be an encouraging tone. "The morning's getting on, you know," he added to Tim, "and if those folk down yonder took it in their heads to come this way it'd be awk'ard." "I know," said Tim, and lifting Duke in his arms he handed him over to Peter, thinking Pamela would be sure to follow. So she was, for she would have gone after "bruvver" down the crater of Vesuvius itself I do believe, but she looked white and trembled, and whispered piteously, "I am so frightened, Tim." "But it's better than if Mick had cotched us, and you'd had to go to that Signor man, missy," said Tim encouragingly. This appealed to Pamela's common sense, and in a few minutes she seemed quite happy. For Peter's wife introduced her to the baby, and as it was really rather a nice baby--much cleaner than one could have expected to find one of its species on a canal boat--the little girl soon found it a most interesting object of study. She had seldom seen little babies, and her pride was great when its mother proposed to her to hold it on her own knee, and even allowed her to pull off its socks to count for herself its ten little round rosy buttons of toes. The toes proved too much for Duke, who had hitherto stood rather apart, considering himself, as a boy, beyond the attractions of dolls and babies. But when Tim even--great grown-up, twelve years old Tim--knelt down to admire the tiny feet at Pamela's call, Duke condescended to count the toes one by one for himself, and to say what a pity it was Toby was not here--baby could ride so nicely on Toby's back, couldn't she? This idea, expressed with the greatest gravity, set Peter and his wife off laughing, and all five, or six if baby is to be included, were soon the best friends in the world. "How nice it is here," said Pamela; "I'm not frightened now, Tim; only I wish Diana could have come. It's so much nicer than in the waggon. You don't think Mick will find out where us is, do you, Tim?" and a little shudder passed through her. "Oh no, no; no fear," said Tim, but her words reminded him and Peter that they were by no means "out of the wood." Peter was far from anxious for a fight with the gipsies, whose lawless ways he knew well; and besides this, being a kind-hearted though rough fellow, he had already begun to feel an interest in the stolen children for their own sake; though no doubt his consent to take them as passengers had been won by the promises of reward Tim had not hesitated to hold out. He and the boy looked at each other. "We must be starting," said the bargeman, and he turned to jump ashore and attach the towing ropes to the patient horse. "You must keep them in the cabin for a while," he said to his wife. "They mustn't risk being seen till we're a long way out of Crookford." Duke and Pamela looked up, but without clearly understanding what their new host said. And Tim, who saw that Peter's queer accent puzzled them, was not sorry. He did not want them to be frightened; he was frightened enough himself to do for all three, he reflected, and they were so good and biddable he could keep them quiet without rousing their fears. For, though he could not have explained his own feelings, it somehow went to the boy's heart to see the two little creatures already looking happier and more peaceful than he had ever seen them! Why should they not be quite happy? They were going to Grandpapa and Grandmamma and Toby; they had no longer cruel Mick to fear; they had Tim to take care of them--only the thought of poor Diana left behind made them a little sad! "It is so nice here," repeated Pamela, when Tim's words had completely reassured her. "But I'm rather hungry. Us hadn't any breakfast, you know, Tim. Mightn't us, have some of the bread in the basket." "I've got some bread and some fresh milk," said Mrs. Peter. "I got the milk just before you came; the girl at the 'Rest'"--the 'Rest' was the little house where the canal boats stopped--"fetched it early." "Oh, us would like some milk," said the children eagerly. "Come into the cabin then, and you'll show me what you have in your basket," said the young woman; and thus the children were easily persuaded to put themselves in hiding. The cabin was but one room, though with what in a house would have been called a sort of "lean-to," large enough to hold a bed. All was, of course, very tidy, but so much neater and, above all, cleaner than the gipsies' van that Duke and Pamela thought it delightful. The boat had been newly repaired and painted, and besides this, Peter's wife--though she could neither read nor write and had spent all her life on a canal boat--was quite a wonder in her love of tidiness and cleanliness. "I'd like to live here always," said Pamela, whose spirits rose still higher when she had had some nice fresh milk and bread. "Not without Grandpapa and Grandmamma," said Duke reproachfully. "Oh no, of course not," said Pamela. "But there wouldn't be quite enough room for them in here, would there, Mrs. Peter?" "I am afraid not," she replied. "You see there's only one bed. But we've made a nice place for you, master and missy, in here," and she drew back a clean cotton curtain in one corner, behind which, on a sort of settle, Peter and she had placed one of their mattresses so as to make a nice shake-down. "You'll sleep very well in here, don't you think?" "Oh yes," exclaimed the children, "us will be very comfortable. What nice clean sheets!" continued Pamela; "it makes me fink of our white beds at home," and her voice grew rather doleful, as if she were going to cry. "But you've no need to cry about your home _now_, missy dear," said Tim. "You're on the way there." "Yes, how silly I am!" said Pamela. "I fink I forgot. It's such a long time ago since us slept in a nice clean bed with sheets. I wish it was time to go to bed now." "I think it would be a very good plan if you and master was to take a little sleep. You must be tired getting up so early," suggested Mrs. Peter, devoutly hoping they would agree to let themselves be quietly stowed away behind the checked cotton curtain. For poor Mrs. Peter was dreadfully afraid of the gipsies, and her motive in agreeing to befriend Tim and the children was really far more the wish to save them from the hands they had fallen among than any hope of reward. "I'd rather bury baby, bless her, any day, than think of her among such," she had said on hearing the story. Duke and Pamela looked longingly at the "nice white sheets." They were both, to tell the truth, very sleepy, but dignity had to be considered. "It's only babies that go to bed in the day, Nurse says," objected Duke. "She said so one day that us got into our beds, and she said us had dirtied them with our shoes. Us had been playing in the garden." "But you've no need to keep your shoes on," said Mrs. Peter. "And many a big person's very glad to take a sleep in the day, when they're tired and have been up very early maybe." So at last the twins allowed themselves to be persuaded, and Mrs. Peter's heart, and Tim's too, for that matter, were considerably lighter when the curtain was drawn forward and no trace of the little passengers was to be seen. Tim, following the young woman's advice, curled himself up in a corner where he was easily hidden. "And now," said Mrs. Peter, "I'll just go up on the deck as usual, so that if any boats pass us who know us by sight, they'll never think we've any runaways on board; though for my part I can't see as that Mick'd dare to make much stir, seeing as he might be had up for stealing them." "It's not him I'm so much afeared of as that Signor," said Tim. "He's such a terrible sharp one, Diana says." "But the perlice must be after the children by now," persisted Mrs. Peter. "And every one far and wide knows of Crookford Fair and the gipsies that comes to it." "P'raps they've never thought of gipsies," said Tim; and in this, as we know, he was about right. The day passed peacefully. They met several boats making for Crookford, who hailed them as usual, and they were overtaken by one or two others making their way more quickly, because towed by two horses. But whether or not there had been any inquiry among the canal people at Crookford after the children, Peter and his party were left unmolested, and the sight of his wife and baby as usual on the deck would have prevented any one suspecting anything out of the common. It was late afternoon when the three--for Tim had slept as soundly as the others--awoke. At first, in their nest behind the curtain, Duke and Pamela could not imagine where they were--then the touch and sight of the clean sheets recalled their memory. "Oh, bruvver, aren't you glad?" said Pamela. "I wonder what o'clock it is, and if we've come a long way. Oh, I'm so hungry! I wonder where Tim is!" Up jumped the boy like a faithful hound at the sound of his own name. "Here I am, missy," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I've been asleep too--it makes one sleepy, I think, the smooth way the boat slips along." "Not like the jogging and jolting in the van," said Duke. "I'm hungry too, Tim," he added. "Just stop where you are a bit while I go out on the deck and see," said the boy. He made his way cautiously, peeping out before he let himself be seen. The coast was clear, however. Mrs. Peter was knitting tranquilly, baby asleep on her knee--Peter himself enjoying an afternoon pipe. For it was already afternoon. "You've had a good nap, all on you," said the young woman, smiling. "I thought you'd 'a wakened up for your dinner. But I looked in two or three times and the little dears was sleeping like angels in a picture--so Peter and I we thought it would be a pity to disturb you. Had you so far to come this morning? "Not far at all," said Tim. "I cannot think what made me so sleepy, nor master and missy neither. Perhaps it's the being so quiet-like here after all the flurry of getting off and thinking they'd be after us. It's not often I sleep past my dinner time." "I've kep' it for you," said Mrs. Peter. "There's some baked 'taters hot in the pan, and maybe the little master and missy'd like one of their eggs." "I'm sure they would," said Tim; "a hegg and a baked 'tater's a dinner for a king. And there's the oranges for a finish up." And he skipped back merrily to announce the good news. The dinner was thoroughly approved of by Duke and Pamela, and after they had eaten it they were pleased at being allowed to stay on the deck of the boat, and to run about and amuse themselves as they chose, for they had now left Crookford so far behind them that Peter and his wife did not think it likely any one would be coming in pursuit. "They'd 'a been after us by now if they'd been coming," said Peter. "A horse'd have overtook us long afore this, and not going so very fast nayther." The children had not enjoyed so much liberty for many weary days, and their merry laughter was heard all over the boat, as they played hide-and-seek with Tim, or paddled their hands in the clear water, leaning over the sides of the boat. For they were now quite out in the country, and the canal bore no traces of the dirt of the town. It was a very pretty bit of country too through which they were passing; and though the little brother and sister were too young to have admired or even noticed a beautiful landscape of large extent, they were delighted with the meadows dotted over with daisies and buttercups, and the woods in whose recesses primroses and violets were to be seen, through which they glided. [Illustration: "I DO FINK WHEN US IS QUITE BIG AND CAN DO AS US LIKES, US MUST HAVE A BOAT LIKE THIS, AND ALWAYS GO SAILING ALONG."--p. 195.] "I do fink when us is quite big and can do as us likes, us must have a boat like this, and always go sailing along," said Pamela, when, half-tired with her play, she sat down beside the baby and its mother. "But it isn't always summer, or beautiful bright weather like this, missy," said the young woman. "It's not such a pleasant life in winter or even in wet weather. Last week even it was sadly cold. I hardly durst let baby put her nose out of the cabin." "Then us'd only sail in the boat in fine weather," said Pamela philosophically, to which of course there was nothing to be said. The next two days passed much in the same way. The sunshine fortunately continued, and the children saw no reason to change their opinion of the charms of canal life, especially as now and then Peter landed them on the banks for a good run in the fields. And through all was the delightful feeling that they were "going home." CHAPTER XI. A SAD DILEMMA. "Like children that have lost their way And know their names, but nothing more." _Phoebe._ It was the last night on the canal. Early the next morning they would be at Monkhaven. The children were fast asleep; so were Peter and his wife and baby. Only Tim was awake. He had asked to stay on deck, as he was quite warm with a rug which Mrs. Peter lent him, and the cabin was full enough. It was a lovely night, and the boy lay looking at the stars overhead thinking, with rather a heavy heart. The nearer they got to the children's home the more anxious he became, not on their account but on his own. It would be so dreadful to be turned adrift again, and, in spite of all the little people's promises, he could not feel sure that the old gentleman and lady would care to have anything to say to him. "I'm such a rough one and I've been with such a bad lot," thought the poor boy to himself while the tears came to his eyes. But he looked up at the stars again, and somehow their calm cheerful shining seemed to give him courage. He had been on the point of deciding that as soon as he was quite sure of the children's safety he would run away, without letting himself be seen at all, though where he should run to or what would become of him he had not the least idea! But the silvery light overhead reminded him somehow of his beautiful dream, for it illumined the boat and the water and the trees as if they were painted by fairy fingers. "It's come right so far, leastways as far as a dream could be like to real things," he reflected. "I don't see why it shouldn't come right all through. Just to think how proud I'd be if they'd make me stable-boy, or gardener's lad maybe, and I could feel I were earning something and had a place o' my own in the world. That's what mother would 'a wished for me. 'Never mind how humble you are if you're earning your bread honest-like,' I've oft heard her say. Poor mother, she'd be glad to know I was out o' that lot anyway," and Tim's imagination pointed back to the gipsy caravan. "All, saving Diana--what a lot they are, to be sure! I'm sure and I hope she'll get out of it some day. 'Tis best to hope anyway, so I'll try not to be down-hearted," and again Tim glanced up at the lovely sky. "If I could but make a good guess now which of them there stars is heaven, or the way into it anyway, I'd seem to know better-like where poor mother is, and I'd look for it every night. I'm going to try to be a better lad, mother dear. I can promise you that, and somehow I can't help thinking things 'll come straighter for me." And then Tim curled himself round like a dormouse, and shut up his bright merry eyes, and in five minutes was fast asleep. He had kept awake later than he knew probably, for the next morning's sun was higher in the skies than he had intended it should be when a slight shake of his arm and a not unfriendly though rough voice awoke him. Up he jumped in a fright, for he had not yet got over the fear of being pursued. "What's the matter?" he cried, but Peter--for Peter it was--soon reassured him. "Naught's the matter," he said, "don't be afeared, but we're close to Monkhaven. I've got to go on to the wharf, but that's out o' your way. I thought we'd best talk over like what you'd best do. I've been up early; I want to get to the wharf before it's crowded. So after you've had some breakfast, you and the little uns, what d'ye think of next?" "To find the quickest road to Sandle'ham," said Tim; "that's the only place they can tell the name of near their home. Diana," he went on, "Diana thought as how I'd better go straight to the police at Monkhaven and tell them the whole story, only not so as to set them after Mick if I can help it. She said the police here is sure to know of the children's being stolen by now, and they'd put us in the way of getting quick to their home." "I think she's right," said Peter. "I'd go with you myself, but my master's a sharp one, and I'd get into trouble for leaving the boat and the horse, even if he didn't mind my having took passengers for onst," he added, with a smile. "No, no," said Tim, "I'll manage all right. Not that I like going to the police, but if so be as it can't be helped. And look here, Peter," he went on, drawing out of the inside of his jacket a little parcel carefully pinned to the lining, "talking of passengers, this is all I can give you at present. It was all Diana could get together, but I feel certain sure, as I told you, the old gentleman and lady will do something handsome when they hear how good you've been," and out of the little packet he gradually, for the coins were enveloped in much paper, produced a half-crown, three shillings, and some coppers. Peter eyed them without speaking. He was fond of money, and even half-a-crown represented a good deal to him. But he shook his head. "I'm not going to take nothing of that," he said; "you're not yet at your journey's end. I won't say but what I'd take a something, and gladly, from the old gentleman if he sees fit to send it when he's heard all about it. A letter'll always get to me, sooner or later, at the 'Bargeman's Rest,' Crookford. You can remember that--Peter Toft--that's my name." "I'll not forget, you may be sure," said Tim. "It's very good of you not to take any, for it's true, as you say, we may need it. And so you think too it's best to go straight to the police at Monkhaven." "I do so," said Peter, and thus it was settled. There were some tears, as might have been expected, and not only on the children's part, when they came to say good-bye to Mrs. Peter and the baby. But they soon dried in the excitement of getting on shore again and setting off under Tim's care on the last stage of their journey "home." "Is it a very long walk, do you think, Tim?" they asked. "Us knows the way a _long_ way down the Sandle'ham road. Is that Sandle'ham?" as they saw the roofs and chimneys of Monkhaven before them. "I wish it were!" said Tim. "No, that's a place they call Monkhaven, but it's on the road to Sandle'ham. Did you never hear tell of Monkhaven, master and missy?--think now." But after "thinking" for half a quarter of the second, the two fair heads gave it up. "No; us had never heard of Monkhaven. What did it matter? Us would much rather go straight home." Then Tim had to enter upon an explanation. He did not know the nearest way to Sandle'ham, and they might wander about the country, losing their way. They had very little money, and it most likely was too far to walk. He was afraid to ask unless sure it was of some one he could trust; for Mick might have sent word to some one at Monkhaven about them. Then after Sandle'ham, which way were they to go? There was but one thing to do--ask the police. The police would take care of them and set them on the way. But oh, poor Tim! Little did he know the effect of that fatal word, and yet he had far more reason to dread the police than the twins could have. More than once he had only just escaped falling into its clutches, and all through his vagrant life he had of course come to regard its officers as his natural enemies. But he had put all that aside, and, strong in his good cause, was ready now to turn to them as the children's protectors. Duke and Pamela, on the contrary, who had no real reason for being afraid of the police, were in frantic terror; their poor little imaginations set to work and pictured "prison" as where they were sure to be sent to. They would rather go back to the gipsies, they would rather wander about the fields with Tim till they died--rather _anything_ than go near the police. And they cried and sobbed and hung upon Tim in their panic of terror, till the poor boy was fairly at his wit's end, and had to give in so far as to promise to say no more about it at present. So they spent the early hours of the beautiful spring morning in a copse outside the little town, where they were quite happy, and ate the provisions Peter's wife had put up for them with a good appetite, thinking no more of the future than the birds in the bushes; while poor Tim was grudging every moment of what he felt to be lost time, and wondering where they were to get their next meal or find shelter for the night! It ended at last in a compromise. Tim received gracious permission himself to go to the police to ask the way, provided he left "us" in the wood--"us" promising to be very good, not to stray out of a certain distance, to speak to no possible passers-by, and to hide among the brushwood if any suspicious-looking people came near. And, far more anxious at heart than if he could have persuaded them to come with him, but still with no real misgiving but that in half an hour he would be back with full directions for the rest of their journey, Tim set off at a run in quest of the police office of Monkhaven. He was soon in the main street of the town, which after all was more like a big village--except at the end where lay the canal wharf, which was dirty and crowded and bustling--and had no difficulty in finding the house he was in search of. On the walls outside were pasted up posters of different sizes and importance--notices of new regulations, and "rewards" for various losses--but Tim, taking no notice of any of these, hastened to knock at the door, and eagerly, though not without some fear, stood waiting leave to enter. Two or three policemen were standing or sitting about talking to each other. Tim's first knock was not heard, but a second brought one to the door. "Please, sir," said the boy without waiting to be asked what he wanted, "could you tell me the nearest way to Sandle'ham? I'm on my way there--leastways to some place near-by there--there's two childer with me, sir, as has got strayed away from their home, and----" "What's that he's saying?" said another man coming forward--he was the head officer evidently--"Tell us that again,"--"Just make him come inside, Simpkins, and just as well shut to the door," he added in a low voice. Tim came forward unsuspiciously. "Well, what's that you were saying?" he went on to Tim. "It's two childer, sir," repeated Tim--"two small childer as has got strayed away from their home--you may have heard of it?--and I'm a-taking them back, only I'm not rightly sure of the way, and I thought--I thought, as it was the best to ax you, seeing as you've maybe heard----" but here Tim's voice, which had been faltering somewhat, so keen and hard was the look directed upon him, came altogether to an end; and he grew so red and looked so uneasy that perhaps it was no wonder if Superintendent Boyds thought him a suspicious character. "Ah indeed!--just so--you thought maybe we'd heard something of some children as had _strayed_--_strayed_; not been decoyed away--oh not at all--away from their home. And of course, young man, _you'd_ heard nothing. You, nor those that sent you, didn't know nothing of this here, I suppose?" and Boyds unfolded a yellow paper lying on the table and held it up before Tim's face. "This here is new to you, no doubt?" Tim shook his head. The yellow paper with big black letters told him nothing. Even the big figures, "£20 Reward," standing alone at the top, had no meaning for him. "I can't read, sir," he said, growing redder than before. "Oh indeed! and who was it then that told you to come here about the children to ask the way, so that you could take them home, you know, and get the reward all nice and handy? You thought maybe you'd get it straight away, and that we'd send 'em home for you--was that what father or mother thought?" Tim looked up, completely puzzled. "I don't know anything about a reward," he said, "and I haven't no father or mother. Di----" but here he stopped short. "Diana told me to come to you," he was going to have said, when it suddenly struck him that the gipsy girl had bid him beware of mentioning any names. "Who?" said the superintendent sharply. "I can't say," said Tim. "It was a friend o' mine--that's all I can say--as told me to come here." "A friend, eh? I'm thinking we'll have to know some more about some of your friends before we're done with you. And where is these same children, then? You can tell us that anyway!" "No," said Tim, beginning to take fright, "I can't. They'd be afeared--dreadful--if they saw one o' your kind. I'll find my own way to Sandle'ham if you can't tell it me," and he turned to go. But the policeman called Simpkins, at a sign from his superior, caught hold of him. "Not so fast, young man, not so fast," said Boyds. "You'll have to tell us where these there children are afore you're off." "I can't--indeed I can't--they'd be so frightened," said Tim. "Let me go, and I'll try to get them to come back here with me--oh do let me go!" But Simpkins only held him the faster. "Shut him up in there for a bit," said Boyds, pointing to a small inner room opening into the one where they were,--"shut him in there till he thinks better of it," and Simpkins was preparing to do so when Tim turned to make a last appeal. "Don't lock me up whatever you do," he said, clasping his hands in entreaty; "they'll die of fright if they're left alone. I'd rather you'd go with me nor leave them alone. Yes, I'll show you where they are if you'll let me run on first so as they won't be so frightened." Simpkins glanced at Boyds--he was a kinder man than the superintendent and really sharper, though much less conceited. He was half inclined to believe in Tim. "What do you say to that?" he asked. But Boyds shook his head. "There's some trick in it. Let him run on first--I daresay! The children's safe enough with those as sent him here to find out. No, no; lock him up, and I'll step round to Mr. Bartlemore's,"--Mr. Bartlemore was the nearest magistrate,--"and see what he thinks about it all. It'll not take me long, and it'll show this young man here we're in earnest. Lock him up." Simpkins pushed Tim, though not roughly, into the little room, and turned the key on him. The boy no longer made any resistance or appeal. Mr. Boyds put on his hat and went out, and the police office returned to its former state of sleepy quiet so far as appearances went. But behind the locked door a poor ragged boy was sobbing his eyes out, twisting and writhing himself about in real agony of mind. "Oh, my master and missy, why did I leave you? What will they be doing? Oh they was right and I was wrong! The perlice is a bad, wicked, unbelieving lot--oh my, oh my!--if onst I was but out o' here----" but he stopped suddenly. The words he had said without thinking seemed to say themselves over again to him as if some one else had addressed them to him. "Out o' here," why shouldn't he get out of here? And Tim looked round him curiously. There was a small window and it was high up. There was no furniture but the bench on which he was sitting. But Tim was the son of a mason, and it was not for nothing that he had lived with gipsies for so long. He was a perfect cat at climbing, and as slippery as an eel in the way he could squeeze himself through places which you would have thought scarcely wide enough for his arm. His sobs ceased, his face lighted up again; he drew out of his pocket his one dearest treasure, from which night or day he was never separated, his pocket-knife, and, propping the bench lengthways slanting against the wall like a ladder, he managed to fix it pretty securely by scooping out a little hollow in the roughly-boarded floor, so as to catch the end of the bench and prevent its slipping down. And just as Superintendent Boyds was stepping into Squire Bartlemore's study to wait for that gentleman's appearance, a pair of bright eyes in a round sunburnt face might have been seen spying the land from the small window high up in the wall of the lock-up room of the police office. Spying it to good purpose, as will soon be seen, though in the meantime I think it will be well to return to Duke and Pamela all alone in the copse. Tim had not been gone five minutes before they began to wonder when he would be back again. They sat quite still, however, for perhaps a quarter of an hour, for they were just a little frightened at finding themselves really alone. If Tim had turned back again I don't think he would have had much difficulty in persuading them to go with him, even to the dreadful police! But Tim never thought of turning back; he had too thoroughly taken the little people at their word. After a while they grew so tired of waiting quietly that they jumped up and began to run about. Once or twice they were scared by the sounds of footsteps or voices at a little distance, but nobody came actually through the copse, and they soon grew more assured, and left off speaking in whispers and peeping timidly over their shoulders. At last, "Sister," said Duke, "don't you think us might go just a teeny weeny bit out of the wood, to watch if us can't see Tim coming down the road? I know which side he went." "Us promised to stay here, didn't us?" replied Pamela. "Yes; but us _would_ be staying here," said Duke insinuatingly. "It's just to peep, you know, to see if Tim's coming. He'd be very glad, for p'raps he'll not be quite sure where to find us again, and if us goes a little way along the road he'd see us quicker, and if us can't see him us can come back here again." "Very well," said Pamela, and, hand in hand, the two made their way out of the shelter of the trees and trotted half timidly a little way along the road. It felt fresh and bright after the shady wood; some way before them they saw rows of houses, and already they had passed cottages standing separately in their gardens and a little to the right was a church with a high steeple. Had they gone straight on they would soon have found themselves in Monkhaven High Street, where, at this moment, Tim was shut up in the police office. But after wandering on a little way they got frightened, for no Tim was to be seen, and they stood still and looked at each other. "P'raps this isn't the way he went after all," said Pamela. They had already passed a road to the left, which also led into the town, though less directly. "He _might_ have gone that way," said Duke, pointing back to this other road; "let's go a little way along there and look." Pamela made no objection. The side road turned out more attractive, for a little way from the corner stood a pretty white house in a really lovely garden. It reminded them of their own home, and they stood at the gates peeping in, admiring the flower-beds and the nicely-kept lawn and smooth gravel paths, for the moment forgetting all about where they were and what had become of their only protector. Suddenly, however, they were rudely brought back to the present and to the fears of the morning, for from where they were they caught sight of a burly blue-coated figure making his way to the front door from a side gate by which he had entered the garden; for this pretty house was no other than Squire Bartlemore's, and the tall figure was that of Superintendent Boyds. He could not possibly have seen them--they were very tiny, and the bushes as well as the railings hid them from the view of any one not quite close to the gates. But they saw _him_--that was enough, and more than enough. "He's caught Tim and put him in prison," said Pamela, and in a terror-stricken whisper, "and now he's coming for _us_, bruvver;" and bruvver, quite as frightened as she, did not attempt to reassure her. Too terrified to see that the policeman was not coming their way at all, but was quietly striding on towards the house, they caught each other again by the hand and turned to fly. And fly they did--one could scarcely have believed such tiny creatures could run so fast and so far. They did not look which way they went--only that it was in the other direction from whence they had come. They ran and ran--then stopped to take breath and glance timidly behind them, and without speaking ran on again--till they had left quite half a mile between them and the pretty garden, and ventured at last to stand still and look about them. They were in a narrow lane--high hedges shut it in at each side--they could see very little way before or behind. But though they listened anxiously, no sound but the twittering of the birds in the trees, and the faint murmur of a little brook on the other side of hedge, was to be heard. "He can't be running after us, I don't fink," said Pamela, drawing a deep breath. "No," said Duke, but then he looked round disconsolately. "What can us do?" he said. "Tim will never know to find us here." "Tim is in prison," said Pamela, "It's no use us going back to meet him. I know he's in prison." "Then what can us do?" repeated Duke. "Us must go home and ask Grandpapa to get poor Tim out of prison," said Pamela. "But, sister, how can us go home? _I_ don't know the way, do you?" Pamela looked about her doubtfully. "P'raps it isn't so very far," she said. "Us had better go on; and when it's a long way from the policeman, us can ask somebody the road." There seemed indeed nothing else to do. On they tramped for what seemed to them an endless way, and still they were in the narrow lane with the high hedges; so that, after walking for a very long time, they could have fancied they were in the same place where they started. And as they met no one they could not ask the way, even had they dared to do so. At last--just as they were beginning to get very tired--the lane quite suddenly came out on a short open bit of waste land, across which a cart-track led to a wide well-kept road. And this, though they had no idea of it, was actually the coach-road to Sandlingham; for--though, it must be allowed, more by luck than good management--they had hit upon a short cut to the highway, which if Tim had known of it would have saved him all his present troubles! For a moment or two Duke and Pamela felt cheered by having at last got out of the weary lane. They ran eagerly across the short distance that separated them from the road, with a vague idea that once on it they would somehow or other see something--meet some one to guide them as to what next to do. But it was not so--there it stretched before them, white and smooth and dusty at both sides, rising a little to the right and sloping downwards to the left--away, away, away--to where? Not a cart or carriage of any kind--not a foot-passenger even--was to be seen. And the sun was hot, and the four little legs were very tired; and where was the use of tiring them still more when they might only be wandering farther and farther from their home? For, though the choice was not great, being simply a question of up-hill or down-dale, it was as bad as if there had been half a dozen ways before them, as they had not the least idea which of the two was the right one! The two pair of blue eyes looked at each other piteously; then the eyelids drooped, and big tears slowly welled out from underneath them; the twins flung their arms about each other, and, sitting down on the little bit of dusty grass that bordered the highway, burst into loud and despairing sobs. CHAPTER XII. GOOD-BYE TO "US." "And as the evening twilight fades away, The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day." _Morituri Salutamus._ By slow degrees their sobs exhausted themselves. Pamela leant her head against Duke and shut her eyes. "I am so tired, bruvver," she said. "If us could only get some quiet place out of the sun I would like to lie down and go to sleep. Wouldn't you, bruvver?" "I don't know," said Duke. "I wonder if the birds would cover us up wif leaves," said Pamela dreamily, "like those little children long ago?" "That would be if us was dead," said Duke. "Oh sister, you don't think us must be going to die!" "I don't know," said Pamela in her turn. Suddenly Duke raised himself a little, and Pamela, feeling him move, sat up and opened her eyes. "What is it?" she asked, but he did not need to answer, for just then she too heard the sound that had caught Duke's ears. It was the barking of a dog--not a deep baying sound, but a short, eager, energetic bark, and seemingly very near them. The children looked at each other and then rose to their feet. "Couldn't you fink it was Toby?" said Pamela in a low voice, though why she spoke so low she could not have said. Duke nodded, and then, moved by the same impulse, they went forward to the middle of the road and looked about them, hand in hand. Again came the sharp eager bark, and this time a voice was heard as if soothing the dog, though they could not quite catch the words. But some one was near them--thus much seemed certain, and the very idea had comfort in it. Still, for a minute or two they could not make out where were the dog and its owner; for they did not know that a short way down the road a path ending in a stile crossed the fields from the village of Nooks to the high-road. And when, therefore, at but a few paces distant, there suddenly appeared a small figure, looking dark against the white dust of the road, frisking and frolicking about in evident excitement, it really seemed to the little brother and sister as if it had sprung out of the earth by magic. They had not time, however, to speak--hardly to wonder--to themselves before, all frisking and frolicking at an end, the shaggy ball was upon them, and, with a rush that for half a second made Pamela inclined to scream, the little dog flew at them, barking, yelping, almost choking with delight, flinging himself first on one then on the other, darting back a step or two as if to see them more distinctly and make sure he was not mistaken, then rolling himself upon them again all quivering and shaking with rapture. And the cry of ecstasy that broke from the twins would have gone to the heart of any one that loved them. "Oh Toby, Toby!--bruvver--sister--it is, it _is_ our own Toby. He has come to take us home. Oh dear, _dear_ Toby!" [Illustration: "OH TOBY, TOBY!--BRUVVER--SISTER--IT IS, IT IS OUR OWN TOBY, HE HAS COME TO TAKE US HOME. OH DEAR, DEAR TOBY!"--p. 220.] It _did_ go to the heart of some one not far off. A quaintly-clad, somewhat aged, woman was slowly climbing the stile at the moment that the words rang clearly out into the summer air. "Oh Toby, _our_ Toby!" and no one who had not seen it could have believed how nimbly old Barbara skipped or slid or tumbled down the steps on the road-side of the stile, and how, in far less time than it takes to tell it, she was down on her knees in the dust with a child in each arm, and Toby flashing about the trio, so that he seemed to be everywhere at once. "My precious darlings!--my dear little master and missy!--and has old Barbara found you after all? or Toby rather. I thank the Lord who has heard my prayers. To think I should have such a delight in my old days as to be the one to take you back to my dearest lady! A sore heart was I coming along with--to think that I had heard nothing of you for all I had felt so sure I would. And oh, my darlings, where _have_ you been, and how has it all come about?" But a string of questions was the first answer she got. "Have you come to look for us, dear Barbara? Did Grandpapa and Grandmamma send you, and Toby too? How did you know which way to come? And have you seen Tim? Did Tim tell you?" "Tim, Tim, I know nought of who Tim is, my dearies," said Barbara, shaking her head. "If it's any one that's been good to you, so much the better. I've been at Nooks, the village hard by, for some days with my niece. I meant to have stayed but two or three nights, but I've been more nor a week, and a worry in my heart all the time not to get back home to hear if there was no news of you, and how my poor lady was. And to think if I _had_ gone home I wouldn't have met you--dear--dear--but the ordering of things is wonderful!" "And didn't you come to look for us, then? But why is Toby with you?" asked the children. "He was worritting your dear Grandmamma. There was no peace with him after you were lost. And though I didn't rightly come to Monkhaven to look for you, I had a feeling--it was bore in on me that I'd maybe find some trace of you, and I thought Toby would be the best help. And truly I could believe he'd scented you were not far off--the worry he's been all this morning! A-barking and a-sniffing and a-listening like! I was in two minds as to which way I'd take this morning--round by Monkhaven or by the lane. But Toby he was all for the lane, and so I just took his way, the Lord be thanked!" "He _knowed_ us was here--he did, didn't he? Oh, darling Toby!" cried the twins. But then Barbara had to be told all. Not very clear was the children's account of their adventures at first; for the losing of Tim and the vision of the policeman and the canal boat were the topmost on their minds, and came tumbling out long before anything about the gipsies, which of course was the principal thing to tell. Bit by bit, however, thanks to her patience, their old friend came to understand the whole. She heaved a deep sigh at last. "To think that it was the gipsies after all." But she made not many remarks, and said little about the broken-bowl-part of the story. It would be for their dear Grandmamma to show them where they had been wrong, she thought modestly, if indeed they had not found it out for themselves already. I think they had. "Us is always going to tell Grandmamma _everyfing_ now," said Pamela. "And us is always going to listen to the talking of that little voice," added Duke. But the first excitement over, old Barbara began to notice that the children were looking very white and tired. How was she ever to get them to Brigslade--a five miles' walk at least--where again, for she had chosen Brigslade market-day on purpose, she counted on Farmer Carson to give her a lift home? She was not strong enough to carry them--one at a time--more than a short distance. Besides she had her big basket. Glancing at it gave her another idea. "I can at least give you something to eat," she said. "Niece Turwall packed all manner of good things in here," and, after some rummaging, out she brought two slices of home-made cake and a bottle of currant wine, of which she gave them each a little in a cup without a handle which Mrs. Turwall had thoughtfully put in. The cake and the wine revived the children wonderfully. They said they were able to walk "a long long way," and indeed there was nothing for it but to try, and so the happy little party set off. The thought of Tim, however, weighed on their minds, and when Barbara had arrived at some sort of idea as to who he was, and what he had done, she too felt even more anxious about him. Even without prejudice it must be allowed that the police of those days were not what they are now, and Barbara knew that for a poor waif like Tim it would not be easy to obtain a fair hearing. "And he won't be wanting to get that gipsy girl into trouble by telling on the lot of them, which will make it harder for the poor lad," thought the shrewd old woman, for the children had told her all about Diana. "But there's nothing to be done that I can see except to get the General to write to the police at Monkhaven." For Mrs. Twiss knew that Duke and Pam would be terribly against the idea of going back to the town and to the police office. And she herself had no wish to do so--she was not without some distrust of the officers of the law herself, and it would, too, have grieved her sadly not to have been the one to restore the lost children to their friends. Besides, Farmer Carson would be waiting for her at the cross roads, for "if by any chance I don't come back before, you may be sure I'll be there on Friday, next market-day," she had said to him at parting. "You don't think they'll put Tim in prison, do you?" asked Duke, seeing that the old woman's face grew grave when she had heard all. "Oh no, surely, not so bad as that," she replied. "And even if we went back I don't know that it would do much good." "Go back to where the policemans are," exclaimed the twins, growing pale at the very idea. "Oh please--_please_ don't," and they both crept closer to their old friend. "But if it would make them let Tim come wif us?" added Pamela, shivering, nevertheless. "I'd _try_ not to be frightened. Poor Tim--he has been so good to us, us can't go and leave him all alone." "But, my deary," said Barbara, "I don't rightly see what we can do for him. The police might think it right to keep us all there too--and I'm that eager to get you home to ease your dear Grandmamma and the General. I think it's best to go on and get your Grandpapa to write about the poor boy." But now the idea of rescuing Tim was in the children's heads it was not so easy to get rid of it. They stood still looking at each other and at Mrs. Twiss with tears in their eyes; they had come by this time perhaps half a mile from where they had met their friends. The high-road was here shadier and less dusty, and it was anything but inviting to think of retracing the long stretch to Monkhaven, though from where they stood, a turn in the road hid it from them. All at once a whistle caught their ears--a whistle two or three times repeated in a particular way--Toby pricked up his ears, put himself in a very valiant attitude, and barked with a great show of importance, as much as to say, "Just you look out now, whoever you are. _I_ am on guard now." But his bark did not seem to strike awe into the whistler, whoever he was. Again his note sounded clear and cheery. And this time, with a cry of "It's Tim, it's Tim," off flew Duke and Pam down the road, followed by Barbara--Toby of course keeping up a running accompaniment of flying circles round the whole party till at last the sight of his beloved little master and mistress hugging and kissing a bright-eyed, clean-faced, but sadly ragged boy was altogether too much for his refined feelings, and he began barking with real fury, flinging himself upon Tim as if he really meant to bite him. Duke caught him up. "Silly Toby," he cried, "it's Tim. You must learn to know Tim;" and old Barbara coming up by this time and speaking to the boy in a friendly tone, poor Toby's misgivings were satisfied, and he set to work to wagging his tail in a slightly subdued manner. Then came explanations on both sides. Tim had to tell how he had slipped himself out through the window, narrow as it was, and how, thanks to an old water-butt and some loose bricks in the wall, he had scrambled down like a cat, and made off as fast as his legs would carry him to the place where he had left the children. "And when you wasn't there I was fairly beat--I was," he said. "I knowed they hadn't had time to find you--perlice I mean--but I saw as you must have got tired waiting so long. So off I set till I met a woman who told me the way to the Sandle'ham road. I had a fancy you'd ask for it rather than come into the town if you thought they'd cotched me, and I was about right you see." "Is this the Sandle'ham road? Oh yes, Barbara told us it was," said the children. "But us didn't know it was. Us just runned and runned when us saw the policeman, us was so frightened." "But us _was_ going back to try to get you out of prison if Barbara would have let us," added Pamela. Then all about Barbara and Toby had to be explained, and a great weight fell from Tim's heart when he quite understood that the old woman was a real home friend--that there would no longer be any puzzle or difficulty as to how to do or which way to go, now that they had fallen in with this trusty protector. "To be sure--well now this _are_ a piece of luck, and no mistake," he repeated, one big smile lighting up all his pleasant face. But suddenly it clouded over. "Then, ma'am, if you please, would it be better for me not to come no further? Would I be in the way, maybe?" The children set up a cry before Barbara had time to reply. "No, no, Tim; you _must_ come. Grandpapa and Grandmamma will always take care of Tim, 'cos he's been so good to us--won't they, Barbara?" Barbara looked rather anxious. Her own heart had warmed to the orphan boy, but she did not know how far she was justified in making promises for other people. "I dursn't go back to Monkhaven," said Tim; "they'd be sure to cotch me, and they'd give it me for a-climbing out o' window and a-running away. Nor I dursn't go back to Mick. But you've only to say the word, ma'am, and I'm off. I'll hide about, and mayhap somehow I might get a chance among the boat-people. It's all I can think of; for I've no money--leastways this is master's and missy's, and you'd best take it for them," he went on, as he pulled out the little packet from the inside of his jacket which he had already vainly offered to Peter. "And about Peter, p'raps you'd say a word to the old gentleman about sending him something. He were very good to us, he were; and he can always get a letter that's sent to----" but here the lump that had kept rising in the poor boy's throat all the time he was speaking, and that he had gone on choking down, got altogether too big; he suddenly broke off and burst out sobbing. It was too much--not only to have to leave the dear little master and missy, but to have to say good-bye to all his beautiful plans and hopes--of learning to be a good and respectable boy--of leading a settled and decent life such as mother--"poor mother"--could look down upon with pleasure from her home up there somewhere near the sun, in the heaven about which her child knew so little, but in which he still most fervently believed. "I'm a great fool," he sobbed, "but I did--I did want to be a good lad, and to give up gipsying." Barbara's heart by this time was completely melted, and Duke's and Pam's tears were flowing. "Tim, dear Tim, you must come with us," they said. "Oh, Barbara, do tell him he's to come. Why, even Toby sees how good Tim is; he's not barking a bit, and he's sniffing at him to show he's a friend." And Toby, hearing his own name, looked up in the old woman's face as if he too were pleading poor Tim's cause. She hesitated no longer. "Come with us my poor boy," she said, "it'll go hard if we can't find a place for you somewheres. And the General and the old lady is good and kind as can be. Don't ye be a-feared, but come with us. You must help me to get master and missy home, for it's a good bit we have to get over, you know." So Tim dried his eyes, and his hopes revived. And this time the little cavalcade set out in good earnest to make the best of their way to Brigslade, with no lookings back towards Monkhaven; for, indeed, their greatest wish was to leave it as quickly as possible far behind them. They were a good way off fortunately before clever Superintendent Boyds and his assistants found out that their bird was flown, and when they did find it out they went after him in the wrong direction; and it was not till three days after the children had been safe at home that formal information, which doubtless _would_ have been very cheering to poor Grandpapa, came to him that the police at Monkhaven were believed to be on the track! How can I describe to you that coming home? If I could take you back with me some thirty years or so and let you hear it as I did then--direct from the lips of a very old lady and gentleman, who still spoke to each other as "brother" and "sister," whose white hair was of the soft silvery kind which one sees at a glance was _once_ flaxen--oh how much more interesting it would be, and how much better it would be told! But that cannot be. My dear old friends long ago told the story of their childish adventure for the last time; though I am very sure nothing would please them better than to know it had helped to amuse for an hour or two some of the Marmadukes and Pamelas of to-day. So I will do my best. It was a long stretch for the little legs to Brigslade; without Tim I doubt if poor old Mrs. Twiss and Toby would have got them there. But the boy was not to be tired; his strength seemed "like the strength of ten" Tims, thanks to the happy hopes with which his heart was filled. He carried Pamela and even Duke turn about on his back, he told stories and sang songs to make them forget their aching legs and smarting feet. And fortunately there still remained enough home-made cake and currant wine for every one to have a little refreshment, especially as Tim found a beautifully clear spring of water to mix with the wine when the children complained of thirst. They got to the cross-roads before Farmer Carson, for Barbara was one of those sensible people who always take time by the forelock; so they rested there till the old gray mare came jogging up, and her master, on the look-out for one old woman, but not for a party of four--five I should say, counting Toby--could not believe his eyes, and scarcely his ears, when Mrs. Twiss told him the whole story. How they all got into the spring-cart I couldn't explain, but they did somehow, and the mare did not seem to mind it at all. And at last, late on that lovely early summer evening, Farmer Carson drew up in the lane at the back of the house; and, after helping the whole party out, drove off with a hearty Good-night, and hopes that they'd find the old gentleman and lady in good health, and able to bear the happy surprise. It must be broken gently to them; and how to do this had been on Barbara's mind all the time they had been in the cart, for up till then she had been able to think of nothing but how to get the children along. They, of course--except perhaps that they were too tired for any more excitement--would have been for running straight in with joyful cries. But they were so subdued by fatigue that their old friend found no difficulty in persuading them to sit down quietly by the hedge, guarded by Tim, while she and Toby went in to prepare the way. "For you know, my dearies, your poor Grandmamma has not been well and the start might be bad for her," she explained. "But you're sure Grandmamma isn't _dead_?" said poor Pamela, looking up piteously in Barbara's face. "Duke was afraid she might be if us didn't come soon." "But now you _have_ come she'll soon get well again, please God," said Barbara, though her own heart beat tremulously as she made her way round by the back entrance. It was Toby after all who "broke" the happy tidings. In spite of all Barbara could do--of all her "Hush, Toby, then,"'s "Gently my little doggie,"'s--he _would_ rush in to the parlour as soon as the door was opened in such a rapture of joyful barking, tail wagging and rushing and dashing, that Grandmamma looked up from the knitting she was trying to fancy she was doing in her arm-chair by the fire, and Grandpapa put down his five days' old newspaper which he was reading by the window, with a curious flutter of sudden hope all through them, notwithstanding their many disappointments. "It is you, Barbara, back again at last," began Grandmamma. "How white you look, my poor Barbara--and--why, what's the matter with Toby? Is he so pleased to see us old people again?" "He _is_ very pleased, ma'am--he's a very wise and a very good feeling dog is Toby, there's no doubt. And one that knows when to be sad and--and when to be rejoiced, as I might say," said Barbara, though her voice trembled with the effort to speak calmly. Something seemed to flash across the room to Grandmamma as Mrs. Twiss spoke--down fell the knitting, the needles, and the wool, all in a tangle, as the old lady started to her feet. "Barbara--Barbara Twiss!" she cried. "What do you mean? Oh Barbara, you have news of our darlings? Marmaduke, my dear husband, do you hear?" and she raised her voice, "she has brought us news at last," and Grandmamma tottered forward a few steps and then, growing suddenly dazed and giddy, would have fallen had not Grandpapa and Barbara started towards her from different sides and caught her. But she soon recovered herself, and eagerly signed to Barbara to "tell." How Barbara told she never knew. It seemed to her that Grandmamma guessed the words before she spoke them, and looking back on it all afterwards she could recollect nothing but a sort of joyous confusion--Grandpapa rushing out without his hat, but stopping to take his stick all the same--Grandmamma holding by the table to steady herself when, in another moment, they were all back again--then a cluster all together--of Grandpapa, Grandmamma, Duke, Pamela and Barbara, with Nurse and Biddy, and Dymock and Cook, and stable-boys and gardeners, and everybody, and Toby everywhere at once. Broken words and sobs and kisses and tears and blessings all together, and Pamela's little soft high voice sounding above all as she cried-- "Oh, dear Grandmamma, us _is_ so glad you are not dead. Duke was so afraid you might be." And Tim--where was he?--standing outside in the porch, but smiling to himself--not afraid of being forgotten, for he had a trustful nature. "It's easy to see as the old gentleman and lady is terrible fond of master and missy," he thought. "But they must be terrible clever folk in these parts to have writing outside of the house even," for his glance had fallen on the quaintly-carved letters on the lintel, "Niks sonder Arbitt." "I wonder now what that there writing says," he reflected. But he was not allowed to wonder long. A few moments more and there came the summons his faithful little heart had been sure would come. "Tim, Tim--where is Tim? Come and see our Grandpapa and our Grandmamma, Tim," and two pairs of little hot hands dragged him into the parlour. It was not at all like his dream, but it was far grander than any room he had ever been in before, and never afterwards did the boy forget the strange sweet perfume which seemed a part of it all--the scent of the dried rose-leaves in the jars, though he did not then know what it was. But it always came back to him when he thought of that first evening--the beginning to him of a good and honest and useful life--when the tall old gentleman and the sweet little old lady laid their hands on his curly head and blessed him for what he had done and promised to be his friends. They kept their promise well and wisely. Grandpapa took real trouble to find out what the boy was best fitted for, and when he found it was for gardening, Tim was thoroughly trained by old Noble till he was able to get a good place of his own. He lived with Barbara in her neat little cottage, and in the evenings learned to read and write and cipher, so that before very long he could make out the letters in the porch, though Grandpapa had to be asked to tell their meaning. "Nothing without work," was what they meant. They had been carved there by the old Dutchman who had built the farmhouse, afterwards turned into the pretty quaint "Arbitt Lodge." "A good and true saying," added Grandpapa, and so the three children to whom he was speaking found it. For all three in their different ways worked hard and well, and when in my childhood I knew them as old people, I felt, even before I quite understood it, that "the Colonel," as he then had become, and his sweet white-haired sister deserved the love and respect they seemed everywhere to receive. And I could see that it was no common tie which bound to them their faithful servant Timothy, whose roses were the pride of all the country-side, when, after many years of separation, he came to end his life in their service, after Duke's "fighting days" were over and his widowed sister was, but for him, alone in the world. * * * * * One question may be asked. Did they ever hear of Diana again? Yes, though not till Tim had grown into a strapping young fellow, and the twins were tall and thin, and had long since left off talking of "us." There came along the lanes one summer's day a covered van hung over at the back with baskets, such as the children well remembered. A good-humoured looking man was walking by the horse, a handsome woman was sitting by the door plaiting straw. "Gipsies," cried the children, who were on their way to the village, and, big as they were, they were a little frightened when, with a cry, the woman jumped down and flew towards them. "Master and missy, don't you know me? I'm Diana!" she exclaimed. And Diana it was, though very much changed for the better. She had married one of her own tribe, but a very good specimen, and the husband and wife travelled about on their own account making their living "honestly," as she took care to tell. "For there's good and there's bad of us, and it's been my luck to get a good one. Thank God for it," she added, "for I've never forgot master and missy's pretty telling me even poor Diana might think God cared for her." She was taken to see Grandpapa and Grandmamma of course, and they would have helped her and her husband to a settled life had they wished it. But no--gipsies they were, and gipsies they must remain. "It'd choke me to live inside four walls," said Diana, "and we must travel about so as we can see our own folk from time to time. But whenever we pass this way we'll come to see master and missy and Tim." And so they did. * * * * * * Transcriber's Note: All punctuation has been normalised with the exception of varied hyphenation.